Chapter 3: The Rules I Never Asked For

"You are late, again."

The voice sliced through the garden like a blade made of etiquette and disapproval. Syairenne didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. She simply rolled her eyes and reached for another grape from the silver platter beside her.

"Ughh I was exactly on time," she said, popping the fruit into her mouth. "According to my own schedule."

Lady Elira exhaled through her nose—barely audible, but enough to signal that she had filed this rebellion under "Repeat Offender."

"You were expected in the East Hall an hour ago. The council wished to rehearse the ceremonial bow."

Syairenne leaned back on the velvet daybed in the garden alcove, letting the sun touch her skin.

"I already know how to bow. I’ve been doing it since I was five."

"And yet you still manage to do it with a trace of sarcasm, every time."

Syairenne smirked. "Talent."

Lady Elira--Syairenne’s ever-watchful handler, assigned by the court to smooth her rough edges—remained silent for a moment, as if calculating whether this argument was worth her breath. Finally, she stepped closer, hands folded so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"You are to attend tonight’s court dinner. No slipping out. No excuses. The High Lords of Vermere will be present."

That name caught Syairenne’s attention, just barely. Vermere. That was his land. Not that she cared. Not really. Not anymore.

"Is Lord Caelen attending?" she asked casually, plucking a rose petal and pretending it wasn’t a loaded question.

Elira’s pause was brief but noticeable.

"The Lord Heir of Vermere will not be attending. His younger brother, Lord Thorne, will represent the house."

Syairenne said nothing. She felt something twist quietly in her chest, then fade into nothing.

"Noted," she said.

She stayed in the garden long after Elira left.

The palace walls glowed gold in the late sun, and the sounds of servants preparing for the evening echoed faintly in the background. Somewhere, a lute was being tuned. Somewhere, goblets were being polished. Somewhere, her name was being spoken with hope and disappointment in equal measure.

She stood and paced slowly through the maze of white roses, her fingers brushing the petals like they could tell her what to do.

What *was* she doing here? Pretending. Dressing up. Eating with people who smiled like they knew everything about her, when they knew nothing at all. They didn’t know about the dreams. The aching. The fire.

And they definitely didn’t know about the boy with the storm-colored eyes.

...****************...

The memory came back without warning.

The festival. The candles. The masks.

He had taken her hand without knowing who she was. And for one night, she hadn’t been the Princess of Iridesa. She had been *someone*. Free. Breathable. Seen.

He had smiled at her like she was the only real thing in the room.

She never got his name.

She only knew he vanished before sunrise, like a dream she’d convinced herself was real.

Except he *was* real. And for weeks, she had searched with her eyes, scanning the halls, the guests, even the guards, wondering if he was watching her the same way.

But nothing. No sign. No clue. No face to match the memory.

And now, his house would send someone else.

Good, she told herself. Safer that way.

But safe didn’t feel like what she wanted anymore.

...****************...

"Your Highness?"

The voice belonged to Yvanne, her handmaiden and the only person in the palace who dared to speak to her like a person.

"Yes, Van?"

Yvanne held out a gown of deep amethyst, trimmed in black velvet and silver threading.

"Lady Elira has chosen this for tonight. I can… pick another, if you prefer."

Syairenne took it in her hands. It was beautiful. Regal. Cold.

"No," she said softly. "It’s fine. Just... give me a minute."