Obsidiana that morning was buried in volcanic ash. Gray particles falling from the northern sky accumulated on windowsills, creating a suffocating silence. Elara stood before her work table, staring at the report from the Eastern territories. The dam project was complete, water had begun flowing to the fields, but the report came with a secret letter from an old informant: The people of Astapura now called her the Traitor Empress.
Elara rubbed her fingertips blackened by ink. The smell of iron and old paper filled her nostrils. She did not cry. She only stared at the stain, wondering whether she was saving her nation or slowly helping Kaelen strangle it.
"Ten people were lashed this morning for stopping work before their time," Martha's voice broke the silence. The servant stood in the corner, her sharp eyes monitoring Elara's every movement. "The Emperor wants to know if you find this report satisfactory enough."
Elara didn't look up. She straightened the parchment with highly stable hand movements. "Tell the Emperor, it's better for ten people to be lashed for exhaustion than for ten thousand people to die of starvation when the snow falls. Hunger doesn't need reasons, Martha. It only needs corpses."
"A cold answer, Princess," Martha commented flatly.
"This isn't about feelings. This is about logistics."
However, behind Obsidiana's granite walls, Elara's enemies began moving soundlessly. While examining the weekly grain distribution report, Elara noticed something strange. The number eight in the reserve seed column had been changed to the number three. The stroke was extremely thin, almost invisible unless examined under the right candlelight. That five-ton grain discrepancy was a trap; if she signed it, she would legally acknowledge having committed state supply embezzlement.
Resistance also came from a more personal direction. This morning, her bathwater arrived ice-cold. Her food—a piece of roasted meat and bread—had an unpleasant aroma, as if it had been left too long in the open air. No one shouted at her, but the silence that followed Elara's footsteps in the palace corridors felt like thousands of eyes piercing her back.
That afternoon, the library door thudded softly. Lady Lyra entered with confident steps. Her emerald silk gown rustled on the stone floor, bringing the suffocating aroma of rose perfume.
"Our little scholar looks very busy," Lyra walked around Elara's table, touching the stack of books with lazy movements. "I imagined someone more dignified to sit here. Not a girl who looks as fragile as glass."
Elara continued writing. Her pen tip created a consistent scratching sound in the silent room. She let Lyra stand without greeting for almost a full minute.
"Intelligence doesn't require muscle, Lady Lyra," Elara's voice was soft but unwavering. She finally set down her pen. "Just like poison. Even the smallest dose is enough to paralyze the heart if placed in the right spot."
Lyra laughed, a sound like grinding crystal. She bent down, her face only inches from Elara's. "In Valerion, we discard tools that begin to break. I will ensure your position ends soon before you have a chance to feel comfortable in this chair."
"I have never felt comfortable here," Elara replied, holding her breath to avoid inhaling Lyra's perfume. "And my usefulness is determined by the Emperor, not by your hatred."
After Lyra left, Elara took a long breath. She realized she could no longer just remain silent. She began examining every paper with the meticulousness of a survivor. She noticed unusual ink stains, forced paper folds, and differences in parchment texture. Someone had replaced her original documents with false copies.
That night, Elara executed her plan. She deliberately created a draft report with glaring numerical errors and placed it in an unlocked desk drawer—a place she knew was often secretly checked by Lord Vane's people. However, secretly, she had already sent the correct, authentic report directly to the Emperor's desk through Martha.
The next morning, in a meeting in the hall corridor, Lord Vane attempted to humiliate Elara in front of high officials. He carried that false draft report and accused Elara of incompetence in managing state numbers.
"This is proof of negligence, Your Majesty!" Vane shouted while thrusting the paper toward Kaelen.
Kaelen didn't look at Vane. He instead pulled out a parchment scroll that had been in his hand all along. "I already received the correct report last night, Vane. The report you're holding... doesn't even have an official stamp from the central warehouse."
Vane froze. His face paled instantly. Kaelen gave one cold stare that made Vane retreat without a sound. Elara stood there, without any expression of victory, only staring straight ahead.
That evening, Elara stood on the balcony, breathing cold air mixed with ash dust. She felt tired, but her mind was very clear. She was no longer a princess who could only wait for fate; she was beginning to learn how to dance in the middle of Obsidiana's political storm.
In his study, Kaelen observed the report of Vane's failure. He spun a silver coin between his fingers, then extinguished the candle with his gloved finger.
"She didn't come begging to me," Kaelen murmured in the darkness.
"The Princess solved her own problem, Your Majesty," Malakor responded from behind the shadows.
Kaelen didn't answer. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes. Elara wasn't just a mere prisoner; she was a player beginning to know how to win the game on the chessboard he himself had created. He realized he was no longer just watching a girl from the ruins, but witnessing the birth of an opponent who might, someday, truly challenge his authority.
Elara returned to her bed that was spacious yet felt cold. She touched Joran's small dagger still safely stored beneath her pillow. That cold metal reminded her of her true purpose. Every political step she took, every manipulation she performed, all of it was for one thing: to ensure that someday, she would no longer be the one commanded. In the darkness of Obsidiana, Elara finally fell asleep with clenched fists, ready to face tomorrow which might be even bloodier.