Chapter 2: Guarded

Melianthe

Despite last night's adventure I'm awake before dawn, my hands still shaking with the memory of cold iron keys and Talos's chains falling to stone. The morning light streaming through my windows carries a different quality today; sharper, more urgent, like the edge of a blade catching sun. Everything has changed. I've crossed a line I can never uncross, and now I must live with the consequences.

When the knock sounds on my door, I'm already dressed and waiting. "Come in," I call out, my heart hammering with anticipation. But my excitement dies when I see who steps into the room.

It's a stranger. Rosy-cheeked, blonde-haired, wearing the starched white uniform of a palace maidservant. My blood turns to ice water in my veins.

"Where is Lyssa?" The words tear from my throat, strangled and desperate. My maidservant helped me plan everything - she helped me with the wine, stole the guard uniform, provided the cover story. If she's been caught...

The girl curtsies to the floor with mechanical precision, the exact degree of deference shown to royalty. "Reassigned, Your Highness, as of yestereve. She's to serve Lady Marlowe now. My name is Adelaide." Her words are crisp, measured, careful as cut glass. "If you'll tell me your preferences, Highness, I'm pleased to serve."

I force myself to breathe. Think. If Lyssa had been discovered, she'd be dead by now, executed publicly in the courtyard as an example to anyone else harboring treasonous thoughts. The Empire doesn't waste time with subtlety when it comes to actual threats. This reassignment could be coincidence, or it could be the first move in a more sophisticated game.

Either way, I'm trapped with a potential spy who'll be privy to my most private moments.

"Thank you, Adelaide." I arrange my face into the perfect princess mask, every emotion locked away behind years of training. "The blue dress with gold embroidery, I think. And I'll need my hair arranged for court."

As she bustles about laying out my clothes, I study her reflection in my mirror. Young, pretty, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone trained for noble service. But trained where? By whom? Her accent carries no trace of the local dialect. She speaks with the neutral precision of the imperial capital.

The breakfast tray she's brought sits untouched on my table. Coffee instead of the tea I prefer, imported fruit instead of local honey cakes. Small changes, but deliberate ones. They're remapping my world piece by piece, starting with the most intimate details.

"Your Highness?" Adelaide appears at my shoulder, holding the sapphire jewelry set that arrived last month from some lord whose name I've forgotten. "These will complement the dress beautifully."

I nod, though the gems feel heavy as shackles when she fastens them around my throat. In the mirror, I watch her work, competent fingers arranging my hair in the current imperial fashion, all swept up to leave my neck bare and vulnerable.

When she's done, I stand before my mirror and arrange my expression into serene compliance. The girl looking back could be anyone's perfect princess: beautiful, obedient, empty of dangerous thoughts. It's a mask I've perfected over years of necessity, and today it might be the only thing standing between me and disaster.

"Thank you, Adelaide. You may go."

She curtsies and disappears with my breakfast tray, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

I slip my hand into the drawer beside my bed, fingers finding the silk pouch that holds my mother's silver raven pendant. The metal is warm from resting against my palm all night, and I slide it quickly over my head, letting it disappear beneath the high neckline of my dress. The familiar weight settles against my chest like a secret promise, a reminder of who I was before the Empire began reshaping me in their image.

How much does she know? How much will she report? And to whom?

A soft knock interrupts my spiraling anxiety. "Your Highness?" Talos's voice carries through the thick wood, steady and reassuring. "Are you ready?"

I open the door to find him waiting in the corridor, resplendent in the blue and silver uniform of the royal guard. The transformation is remarkable; prison pallor replaced by the bearing of a seasoned warrior, shoulders squared with remembered authority. A sword hangs at his hip again, and his hand rests on the pommel with unconscious familiarity.

"Sir Talos." I keep my voice formally neutral, though relief floods through me at the sight of him free and armed. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, Your Highness." His eyes search my face, reading the tension I'm trying to hide. "Shall we proceed to court?"

I take his offered arm, feeling some of my anxiety ease at the solid strength beneath the uniform fabric. Whatever games are being played around us, I'm no longer facing them alone. But as we walk through the corridors toward the great hall, I notice how different everything feels with him beside me. Servants who once barely acknowledged my presence now offer deeper bows. Guards straighten to attention as we pass. Whispers follow us everywhere. Even the stones beneath our feet seem to echo differently, as if the palace itself recognizes that something fundamental has shifted in its ancient patterns.

"They remember you," I murmur as we approach the great hall's massive doors.

"Some do," he agrees quietly. "The question is whether they remember the man I was, or the legend I've become in my absence."

"Does it matter?"

His face creases in what might be a smile. "Everything matters now, Your Highness. Every glance, every whisper, every choice we make from this moment forward. The Empire is watching, but so are our people. Both sides are waiting to see what we become."

The weight of his words settles on my shoulders like a mantle. This isn't just about freeing one prisoner or gaining one ally. This is about becoming the symbol our people need, the leader they've been waiting for. The responsibility should terrify me. Instead, it feels like waking up from a long, dreamless sleep.

The great hall buzzes with the usual morning energy when we enter; nobles clustering in their traditional groupings, merchants hovering at the edges hoping for royal notice, servants moving through the crowd with practiced invisibility. But I notice the differences immediately. More imperial banners hanging from the ancient stone walls. Fresh gilt catching the sunlight in garish contrast to the worn carvings our ancestors left behind. Changes subtle enough to seem gradual, obvious enough to send a message.

The old tapestries that once depicted Ravencrest's greatest victories have been replaced with scenes of imperial prosperity. Where once hung the Battle of Copper Falls, where my great-grandfather held off three enemy armies, now hangs a pastoral scene of imperial citizens bringing harvest bounty to their grateful administrators. The substitution makes my stomach clench with more than just aesthetic offense. They're erasing our history one thread at a time, replacing our triumphs with their propaganda.

But it's not just the decorations. The people feel different too. Conversations that once flowed freely now pause when imperial functionaries draw near. Laughter that once rang genuine now carries an edge of performance. Even the way nobles position themselves has changed; always with clear sightlines to exits, always ready to shift allegiances at a moment's notice. Six years of occupation has taught everyone to be careful, and careful people don't make good revolutionaries.

Or do they? Perhaps careful people make the best revolutionaries - the ones who survive long enough to see their rebellion succeed.

Father stands beside his throne, magnificent in his royal robes, the crown of Ravencrest gleaming on his brow. But something about his posture sets my nerves on edge. It’s too rigid, too carefully controlled. His hands grip the throne's carved arms with white-knuckled intensity, and there are new lines around his eyes that speak of sleepless nights and burdens that grow heavier with each passing day. When he sees me approaching with Talos, something flickers across his face; not anger, but something sharper. Recognition, perhaps. Or resignation. As if a piece has just been moved on a board he's been studying, and now he must recalculate all his strategies.

Standing beside him is the woman who has clearly become the true power in this room, though she wears her authority like silk rather than steel. She's the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. Tall and elegant in flowing white silk, her platinum hair braided into an elaborate crown, she seems to glow with inner light. Every movement is grace itself, every gesture a masterpiece of controlled power. She holds court without effort, drawing every eye in the room like iron filings to a magnet.

I hate how much I want to move like that. To command attention without seeming to seek it, to turn beauty into authority with such effortless precision. Watching her makes me feel clumsy and obvious, all sharp edges where she is smooth curves. Even as my mind catalogs her as a threat, some traitorous part of me yearns to learn her secrets.

This must be the new imperial ambassador. The replacement for Jarrod, who'd at least been a known quantity - corrupt and ambitious, but predictably so. This woman is something else entirely. She’s dangerous because she makes you want to be like her.

Father beckons me over. I notice how his eyes dart briefly to the eastern door before settling back on me, a movement so slight that years of reading his moods barely let me catch it. The morning chatter dies to whispers as we cross the hall, hundreds of eyes tracking our progress with barely concealed curiosity.

"Melianthe, my dear," Father says as we reach the throne. His ringed hand strokes his beard thoughtfully. "This is Ambassador Cordelia. She's come all the way from Asterion to... guide our kingdom through these changing times." There's something odd in how he emphasizes 'guide'. Not quite sarcasm, but not acceptance either.

I curtsy with calculated precision. Not too deep, not too shallow, the exact degree of respect due to a foreign dignitary. "Ambassador Cordelia. Ravencrest is honored by your presence."

"Princess." Her voice is warm honey, cultured and musical. When she smiles, the entire hall seems to brighten, and I find myself wanting to smile back despite everything I know about what she represents. There's something magnetic about her presence, a confidence that makes even the most powerful nobles lean forward when she speaks. "It's such a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard wonderful things about your grace and wisdom."

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The compliment feels like a test, but also like recognition from someone whose approval suddenly matters more than it should. I despise myself for the flutter of pride in my chest, for caring what this beautiful enemy thinks of me. "You're very kind."

"I do hope the new maidservant is to your liking." Cordelia's amber eyes study my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Adelaide traveled with me from the capital and we’ve brought all the latest fashions. I know how important it is to a young girl to keep up with the times."

So Cordelia’s responsible for taking Lyssa from me. The confirmation sends ice through my veins even as I keep my expression pleasantly neutral. "How thoughtful of you to concern yourself with such domestic details."

"Indeed," Father interjects, and there's that odd emphasis again. "The Ambassador has been most thorough in her attention to palace arrangements. Though I fear some changes may have been implemented rather hastily." He turns to a nearby guard. “Please ensure the eastern tower guard rotation is adjusted. I noticed some inefficiencies during my morning inspection."

The guard bows and hurries off, but I catch Cordelia's eyes narrowing slightly at Father's words. There's something happening here beneath the surface, some game of moves and countermoves I don't fully understand yet.

"Your Majesty is, as always, attentive to details," Cordelia says smoothly. "Though I do hope you'll allow me to review any changes to security arrangements. The Empire has certain standards we must maintain."

"Of course," Father agrees readily. Too readily. "Just as I'm sure you'll want to review the treasury reports I've prepared. So many numbers to reconcile. So many discrepancies from the previous administration to address."

For just a moment, I see something flicker in Cordelia's perfect composure, not alarm exactly, but a sharpening of attention, like a hawk spotting movement in tall grass.

One well-manicured platinum eyebrow arches as she turns back to me. “I had planned to assign you a guard as well - I don’t know what Jarrod was thinking, allowing you to wander the palace unescorted - but it seems there’s been some confusion?” She speaks to Father with warmth and concern layered through the question.

I break in smoothly, “Sir Talos is very experienced, with a long record of service, and was chosen as a symbol to placate the more… traditional viewpoints.” I match my smile to hers.

"Sir Talos," she says slowly, as if tasting the name. I watch her perfect composure flicker for just a moment as recognition dawns. I can see the thoughts working behind her eyes. "The legendary defender of the throne room. I'd heard you were... indisposed. Aldrich…” She turns to Father. “Is it a good idea to entrust your daughter’s safety to a known loyalist? Commander Verus is Empire-trained and will protect dear Melianthe with his life.” She runs the syllables of my name together into a lilt - Mel-yan-thee, making it sound foreign, exotic.

Father clears his throat. “Talos served King Everett personally, with loyalty and honor. I have no doubt he will take the same care with my daughter.” His narrowed blue eyes, the mirror of my own, bore into me. Whatever else he might think, he is definitely not pleased.

"How... interesting." Her amber eyes narrow slightly, all warmth vanishing from her expression. "Your Majesty, surely there are guards with less... complicated histories who could serve the Princess? Sir Talos's loyalties to the old regime are well documented. One might question the wisdom of placing him so close to your daughter, especially given her upcoming union with the Empire."

“On the contrary,” I respond deferentially, “when the traditionalists see Sir Talos working for the good of the Empire, perhaps they will come to realize the benefits of cooperation.” I allow my smile to deepen slightly. I’ve got an excellent point, and she knows it.

Father's expression doesn't change, but I sense the shift in the room's atmosphere; suddenly charged, like the air before lightning strikes. "Sir Talos has proven his dedication to Ravencrest's stability through six years of... reflection. I trust my judgment in this matter, Ambassador." He shifts his attention to Talos. "And I trust you understand your duties regarding my daughter's protection?" Father's gaze holds weight as he looks at the former champion, but it's not the look of a king welcoming back a loyal knight. It's the look of someone acknowledging a new variable in an already complex equation. "These are... complicated times. She'll need someone who understands both tradition and adaptation."

"I understand perfectly, Your Majesty."

As if summoned by our conversation, a raven chooses that moment to fly through one of the high windows, unusual for this time of day. It circles the hall once, cawing harshly, before settling on a beam directly above Father's throne. In the morning light, I could swear its black feathers shimmer with an almost blue sheen.

Several courtiers shift uneasily. Ravens are considered omens in Ravencrest, though whether for good or ill depends on the circumstances. Father doesn't look up, but I notice his hand has stilled on his throne's arm, no longer displaying that nervous energy from before.

"Good." Father's attention returns to me, and his expression shifts to something I've never seen before, a mixture of calculation and concern that makes my stomach tighten with apprehension. "Melianthe, the Ambassador and I were just discussing your future. Certain arrangements have been made that will affect us all."

My heart begins to race, though I keep my face carefully composed. "Arrangements, Father?"

"Yes." He pauses, and I see him choose his words with deliberate care. "Your betrothal has been finalized. Prince Cassian of Blackmere will arrive within the month to begin the formal courtship period."

“Cassian was fostered in Asterion and is a delightful young man,” Cordelia chimes in. “I’m sure you will find him very agreeable.”

The bottom drops out of my stomach. Betrothal. Prince Cassian. The Empire. I feel the blood drain from my face even as I struggle to maintain my composure. Beside me, I sense Talos stiffen, though he remains silent. I swallow as my mind races through the implications. Blackmere sits on our eastern border, our last buffer against the Empire. I’ve heard that Cassian was taken hostage at the age of eight as collateral for the debts Blackmere couldn’t repay. Twelve years in Asterion; by binding me to an Empire-trained prince they mean to put Ravencrest in irrevocable chains.

"I... I don't understand," I manage, though my voice sounds distant to my own ears. "When was this decided?"

"These matters are rarely simple, my dear," Father says, and there's something in his tone, not quite apology, not quite warning. "The Empire has been most persuasive regarding the benefits of closer ties between our kingdoms."

"I look forward to meeting His Highness," I lie smoothly, though inside I'm reeling. Marriage. To an Imperial Prince. Another chain forged while I was playing at minor rebellions, stealing keys and freeing prisoners while the Empire bound my entire future.

Cordelia's smile widens, perfect and predatory. "Oh, you'll find him quite remarkable, Princess. Cassian has been trained in all the arts appropriate to his station: warfare, statecraft, philosophy. He's particularly gifted at seeing through deceptions. A most valuable skill in these complicated times." Her eyes flick briefly to Father as she says this, and I see his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.

"How wonderful," I manage, the words tasting of ash and defeat. "I do so appreciate a man who values truth."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Though Prince Cassian may have his own opinions about his betrothed's security arrangements." Her smile returns, but it's sharp as a blade now. "The Prince is quite particular about ensuring those around him share the Empire's vision for the future. Old loyalties can be so problematic."

The threat is clear - Talos's presence could complicate or even endanger the betrothal.

“Your majority is coming soon,” Father says. The morning light behind him throws shadows from his crown over his face, his expression unreadable. “We will hold a formal ball to celebrate both your coming of age and the betrothal on your birthday.”

Eighteen, the same age my mother was when she married Father. The age I cease being a passive investment and become a tool in their hands. I want to scream, cry, anything to stop this. Instead I bow my head, only a very slight tremble passing through me. “Thank you, Father.”

“We have so much to do!” Cordelia extends her hands toward me in delight. “Your court manners are excellent but there’s so much more refinement a princess and future queen needs. I’ve scheduled you a block of morning lessons with me each day so that we can catch you up to Cassian, starting tomorrow.” She seems genuinely excited, and I hate how much I want to learn her secrets - how she makes every eye in the room follow her movements, how she turns beauty into authority, grace into power. The way she commands attention without seeming to seek it, while I feel like I'm constantly performing, constantly being judged and found wanting. Is that something I can learn from her, without becoming what she is? Trapped between wanting and hating, there’s only one response I can give.

“I look forward to it, Ambassador Cordelia. I’m sure there’s much I can learn from you.” Like how to be an uptight bitch, I don’t say, even as I find myself studying how she holds her shoulders, the precise angle of her chin. Power is power, after all, and I need every weapon I can get. My fingers brush unconsciously against where my mother's raven pendant lies hidden. Would she understand, or be ashamed of how much I want to learn?

Before she can respond, the great doors burst open with a crash that sends the raven fleeing back through the window. An imperial messenger staggers in, travel-stained and breathless, clearly having ridden hard to reach us.

"Your Majesty!" He drops to one knee before Father, though his words are clearly meant for Cordelia. "Ambassador, I bring urgent news from the capital. There's been an incident at Skyreach Garrison. The armory was compromised, and significant weapons are missing. Intelligence suggests rebel elements are active in the northern provinces."

The hall erupts in whispers, but I'm watching Father. For just an instant, surprise flickers across his face; genuine surprise, quickly masked. Whatever game he's playing, this wasn't part of it.

Cordelia's perfect composure never wavers, but her voice carries new steel when she speaks. "How unfortunate. Your Majesty, I trust we can count on Ravencrest's full cooperation in investigating this matter? The northern roads pass through your territory, after all."

"Of course," Father agrees. "I'll have my guard commanders prepare a full report on any suspicious movements. Though I should note the northern passes have been particularly treacherous this season. It would be easy for even experienced trackers to become lost."

Cordelia's smile becomes even more brilliant, even more dangerous. "How fortunate then that the Empire's tracking specialists are so very experienced. I'm sure they'll manage despite the challenging terrain."

Father lifts a hand. “You’re excused, Melianthe. Come give your father a kiss before you go.”

Bewildered at the unusual request, I dutifully approach his chair, Sir Talos following like a faithful shadow, and bend down to kiss his cheek. He turns his head as though to return it, but instead his lips brush against my ear in a whisper. “It’s a very dangerous game you’ve started playing, my girl. Watch yourself.”

I straighten, a prickle of unease running down my spine. Is it a threat, or a warning? I curtsy to Father, to Cordelia, and walk to the door with my head held high, Sir Talos trailing in my wake. The excited murmur of voices rises behind us as we leave, but I barely hear it over the rushing in my ears. I manage to keep my composure until we turn the corner into an empty corridor, then my knees give out. Sir Talos catches my elbow before I can fall.

'Your Highness?' His voice is carefully neutral, but his grip is steady.

'I need-' My voice cracks and I swallow hard. “I need a moment.” He lets me go and I lean against the cold stone wall for strength, my hands over my face as if by shutting out the world I can forget what just happened. I take a deep, shuddering breath, then another. I will not cry. Not here in public, and especially not in front of Sir Talos.

He gives me the time I need, waiting in patient silence while I take slow, careful breaths and stuff my conflicting emotions down into a little box, to be taken out and examined later. When I lower my hands, my eyes are dry. We begin moving again; I have music lessons this morning and I don’t want to explain myself if I’m late. As we walk I settle myself enough to remember one of the other reasons I wanted Sir Talos close to me. Beauty and grace isn’t the only kind of power I need.

“I want you to teach me to fight.” The words drop through the air like stones, heavy with my determination. I expect him to argue, to refuse, but he only considers the request for a few paces.

“Meet me in the rose garden at dawn tomorrow. Wear something you can move comfortably in.”

I nearly miss a step at how easily he’s agreed.

“Your father is right, Princess,” he continues quietly. “This is a dangerous game.”

I stare straight ahead, my gaze stony. “Then I’d better learn to play it well.”