"Begin!" Orien's voice cut through the courtyard.
I faced my opponent—a young knight with steady breath and brown eyes that didn't blink. Her stance was sharp. Grounded. She was ready.
I flicked my Birthright. Just a shimmer. A feint.
Then I moved.
Mana surged into my limbs as I stepped in and brought my wooden blade down toward her head. Fast. Committed.
But she met me.
Her blade snapped up to parry, and she shifted sideways, letting my own momentum pull me forward. I pivoted, elbow lashing out. She ducked, spun, and swept for the back of my leg.
I twisted, barely dodging, and turned back to face her. She was already mid-swing, but I caught it, our blades locking together. Mana crackled down my arm as I surged power into mine, trying to break the tie and reset.
The blade exploded.
I was flung backward, crashing hard before rolling into a crouch. My arms screamed. My ribs ached. Still, I rose, ready to defend.
But Kaela was down too—stunned from the blast.
I rushed in and pressed the sparring sword's tip to her throat.
"I've won," I said simply.
Underneath, I was grinning like an idiot. Two weeks of losing, and I finally had something to show for it.
"This is bullshit!" Kaela snapped. "You blew up the damn blade! That's cheating."
"Tell that to a demon on the battlefield," Orien said brightly. "I'm sure they'll reconsider eating you."
Kaela Virellin. Third daughter of a minor Viscount from some maritime town in the west. Until recently, she was just the nameless guard standing next to Bram.
"Good work, my prince," Orien said, clapping my shoulder. "The first of many, I hope. Now come. You've got a social event today."
God help me.
I'd tried getting Ella to walk me through the customs, but her knowledge barely covered the basics. That left me at Cerys' mercy. Which meant a crash course on thirty-nine noble houses, two hours of symbolic etiquette, and a headache that still hadn't gone away.
I wasn't confident. But with my reputation in the gutter, no one expected much anyway. It was still frustrating though.
We dumped our gear on Kaela—her grumbling was very satisfying—and made our way back to my wing.
As we walked, I stretched and breathed deep. My body felt stronger. Mana accelerated training to an absurd degree. A week ago, running across the palace left me gasping. Now I could probably sprint the whole length. The only downside?
"My arms are still too small," I muttered.
Orien laughed. "I'm sorry, my prince. You'll have to learn to live with it."
"What? Why?"
I stopped in my tracks. A maid walking past stumbled into me and dropped her laundry. Her face went pale.
"I'm sorry—Your Highness, forgive me—"
"Enough, it was my fault." I waved her pleas off.
Orien knelt to help her.
"You really should be more considerate," he said gently. "Didn't you want to fix your reputation?"
I simply let the statement hang, standing there awkwardly.
My instinct was that the polite thing to do would be to help, but I had tried that before and it ended up with the butler I had tried to help getting two weeks of leave for the emotional distress.
Once the maid vanished, he resumed walking. "As I was saying, your mana. Royals have too much of it. It helps you recover too fast. Your muscles never tear long enough to rebuild. Which means…"
He didn't need to finish.
"No," I said, quietly horrified. If I must suffer through this training, why can't I at least get jacked.
Orien sighed, almost wistful. "You've no idea how many people tell me I'd be perfect if I was just a little slimmer. But strength wins over compliments."
That lit a fire in me.
These beauty standards could fuck right off. Muscles weren't for seduction. They were for winning at deadlifts and bragging to your gym friends.
We fell quiet after that.
When I returned to my chambers, Ella waited with the tailor and two groomers. They descended like hawks.
A spell cleaned me. Scissors snapped. Threads tightened. Nails were filed. Even my face got some subtle enchantment smoothing—apparently necessary for "polished radiance."
I sat through it all while Ella held my book, turning the pages when I asked. A bit demeaning. But necessary. I wasn't wasting four hours.
The book was the first of many in my new reading list: On Demons and Their Peculiarities. Cerys had forced it on me after I failed to understand The Church's Musings on Sainthood and commanded her assistance.
So now it was demons.
I hadn't planned to study them because I hadn't planned to meet another one. But fate has a charming way of rewriting the syllabus without asking.
According to Velmyran doctrine, demons were the twisted offspring of Selathei, Goddess of Death and Liberation. She hadn't created them out of ambition or madness—at least, not at first. The story went that she rebelled against Elmathir, the God of Creation, after he imposed mortality on all immortal spirits.
Selathei refused to accept that.
She stole several spirits from their death and reshaped them into something outside of the cycle.
Thus, the origin story. Or the official one, anyway.
The north was their domain. And past it, supposedly, lay the land of the gods.
Velmyran theology framed Elmathir's system as a gift, death and rebirth as a divine path to eventual godhood. So naturally, Selathei's defiance became a cosmic crime. And the king, divine incarnate of Tharanos, was born to correct it. To purge her mistakes.
Very convenient, that.
The gods here were real, loudly so. They moved through the world, left miracles and oracles, answered prayers. But the stories still smelled like state propaganda. You don't need to invent gods to justify a war. You just need to insist they're on your side.
The section I was reading now, at least, was more grounded. A bestiary of sorts. Diagrams, classifications, behavioral notes. Something I could actually use, assuming my plans go awry and I face the things.
One line in particular made me stop:
"All studied demonkind react violently to the spice known as cinnamon. Skin irritation, swelling, and erratic behavior are common symptoms. When traveling through northern regions, dishes laced with cinnamon are a reliable means of detection."
I blinked.
So Neema hadn't just thought I was cute. She'd tasted her safety.
The realization left a strange ache in my chest.
I'd been too busy to visit her. Maybe it was better this way, seeing her was a stupid risk. But that magic of hers...
After an eternity of grooming and poor study, they finally brought me to the mirror.
My hair had been trimmed just enough to sharpen the lines, combed smooth and parted neatly to the side. My skin gleamed, too perfect thanks to whatever subtle enchantments they had slipped past me.
The outfit was high formal. A deep violet coat embroidered with thin gold thread at the cuffs and collar, fitted close through the torso and flared slightly at the hips. A dark sash wrapped my waist, pinned with the royal crest. Boots polished to a mirror shine.
"Who chose this outfit?" Violet wasn't a color meant for me.
"Princess Mirelle, Your Highness," Ella replied gently. "The color has been traditional since Princess Thalia's debut. And… since the passing of Her Royal Highness."
Queen Nyssara Serathorne. Publicly, my mother. Privately, my stepmother. Possibly the worst-kept secret in the kingdom. A mistake wrapped in ceremonial silk.
Royal bloodlines can't supposed to mix with common ones. Too much mana meant a child couldn't survive in the womb. The loophole led to lustful kings who took their pleasures, and one mistake in a generation was all it took. A fallen noble unknowingly ended up a prostitute. They couldn't just discard me, so they killed my real mother and said I was Nyssara's.
It was a taboo tale that I had to pry from Orien through drink.
"I will have to give her my compliments."
I waved the rest of the staff out, keeping Ella. She stayed close, hands folded, posture slightly less stiff than usual.
"Have you been contacted?" I asked.
"No. Perhaps because I am either with you or under guard."
"And you've maintained contact with your family?"
"Yes. Once a week." She brightened a little. "Anelle has her first crush and it's making Taren jealous. I miss them—ah, I'm sorry." She dipped into a quick bow, flustered.
I waved away her apologies. I was glad for it, if anything. She was still wary, but she had been slowly opening up more. One day we may even be friends.
I coughed away the thought, feeling a little embarrassed.
"It seems unlikely that they would target the party, then. There's too many variables." A lot of powerful people would be present, and no one would be allowed to officially bring guards. I didn't even think it was likely that they would try to use Ella again.
The fact they didn't contact her since her first attempt means that they likely lost all trust in her. It makes sense, I may have been sick for two days, but there was no way I should've survived the poison in the first place. The next thing to watch out for was a direct threat to her family to encourage her to act, but that's why I sent Bram to keep an eye on them.
"You know what to do."
"Yes, Highness. I will remain out of sight." She pulled out the cloak and held it up with quiet confidence.
We'd already tested it. It hid both presence and form. True invisibility.
She would use it tonight, because with the absence of guards outside my room and the party drawing all attention, this was the clearest window for someone to make another attempt.
I stepped into the corridor. Orien waited just outside, leaning casually against the wall.
"Aha, so that's what 4 times the preparation gets you."
He wore his old Royal Guard uniform, minus the emblem.
"Is that appropriate? You are no longer of the royal guard."
"But I am guarding a royal!"
Deciding it wasn't my problem, I walked towards the ballroom. Orien neatly fell in behind me.
The palace had gone to excess. Silk runners. Imported flowers. Gilded frames I hadn't noticed before. Along the hallway, portraits of previous kings and queens observed us with dead-eyed indifference.
Mirelle stood beneath one of them.
Her dress was a masterclass in court fashion, from what I understood. Royal blue silk skimmed the waist and flared at the hips, with sheer sleeves embroidered in fine gold thread that caught the light like spellwork. A faint dash of violet lined the inner hem and collar, subtle but deliberate. The look was sharp and unmistakably expensive.
"Welcome, dear brother," she said brightly, her voice pitched higher than usual. "Since your little princess is half a kingdom away, I've taken it upon myself to escort you. As your closest sibling, of course."
She extended her arm with dramatic flourish. I considered walking past her.
"Seems like I'm no longer needed. I'll see you inside." He bowed with a grin and disappeared into a side hall.
I exhaled once and took Mirelle's arm.
"Thank you for your thoughtfulness, dear sister."
"Of course. I knew you would forget. The new you is so busy, after all. Your lucky you have a caring sister such as I to help you."
Annoying. But not incorrect. Even Ella's cloak had come from her. I still hadn't uncovered her motive.
"Lucky," I repeated, glad the translator still allowed sarcasm through. "How goes the research with the tiger cub?"
Her face soured.
"Not well," she admitted. "According to every record, it should have bonded with me already."
"Perhaps if you tried sincerity."
"Sincerity hasn't won half as many hearts as this face," she said, touching her cheek.
"Yet the cub's heart is not among them."
She puffed her cheeks. "You were better when you were an insufferable little tyrant who knew his place."
"You were better before I realized you were an overgrown child."
Ella had been invaluable in teaching me how Darian used to behave. He was commanding and arrogant with those beneath him, sharp-tongued and quick to dismiss anyone who showed weakness. A tyrant in daily life, feared by servants. But around his siblings, he became someone else entirely. He grew quiet. Careful. Always kept his head down. When he did push back, it was loud and brittle, the kind of defiance that broke on impact. They put him in his place quickly, and he learned to hold his tongue.
I planned to use it as a reference for how I acted with others, but it was much too late for Mirelle.
We approached the grand ballroom. Just beyond the doors, dozens of nobles waited. Their names were burned into my memory, their allegiances etched into a chart somewhere in my mind.
I paused at the threshold.
"Are you ready?" she asked. "You're the star of tonight's performance."
"Of course not. I don't understand the enjoyment you get from these things."
"It's refreshing. I get to study people. Their behaviors. Their missteps. And when I encounter something difficult, I treat them as experiments."
I offered a quiet nod of pity to her future victims.
We waited.
Then—
"Tonight, allow me to formally introduce my fourth child, Darian Serathorne."
The great doors opened, attendants stepping aside in perfect unison. Mirelle shifted her posture slightly.
We stepped into the noise.