As she walked, Alina let her mind slip into old pathways, the memories carved deep by years of repetition.
The palace was a monument to order. Its every surface gleamed, its every hallway mapped and measured. For most of her childhood, the staff had greeted her with the perfect level of warmth: neither too close nor too cold, always careful not to presume. There were hugs, sometimes, but only the ones she initiated; no one wanted to overstep. It was a palace of smilesand silences, rules and routines. And beneath all that, the lesson that she was not really a person, not even to her parents, but a vessel. First for their hopes, then their ambitions, and now, as she approached adulthood, for the future of the entire Realm.
It was a lonely lesson. The loneliness was its own kind of tutor: constant, methodical, never failing to appear at the end of every ceremony and every lesson, even now.
She turned down the long east gallery, where the morning sun made the painted ancestors along the wall seem almost alive. Some had eyes as green as hers; some wore expressions of such sternness that Alina felt herself unconsciously standing straighter as she passed. At the end, double doors waited, their carved handles shaped like intertwined serpents in a design her father favored, though she had never dared ask him why.
Inside, the study was both intimidating and oddly comforting. Leather-bound volumes crowded the shelves; scrolls and ledgers were stacked with architectural precision. Lord Rowan Ashford, her primary tutor since the age of eight, was already seated at the massive oak desk, pen poised over a spread of parchment.
He did not look up immediately. That, too, was part of the ritual.
“Your Highness,” he said at last, without turning. “You are two minutes early. A promising start.”
Alina felt her shoulders relax a fraction. With Lord Rowan, precision was praise.
She slid into the high-backed chair across from him. The seat was always cold, but the discomfort helped her focus. On the desk before her, a map of the northern provinces was spread flat, with various settlements and trade routes marked by tiny colored pins.
Rowan capped his pen, folded his hands, and fixed her with his famous gray stare. His hair, short and peppered with silver, was as meticulously groomed as his speech.
“Let us begin,” he said. “What is the chief export of the Sable Coast?”
“Amber resin and fine salt,” Alina replied, without hesitation.
“And which House currently controls the trade guild there?”
“House Verity, but there’s a dispute with the local charter, pending council review.” She saw a flicker of approval in Rowan’s eyes, quickly suppressed.
He pressed her harder. Every question was a test, not just of knowledge, but of composure. Alina matched him answer for answer, as she always did. Yet today, for reasons she could not name, a new current ran beneath her performance—a kind of restlessness. Or anger, perhaps.
Rowan steepled his fingers, leaning forward. “And the outcome of the council’s arbitration, should it favor Verity?”
Alina paused, weighing the possibilities. “Increased tariffs on the northern route. Potential unrest among the river merchants. But the greater risk is a retaliation by House Merrin, which might threaten the grain shipments.”
“Very good,” Rowan said, his voice flat but not unkind. “And how would you counter that risk?”
She hesitated again, not because she did not know the answer, but because she suddenly felt tired of the whole performance. Of her own cleverness, even.
“I would send a neutral observer,” she said, “preferably from one of the southern houses. Let them mediate before the decision is announced.”
Rowan smiled, barely. “Exactly so. You see the valuein—”
A sharp knock at the door. Not the staff’s measured tap, but three quick raps: her father. Alina’s stomach plummeted.
The King entered without waiting for invitation, his presence filling the room as sunlight fills a cold chamber. He wore his preferred dark robes, the fabric thick and severe, and his beard trimmed with mathematical perfection. His eyes, a clear and piercing blue, swept the room once before fixing on Alina.
She sat up straighter, fingers tightening on her gloves.
“Continue, Lord Rowan,” said the King. He moved to the far wall and stood with his hands behind his back, just close enough that Alina could feel his gaze on her. Rowan dipped his head in deference, then cleared his throat.
“If the arbitration fails,” he said, “and the Northern Lords reject the council’s terms outright—what then, Your Highness?”
Alina’s mind flitted through dozens of possible outcomes, each more fraught than the last. “A northern embargo,” she said slowly. “Trade would collapse. There might be open revolt. The King would be forced to send an envoy, possibly with a military escort, to reestablish order.”
Rowan nodded, then looked at the King. “And who would you select as envoy, Your Majesty?”
The King’s answer was immediate. “The princess, of course.” He stepped forward, every syllable sharp and deliberate. “Who better to carry the authority of the Realm?”
Alina tried to read his face, but as always, it revealed nothing. It was as if she was standing on a frozen lake, ice threatening to break any moment.
