Her heels tapped against the wooden floor with each step—sharp, deliberate beats that echoed through the inn. But there was no sway to her hips, no flirtation in her stride. It wasn't grace or seduction that guided her steps—it was control. Every movement was measured, careful, like someone more focused on not stumbling than on turning heads.
Still, heads turned.
Her dress was a study in contrasts: rich black and deep violet, cut to flatter yet not flaunt. A high slit ran along one leg, revealing just enough to stir curiosity, while the neckline dipped to offer a glimpse of her cleavage—tantalizing, but not vulgar. It was elegant. Confident. Designed to catch the eye, not trap it. A dress that said she could be dangerous, if she wanted to be.
And yet, it didn't sit easily on her. Not because it didn't fit—but because she wasn't used to being seen like this.
Quincy was the first to break the silence. "Princess Zara?" Her voice carried surprise, eyes scanning the woman in front of her—dressed more like a noble from a coastal gala than a royal visiting a city tavern. The Raging Eagle was respectable, sure, but not the kind of place one expected actual royalty to walk into for a drink.
"What are you doing here?"
Zara exhaled through her nose, the sigh soft but telling. "Can I not come have a drink at the same inn where every fighter and the holder of the coliseum is gathered?" Her tone was light, but fatigue clung to the edges of it.
"Of course you can," Quincy replied smoothly, looping her arm through Zara's like they were old friends. "It's just… surprising to see you here, is all. Come, let me find you a seat."
Zara allowed herself to be guided, but her eyes swept the room—and felt the weight of every glance that followed her. Not all of them were lecherous, though some certainly were. Most weren't even hostile. But they were still watching, and she could feel the judgment in their silence.
Why is she here? Why is she dressed like that? What does she want?
It clung to her like smoke.
Her stomach twisted with anxiety. She hated the way they looked at her—like she was a stranger in her own skin. Like she'd become someone else.
She swallowed hard against the rising bile in her throat.
Quincy, ever perceptive, steered her toward a table already occupied, clearly chosen with care. It was away from the worst of the stares, near familiar faces.
"Hi Zara! How are you?" chirped Clara with a bright smile, her eyes sparkling with genuine excitement.
"It's good to see you again, Princess Zara," Elsa added, offering a small, graceful bow.
Zara blinked in surprise. She hadn't even noticed the two of them sitting there, too distracted by the eyes burning into her back.
"Clara? Elsa?" she breathed, looking between them with wide eyes. The presence of familiar faces was like a sudden breath of air after being underwater.
She didn't notice Nori slipping away from the table. Her focus was fixed now, locked onto the only two people in the room who weren't silently dissecting her with their eyes.
"Since when did you two come here?"
"We were here three days before the tournament began," Elsa replied calmly.
Clara puffed out her chest, beaming. "And I bought us the tickets! All by myself!" she added proudly, placing a hand over her heart like she'd just made a noble proclamation.
Zara nearly laughed—nearly. She caught it just in time, but the corners of her mouth curled upward despite her efforts. "That's nice, Clara," she said with a small nod, her voice light. Even if she hid the laugh, the warmth in her expression betrayed her amusement. There was something about Clara's earnestness—so untouched, so painfully sincere—that made it impossible not to smile.
"So, why are you here?" Clara asked, tilting her head with wide-eyed curiosity. "You never struck me as the type to come to a hostelry." Before Zara could answer, she added, a little more hesitantly, "Also... wow. I never expected you to wear something like that. Don't you hate dresses? You always said they were too impractical."
Zara's breath caught. Her stomach tensed. *Not you too...*
But when she looked at Clara, really looked at her, there was no judgment in the girl's eyes. No suspicion, no bitterness. Just innocent surprise. Honest, harmless surprise.
"I... just felt like wearing it," Zara said, her voice soft, her words shaped around a lie. "Trying something new, for once." Clara nodded along, buying it without hesitation.
Elsa, however, wasn't so easily fooled. Her eyes narrowed—just a fraction—but it was enough. She'd seen through the lie already.
"And I'll tell you what I told Quincy," Zara continued, slipping into her next prepared excuse without missing a beat. "Everyone else is here, so I thought... why not see what this place is like for myself?"
Another lie.
And again, Elsa said nothing, only watched her. Quiet. Sharp.
Zara kept her expression neutral as she added, "Also, I came here to introduce myself to someone. But that comes later. For now... why don't you tell me what you've been up to? It's been a while since we last spoke."
A truth tangled with a falsehood. A distraction, and a good one—Clara immediately lit up.
"Oh! So much happened!" she chirped, launching into a flurry of stories, her hands waving animatedly as she spoke.
Zara listened, or at least appeared to. She nodded, hummed occasionally, even smiled—but her focus was elsewhere.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him—Calvinel. The man she had come for. The reason she wore this dress. The reason she had swallowed her discomfort and walked into this room full of eyes.
He had looked at her when she entered. Looked again when she sat down.
But no more. Not since.
Not yet, Zara thought, gaze flicking toward him with quiet resolve. He will. Soon.
She would make sure of it.
She would secure him—for Veridiania. And maybe… just maybe…if she succeeded, her brother would finally see her as something more than a pawn. More than a name to trade. More than a bargaining chip.