Chapter 117 – Queen Me (1)
(Erynd)
The palace wards hummed like an offended beehive.
Outer ring: old stone, older runes, maintained by priests who still thought the sun revolved around Helios's ego.
Inner rings: newer work. Overlapping detection arrays, temperature shifts, pressure alarms—whoever designed it knew their stuff. Not good enough, but competent.
I flew high over the city until the palace sat like a dark tooth in a mouth of lanterns.
Then I dropped.
Not straight.
A slow, lazy spiral, vector field flattened so I looked like a heavy gust, nothing more.
A patrol passed below me on the roofline: three men, one woman, armor polished, spears resting on shoulders. Alert enough not to be embarrassing.
The sergeant stopped.
Looked up.
His detection charm flared faintly.
I bled my presence sideways, letting the vector pressure smear across the ward instead of spike.
He squinted at the dark.
Mana tickled along his hand as he brushed the charm.
"…huh," he muttered. "Must've been the wind."
Of course it was.
He moved on.
I skimmed along the tiles until I hit the Royal Wing. More wards. More alarms. The paranoid knot around what was, for now, still a princess's rooms.
Olivia's balcony window was closed, latched, and ringed with three different alarm sigils.
I hung in the air just below the balustrade, tracing the outer pattern.
Intent-based. Force-triggered. Overlapping. Sloppy in the corners.
I found a seam, slid my will through it, and nudged the ward aside just enough.
No force.
No spike.
Just a temporary blind spot.
The latch turned under my fingers with a quiet click.
The balcony doors opened.
Inside, her room was lit by one lamp near a mirror.
Olivia sat in front of it, comb in hand, back straight like the posture instructors would haunt her in her sleep if she slouched.
She was staring at herself as if she'd never seen that face before.
I stepped in.
Closed the doors behind me.
The ward slid back into place with a soft, satisfied hum.
***
(Olivia)
The girl in the mirror had my face.
I just didn't recognize it.
Same violet hair, falling in a smooth curtain as I dragged the comb through.
Same eyes.
They just looked… hollow. Like someone had turned the light off behind them.
I tugged the comb through a knot a little too hard.
It hurt.
Good.
***
Flashback
"Olivia," Father said, arms open as I stepped back into the palace. "My Olivia. How was your stay at Lord Milton's estate?"
His smile was warm.
Practiced.
The same one he used on foreign envoys and high-ranking clerics.
"It was… good, Father," I said.
Because what else was I supposed to say?
"I knew the Viester boy wouldn't disappoint," Father went on. "He's useful. And his influence is… stabilizing. It will be good for you to learn from him."
I'd wanted to say: I'm not a ledger entry. I'm not a pawn you park in someone else's house.
My tongue sat heavy in my mouth.
"Good," Father repeated. "Good. You'll make an excellent queen one day."
That word had felt like a chain.
Later, as the carriage door closed, Erynd had met my eyes and said, as if asking the weather:
"What makes a good ruler, Olivia? Compassion or cruelty?"
He hadn't waited for an answer.
He just turned and flew away like gravity was a suggestion.
***
I dragged the comb through my hair again.
"Neither," I muttered at the mirror.
The balcony latch clicked.
My heart jumped.
I turned.
The doors opened, letting in a breath of cooler air.
He stepped through like this was just another room in his house.
Dark coat, sword, that faint frayed edge to his expression that said he'd been avoiding sleep on purpose again.
"You're not supposed to be in here," I said. "There are guards."
"There are," he agreed. "They think I'm a strong breeze."
He closed the doors, fingers brushing the ward lines.
The sigils pulsed once and settled.
My skin prickled.
"You can't just break into a princess's bedroom," I protested.
His mouth quirked.
"Publicly," he said. "Publicly I go through the front door, bow to your father, and everyone starts betting on our wedding year. Privately, I use the balcony. Which would you prefer, Your Highness?"
Heat flickered in my cheeks.
"Neither," I muttered.
"Good," he said. "You remembered that much, at least."
He moved closer, steps quiet on the carpet.
"I've given you time," he said. "You've had a few days as the dutiful Crown Princess again. Father. Council. Priests. The crown hovering in the near future like a guillotine. Enough space to think about my question."
He stopped a pace or two behind my chair.
I could see him now in the mirror, over my shoulder.
Not looming.
Just there.
"Compassion or cruelty," he said. "Which makes a good ruler?"
Ruler.
Not queen.
Yet.
I looked at the girl in the glass.
She looked tired.
"Neither," I said.
His reflection smiled.
"Why?" he asked.
Because of you, I thought.
Because of Meltèn.
Because I can't unsee the other side of every "kind" act and every "necessary" cruelty you shoved under my nose.
"I…" I swallowed. "I know it's neither. I just… can't explain it yet."
"That," he said mildly, "is called 'not doing your homework.'"
My spine stiffened.
"I've been thinking," I snapped. "I just don't have the words!"
"And until you can explain it," he said, "you can't teach it. And if you can't teach your own principles, you'll end up parroting someone else's."
He met my eyes in the mirror.
"Punishment, then," he said.
My stomach dipped.
"Punish—"
"Strip," he said.
Same tone he used for sit or focus.
My face went hot.
"Here?" My voice went high, betraying me. "In—Erynd, this is my—"
"Bedroom, yes," he said. "With wards. No servants. No chaperones. Just you and the man your father trusted to make you into a Queen instead of a puppet."
"I'm not Queen yet," I said, stung.
His gaze didn't waver.
"You keep saying you want that," he said. "You want the crown. The power. The responsibility. This is part of the price. Strip."
My fingers tightened around the comb.
"You can't just—"
"You asked me," he cut in. "Not to treat you like porcelain. Not to coddle you. You said you wanted to be treated as a future monarch, not a sheltered ornament. Monarchs get punished for failing their duties. Strip, Olivia."
He wasn't raising his voice.
He wasn't threatening.
He just expected.
I hated that it worked.
I set the comb down.
Stood.
"Turn around," I muttered.
"No," he said.
I stared at him in the mirror.
"You're not going to look away?" I said.
"Most of your life," he said calmly, "people will look away from anything ugly around you. They'll avert their eyes, cover the worst of it, tell you it's 'not fit for a princess.' You told me not to do that. So I won't. Strip."
Right.
My fault.
I'd asked for this.
My hands shook as I tugged at my dress laces.
Layer by layer.
Outer gown.
Underdress.
Shift.
Fabric slid over skin, pooled at my feet.
The air felt colder than it was.
The girl in the mirror was naked now.
No silk.
No jewels.
Just flesh and the faint mark on her shoulder where a nervous suitor's fingers had bruised too hard once.
Erynd's gaze traveled down my reflection, then up again.
Clinical.
Not hungry.
Like he was noting details for a ledger.
In some ways, that was worse.
"Turn," he said.
I turned to face him.
My hands twitched toward my chest.
I forced them to my sides.
"Now kneel," he said.
My cheeks flamed.
"You're enjoying this," I accused.
"I'd enjoy it more if you'd done the thinking on time," he said. "Kneel, Olivia."
I swallowed.
And lowered myself to my knees.
On the carpet, not the stone, thank all the gods.
I let my knees fall apart a little, more out of instinct than thought.
Everything in my upbringing whispered: this is how it looks, this is how you please, this is what men want…
"Wrong," he said instantly.
I froze.
"Wrong?" I croaked.
He stepped closer, tapped the floor between my knees with the toe of his boot.
"Together," he said. "You don't want a wide base. You want your weight settled. Harder to move. Harder to run."
That sounded uncomfortably like a metaphor.
My thighs trembled as I brought my knees together.
"Good," he said. "Now sit back. Rest your weight on your heels. Spine straight."
I obeyed.
My ankles protested.
My thighs burned.
The position made me feel… pinned.
"I can't stay like this," I muttered.
"Yes, you can," he said. "You're the future Queen. You can do unpleasant things and keep breathing. That's the point."
He started to move.
Circling me.
Watching.
Not touching.
The air felt tight.
"Look at you," he said quietly. "Princess Olivia. Doesn't know what her own answer means. Doesn't know how to kneel properly. Doesn't even realize why this feels worse than a bathhouse full of maids."
"Because I'm naked," I said through my teeth.
He stepped behind me.
Out of the mirror's range.
"It bothers you," he said, "but not for the reason you think. You've been naked in front of people before. Bathing girls. Healers. Lovers your father's council vetted and scheduled like meetings."
Heat crawled up my neck.
"That is not—"
"This," he said, voice softer, "is different. You chose this. You obeyed a command that isn't backed by your father's crown or your court's gossip. Just mine. You asked me not to treat you like a child. Now you're finding out what that costs."
My breath went shallow.
I hated him.
I hated that part of me agreed.
"Back to the question," he said.
He drifted to my left.
I saw his boots, the hem of his coat.
"If you're a compassionate ruler," he said, "what do you do when you see a starving child?"
"You feed them," I said, on reflex. "You… you make sure they eat."
"And then?" he asked.
"And then… you feel good about it," I said, more bitter than I meant to. "The bards write a song. 'Princess Olivia, kind to the poor.'"
His lip twitched.
"And what have you fixed?" he asked.
"I fed a starving child," I snapped.
"You fed one," he said. "While ten more starve behind him. While the granary records are still lies. While the tax collector still skims. Compassion alone makes you feel better about the rot. It doesn't cure it."
The words thudded into place.
I hated that they were familiar.
"Worse," he went on. "Everyone else sees that scene and thinks: 'If I cry loudly enough in front of the Princess, I might get a loaf of bread and a pat on the head.' You set a precedent."
He stepped closer.
I felt his breath ghost over my ear.
"What does precedent do, Highness?" he murmured.
Mocking.
Teaching.
Both.
My mouth was dry.
"It makes people think," I said slowly, "that if they copy the right performance, they'll get the same reward. Even if they don't need it. Even if someone else needs it more."
"Good," he said. "Now cruelty."
He walked behind me again.
My calves ached.
"Your army is shaky," he said. "You're afraid they'll break. So you declare: 'Any soldier who retreats without orders will be executed. No exceptions.' Cruelty as law."
My toes were starting to go numb.
What was one more discomfort.
"I… keep them in line?" I tried.
"For a while," he said. "Some will stiffen their spines. Some will crack sooner. And some will look at that decree and decide you're more terrifying than the enemy. If dying is inevitable, they'll decide who they want to aim their rage at."
My throat tightened.
"They… rebel," I said quietly.
"Of course they do," he said. "You've told them you'll kill them if they flinch. You leave them no way to fail safely. So the ones who were going to fall apart anyway decide they'd rather do it on their terms. They mutiny. Or desert. Or stab their officer in the back and run."
His hands settled on my bare waist.
Not groping.
Just there.
Heavy and warm.
I sucked in a breath.
"And the ones who don't break?" he went on. "They get used to living under the knife. Which means when someone else offers them a different blade, they'll consider it. You've trained them to accept terror as normal. Why shouldn't they swap whose terror they obey?"
I shut my eyes.
"Compassion alone breeds dependency," he said softly. "Cruelty alone breeds revolt. You see that now. That's why you answered 'neither.'"
His fingers tightened, just a fraction.
He leaned down.
His mouth was at my ear.
"So," he whispered, "if compassion rots the spine and cruelty rots the heart… what should a ruler be, Princess?"
My pulse thundered.
I thought of the starving child.
The soldiers.
The way my father smiled at me like I was both beloved and a chess piece.
I thought of Erynd standing in front of a god and saying no, and then coming into my room and making me kneel because I'd asked him to treat me like someone who would one day wear a crown.
My legs hurt.
My pride hurt more.
"Neither," I said.
My voice shook.
I didn't care.
"Neither," I repeated. "Not as the whole answer."
I couldn't see his face.
But I could feel the curve of his smile against my skin.