“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Your Majesty,” Ezra says, his voice smooth and diplomatic. “We come only to request access to your library. There are texts here that do not exist elsewhere in Terre Ferique—especially regarding historical magic and the wars of the second era. Her Highness and I are conducting research that may prove vital to understanding the recent attacks.”
He pauses, then adds with quiet conviction, “As the princess’s appointed magister, it is my duty to educate and advise her in every way I can. To deny her the knowledge she needs would be a disservice, not only to her future, but to the realm she will one day help lead. Your library holds centuries of wisdom—lessons written in blood and ash and survival. To let those lessons gather dust while threats rise around us is folly.”
Ezra’s gaze remains steady, respectful, but firm. “The opportunity to study those texts while we are within reach is not one I take lightly. And I would not have brought it to your attention if I did not believe it mattered.”
The king’s lip curls, a slow, deliberate gesture. “And you expect me to open my archives to you freely? After the spectacle your princess made of herself in my kingdom?”
I tense beside Ezra, my hands clasped before me to hide the way my fingers dig into my palms. For now, I remain silent.
“She helped stop the carnoraxis from slaughtering your people,” Ezra replies calmly. “Your own soldiers were overwhelmed. Without her aid, the toll might have been far higher.”
“She’s a woman,” King Harold spits, rising from his throne like a stone giant uncoiling. “And what she did was unnatural.”
My jaw clenches, but I force myself to breathe slowly through my nose.
King Harold stalks a few paces forward, robes swishing against the smooth floor. “Our people value tradition. Honor. Order. Not this foreign spectacle of disrespectful women wielding blades in battles the gods never meant for them to take part in.” His voice rises now, echoing across the chamber. “If word spreads that Podrosa was defended by a mourning princess, what message does that send to my enemies? That our warriors cannot protect their own gates? That we needed agirlto save us?”
He doesn’t say it outright—but I hear it in every syllable: shame. He is ashamed that I was needed. Ashamed that my skills eclipsed his soldiers’. That I embarrassed him.
I lift my chin. “I did what I was trained to do. What I swore to do.” I take a slow breath. “I will not apologize for saving lives.”
His eyes narrow like slits in old stone. “No. I expect you won’t.” He turns, sweeping back toward his throne with finality. “Your request is denied.”
“But the library—” Ezra begins.
“Is closed,” King Harold snaps, without so much as a glance back. “To foreigners. To women. To those who forget their place.”
He drops into his throne as if the conversation were over. The guards at the sides of the chamber shift subtly, hands falling to their blades. A warning.
At his side, Queen Agatha stirs. Her gaze lands on me for a moment before she lowers her chin.
I stand frozen, fury pounding like war drums beneath my ribs. For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I reached for my magic—if I let it swirl just enough to make the flames in the sconces tremble, or the wind outside howl against the stained-glass windows. Just enough to remind him that his arrogance is not power.
But Ezra’s quiet voice stops me. “Come, Princess.”
I follow Ezra from the room, the king’s silence a weight between my shoulder blades.
The hall outside the throne room feels colder than it did when we entered. Ezra walks beside me, arms folded, his brow drawn into thethoughtful crease it wears when he’s fighting the urge to argue further.
“I should’ve known,” I murmur. “Podrosa would rather pretend the world only works if it’s resting on the shoulders of obedience and order.”
Ezra exhales through his nose. “He fears perception more than consequence. If word spreads that a foreign princess had to protect his people—”
“Then his ego shrivels,” I say dryly. “And gods forbid his manhood follow.”
That draws the faintest curl of Ezra’s mouth. But it’s fleeting. He glances at the tall, stained-glass window lining the corridor, its light casting fractured blues and golds across the floor. “There may be another way. The king is inaccessible—but his court is not. Perhaps I could speak again with the palace magister. If I convince him to lend me access to the texts, I could study them in private. Quietly.”
I glance at him. “You think he’ll help?”
Ezra arches a brow. “I think he might be more open-minded than the man who employs him. And I doubt he enjoys seeing his library padlocked by fear.”
We round a corner, our footsteps hushed by a faded runner rug. But before we reach the next alcove, a boy steps into our path.
A page. No older than thirteen. His eyes are downcast, his voice polite as he bows. “Your Highness. Magister. The queen requests your presence.”
My brows lift. “Queen Agatha?”
He nods once, not quite meeting my gaze. “If you’ll follow me.”
