We met in the dim-lit chamber behind the palace library, a place rarely visited by servants or guards. The scent of old books and faded ink lingered in the air, and thick velvet curtains were drawn over stained-glass windows, muffling the noise from the corridors. A single lantern flickered on the round oak table between us, casting long shadows across Verian's angular face.
He stood with his arms behind his back, as composed as a statue—but those sharp eyes of his never missed a detail.
"Tonight is not about truth," Verian began, his voice low and precise, "it is about perception."
I nodded, tense but listening closely.
"The king will ask questions not because he seeks information, but because he seeks reaction. You must know when to answer and when to smile."
He slid a parchment across the table. On it were mock questions and coded responses.
"If he asks about your childhood," Verian said, "answer only with emotion. 'I remember warmth, music in the gardens, and the smell of pinewood during winters.' That paints a picture without giving away a single fact."
I traced the handwriting with my finger. It was elegant, almost too perfect to be real.
"And if I don't know what he's asking?" I asked softly.
Verian stepped forward, folding his hands atop the table. "Tilt your head slightly to the right. Look at the candle, not the king. Then say, 'My father once said mystery is the finest shield of a swan.' He will take that as noble modesty."
I blinked. "That's… manipulative."
He allowed himself the faintest smirk. "That's survival, Miss Diana."
The shadows flickered across his cheekbones as he leaned in slightly.
"You are not here to speak facts. You are here to sell a life. I built the identity you wear now—I won't let you tear it apart with careless answers."
I felt heat rise to my face but held my tongue. I didn't like his tone, but I needed his guidance.
"Anything else?" I asked.
"Yes." Verian's voice dropped lower. "Never be the first to speak at the table. Watch how the king holds his glass. If he circles the rim, he's thinking. If he taps it once, he's testing. And if he sets it down with force—change the topic immediately."
I stared at him. "How do you know all this?"
He didn't answer right away. He turned toward the stained-glass window, peeking through the heavy curtain as though sensing something far beyond our little world.
"Because I've dined with monsters before," he whispered. "And this king… is not the worst I've seen."
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The hall shimmered under chandeliers that hung like golden stars. Every clink of silverware echoed like a warning. I walked in, draped in a golden-yellow gown that showed a touch of skin at the shoulders and back. It wasn't scandalous—but enough to catch the King's attention.
He noticed. Of course, he did.
King Henry stood as I approached the long table. A gleam of curiosity flickered in his dark eyes. "A bold color for such a quiet woman," he remarked, gesturing for me to sit beside him.
I offered a graceful smile, sitting as he took his place.
"In my homeland," I said gently, "yellow is worn during harvest festivals. It honors the sun for blessing our crops. To wear it before a king means hope and celebration."
His brow rose. "So tonight is a celebration?"
"Your Majesty," I replied with a tilt of my head, "any night I dine in the company of a king deserves celebration."
He gave a small chuckle, clearly entertained.
"What do you enjoy most about palace life so far, Lady Diana?"
I smiled. "The gardens. I wake early just to walk before the sun fully rises. The roses here bloom as if they know royalty tends them."
He seemed pleased. "You speak like someone who notices more than flowers."
Question 2: "And tell me, what languages were you taught growing up?"
I answered smoothly, recalling Verian's list. "Fluency in Old Cion, Gamburzan dialect, and formal Valemarian, though I favor poetry in my native tongue." I gently placed my goblet down, smiling as I added, "My governess said I spoke with my eyes more than my words."
"Did your father ever serve in the court back home?"
I folded my hands. "Yes, briefly. He served as a trade liaison to the eastern ports. But he spent more time in study than in court." I paused, then added with just the right warmth, "He always believed knowledge earned more than applause."
King Henry nodded, seemingly satisfied.
But then came the fourth question.
"Tell me—why have I never heard of the region you come from? This 'Heart of Steel'—is it new to the maps?"
A small beat of silence passed.
I turned to the glimmering goblet in my hand and tilted it slowly, watching the wine catch the light. Then, I looked up and met his gaze—not too long, not too short.
"My father used to say," I began, "that some hearts are not drawn on maps. They are built in silence, behind iron walls and forgotten gates. But still, they beat."
The King studied me.
I smiled, gracious and calm. "Perhaps you haven't found it yet, Your Majesty."
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He raised his glass.
"To hidden kingdoms," he murmured.
"And to kings who dare to discover them," I replied.
Back in my chamber, the soft rustle of my dress followed me like an echo of the evening's events. I shut the door gently behind me and leaned against it, heart still caught somewhere between confusion and dread.
Fiora turned, hands clasped in front of her apron, eyes bright. She had clearly been waiting.
"You're glowing," she said, lips curling into a teasing smile. "Was the King that charming, or was it the wine?"
I sighed and walked past her, unfastening the pin from my shoulder. "Neither. He invited me to dinner again tomorrow night."
Fiora's brows lifted. "Another one?" She moved to help me with my gown, her hands swift and practiced. "That's… impressive, Miss Diana."
I paused. "Is it? Or is he just trying to investigate me in the most charming way possible?"
She chuckled softly. "Kings rarely investigate with candles and compliments. If he truly wished to expose you, I doubt he'd be pouring your wine."
I turned to look at her. She was still smiling, but… her eyes. They held something else. Not surprise. Not pride. Something unreadable.
"You seem happy," I said cautiously, "but not surprised."
There was a flicker. A tiny twitch of her jaw. She glanced down as she folded the gown.
"I'm just relieved," she answered carefully, "that you're doing well… that you're safe."
"Safe?" I echoed. "Or exactly where someone wants me?"
Fiora met my gaze then. Softly. Too softly.
"I just want what's best for you, Miss."
Her words were kind—but rehearsed. Like a line she had said many times before.
I watched her for a moment longer, then turned to the mirror. My reflection looked almost regal now. Poised. Desired.
But inside, I was still a girl in borrowed skin.
"Fiora," I said quietly, brushing my fingers against the vanity, "if you knew who I really was… would you still stay?"
She hesitated. Just a second. Then:
"I already have."
I turned toward her sharply, but she was already folding towels, humming under her breath, as if nothing had passed between us.
And suddenly, I didn't know what to fear more: the King's curiosity… or Fiora's quiet knowing.