Crawling through the ventilation ducts of the Sun Palace was a far cry from the ethereal lifestyle expected of Lady Liliana de Clairmont. As the only daughter of the Marquis de Clairmont, my name was basically a synonym for "Expensive and Fragile."
Liliana de Clairmont. I mean, come on. Even the name sounds like it should be whispered by a pining poet while he stares at a rainy window. It was the ultimate Female Lead title—elegant, prestigious, and probably worth more than a small province. It was a name meant for velvet cushions and diamond tiaras, not for a girl currently getting a mouthful of five-hundred-year-old dust.
I dropped from the ceiling into a side corridor, landing with a sound that was definitely more "sack of potatoes" than "graceful swan." I scrambled up, shaking a stray cobweb off my shredded silk gown. My lace sleeves were hanging by a thread, and I was fairly certain I had a smudge of soot on my nose that no amount of "ethereal" lighting could fix.
"If the readers could see me now," I muttered, trying to pin a piece of my skirt back together. "They'd probably demand a genre change to Slapstick Comedy."
I marched toward the massive obsidian doors of the throne room. I had no leverage. No secret documents. I was just a girl who was tired of being treated like a glass vase in a house full of clumsy toddlers.
As I pushed the doors open, the sheer weight of the Emperor's aura hit me like a physical slap. The room was vast, illuminated by low-burning braziers. At the far end, Emperor Valerius sat on his throne, looking less like a man and more like a final boss in a video game. He was deep in conversation with a man in dark armor who looked like he hadn't smiled since the dawn of time.
SHIIIING!
A silver streak hissed through the air. I didn't even have time to blink before a sword buried itself into the oak doorframe precisely two inches from my left ear.
"Eep!" I squeaked—a very un-De-Clairmont-like sound—before immediately smoothing my hair. "I mean... How rude!"
"A mouse has wandered into the lion's den," the armored man mused, his hand already on the hilt of a second blade.
The Emperor didn't even look up. "Kill it if it's an assassin," he said, his voice a bored, terrifying baritone. "If it's a beggar, throw it to the hounds. If it's a salesman, tell them we already have enough enchanted rugs."
"I am none of those!" I shouted, stepping into the light. My voice cracked slightly, but I channeled every ounce of my "Grand Marquis's Daughter" energy. "I am Liliana de Clairmont! And I am here to demand you break my engagement to your son before he accidentally 'protects' me into an early grave!"
The Emperor finally lifted his head. His eyes were like cold amber. "The daughter of Clairmont? You look like you fell down a chimney, girl. My son loves you. He put you in that tower to keep you safe from the 'harsh realities' of the world."
"The harshest reality right now is my lack of oxygen in that tower!" I snapped. "I am done being a 'Little Lily.' I want a life where I can walk at a normal pace without someone calling for a priest!"
A heavy silence fell. The Emperor leaned forward, his gaze landing on my hands—the hands of a lady, now covered in dirt and the callouses of a month of secret training.
"You wish to leave the protection of the Crown?" the Emperor asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Then show me you can survive the weight of it."
Slowly, the Emperor stood. He unbuckled the weapon at his waist—The Sovereign.
The armored man gasped. This was the legendary blade of the Great War. It was the sword that had seen a thousand battles and built the very throne I was staring at. With a sudden, violent heave, the Emperor threw the sword. It slid across the marble floor with a grinding, heavy sound until it thudded against the toes of my boots.
"Pick it up," the Emperor commanded. "If you can even lift the sword that built this Empire, I will grant your wish. If you cannot, you go back to the tower and spend the rest of your life picking out wedding lace."
I looked down at the hilt. It was massive. It looked like it weighed more than I did. My muscles were already trembling from the laundry chute slide, but I looked back at the Emperor with pure, unadulterated spite.
Novel 101, I thought, reaching down with both hands. When the Emperor gives you a sword, you don't just lift it. You make it look like it was meant for you.
I gripped the hilt. The cold steel bit into my palms, and I felt like I was trying to lift a mountain.