The court of Alpheria was never quiet. Even in times of peace, the great hall echoed with the clink of goblets, the shuffle of silk shoes, and the murmured bargaining of foreign envoys.
Marriage proposals arrived almost daily. Dukes, princes, and even kings sent gilded letters sealed with their crests, offering wealth, land, or political alliances in exchange for the hand of one of the King's daughters. Some offered treasures so rare they were whispered about like legends; others promised to place Alpheria's name alongside empires in the histories.
King Arden Valerius accepted none of them.
The nobles grumbled. The foreign ambassadors fumed. But the King knew what none of them did — that Fiora, Lydia, and Carrie were not prizes to be traded, but the keystones of Alpheria's survival.
To the outside world, the daughters were three separate mysteries:
Fiora, the ruthless commander whose face was never seen at court.
Lydia, the veiled princess whose eyes could sway kings.
Carrie, the elusive scholar rumored to advise the royal engineers.
Only a handful within the palace walls knew that they were sisters, bound not just by blood but by the weight of the kingdom's future.
It was a dangerous game they played. Fiora's victories on the battlefield bred envy as much as fear; Lydia's political maneuvers created grudges that could last generations; Carrie's inventions drew the greedy eyes of warlords who would kill to possess her mind.
The King hid them, as much as he could, but shadows only sharpen the hunger of those who hunt.
One autumn evening, the sisters gathered in the war room — a rare sight, for they were seldom in the same place at the same time. A map of Alpheria's borders lay stretched across the table, marked with colored stones representing enemy forces and trade routes.
Fiora leaned over the map, her armored fingers tracing a cluster of red stones pressing dangerously close to the eastern border. "They're testing us," she said. "Skirmishes, probing attacks… They're looking for weakness."
"There is none," Lydia said simply, her voice calm but edged. "Not unless we give them one." She placed a black stone along a trade route. "A shipment of grain to our southern ally. Public enough to reassure them, but delayed just enough to make our eastern friends… nervous."
Carrie, seated at the far end of the table, slid a folded piece of parchment toward her sisters. "If it comes to open war, this design will give us an advantage. It's faster to build than the sunburst cannon, but still strong enough to break a siege."
Fiora smiled faintly. "Always planning for war."
"And you," Carrie replied, "are always walking into it."
The King entered then, watching them for a long moment without speaking. Pride was in his eyes, but so was something else — the heaviness of a man who knows his greatest treasures are also his greatest vulnerabilities.
"You have made Alpheria stronger than it has ever been," he said at last. "But strength draws enemies. And I fear…" He hesitated, his voice lower now. "…I fear the time will come when our enemies learn exactly who you are."
The sisters exchanged glances — not of fear, but of understanding.
Fiora's hand rested on the hilt of her sword. Lydia's eyes glimmered behind her veil. Carrie's ink-stained fingers curled around the edge of the table.
"If that day comes," Fiora said, "let them come."
The King nodded, but in the silence that followed, the truth was clear: the day would come.
And when it did, the fate of Alpheria — and perhaps the entire continent — would rest in the hands of three daughters who were never meant to rule, but were born to conquer