The moon was high over Iridesa, silver and sharp like a blade suspended in the velvet sky. Lanterns flickered from every window in the palace, casting warm halos over stone balconies and ivy-covered walls. The court dinner was in full swing, music drifting through open halls, laughter curling around the edges of expectation like smoke.
Syairenne stood just beyond the threshold of the East Hall, her amethyst gown pooling at her feet like spilled ink. Her hair had been woven into a crown of midnight and stardust, and her skin shimmered faintly under the torchlight.
But inside, she was unraveling.
“I can’t breathe,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the lute and clinking goblets.
Yvanne stepped beside her, brows furrowing. “You haven’t even gone in yet.”
Syairenne didn’t respond. Her hand pressed to her stomach, not out of sickness — but nerves. Dread. That crushing weight of being watched, judged, paraded.
“I feel like a doll,” she finally said. “Like they’ve wound me up and expect me to perform.”
Yvanne gave her a sad smile, not unsympathetic. “You don’t have to be what they expect, Rynne.”
Syairenne looked at her, surprised by the nickname. Only her mother had called her that, and even then, only in the quiet moments.
“Lady Elira would flay you for speaking like that,” Syairenne muttered.
“Then it’s a good thing Elira isn’t the one I serve,” Yvanne said softly. “You are.”
For a heartbeat, Syairenne let herself believe it. That maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone in this palace as she thought.
She inhaled, let her mask fall into place, and stepped into the hall.
-----
The dinner was predictably unbearable.
The nobles bowed and grinned with too-white teeth. The High Lords and their offspring made idle conversation that sounded like battles disguised as compliments. Lady Elira watched her every movement with hawk-like precision.
But Syairenne played her part.
She bowed. She smiled. She said all the right things.
Until she didn’t.
It was halfway through the third course — something roasted and drowning in wine sauce — when Lord Thorne of Vermere stood to speak.
He was tall and sharp-jawed, his black hair neatly tied, his demeanor eerily controlled. There was no warmth to him, only the cold confidence of someone who had grown up believing the world owed him its silence.
“It is an honor,” he said, “to represent House Vermere in our continued alliance with the kingdom of Iridesa. Our lands have shared peace for over three generations, and we intend to uphold that peace by—”
Syairenne heard none of it.
Her mind had gone silent the moment he said the word "peace."
What peace?
What did these men know of what it meant to sit quiet while your freedom was trimmed down to fit their box?
Her fingers tightened around the goblet. She set it down too fast, spilling red across the white tablecloth.
“Your Highness?” someone asked.
“I need air,” she said, standing.
Elira opened her mouth to object, but Syairenne didn’t wait. She was already turning, already moving, already gone.
She ran.
Down the corridor, past the statues of ancestors who never lived her life, past the guards who turned their eyes, past the tapestry of Iridesa’s founding — she ran until the gold was behind her and the night wrapped around her like a cloak.
She ended up in the stables.
It was quiet there. Earthy. Real.
She leaned against a pillar, breath shaking. Her thoughts were a blur of anger and shame.
She had tried. She had done everything right.
And still, it felt like she didn’t belong. Not here. Not anywhere.
“Running away again, Your Highness?”
The voice made her jump.
She turned.
A boy — no, a man now... stood near the stalls, holding a satchel of oats. His voice was familiar. The shape of it, the rhythm.
It couldn’t be.
“...Caelen?” she breathed.
He smiled, slow and rueful. “Not a Lord anymore. Just Caelen, tonight.”
She blinked. “But you weren’t at the dinner. Your brother—”
“Spoke for Vermere,” he said, placing the oats down and stepping closer. “But I came for something else.”
She stared. Her chest ached.
It was him.
The boy from the festival. The masked stranger. The one who had held her hand like it meant something. Who had vanished.
She remembered the way he had looked at her — not as a princess. Just as a girl.
And now here he was.
Real.
“How long have you known?” she asked, voice hoarse.
“That it was you?” His lips twisted. “Since the night I left. And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
The silence between them was heavy.
“I searched for you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you—”
“Because I wasn’t ready,” he said. “Because I was afraid of what it would mean. Of what it would take from us both.”
Tears burned behind her eyes. “And now?”
He stepped closer. Close enough for her to smell the wind and woodsmoke on his skin.
“Now,” he said, “I’m afraid of never saying anything at all.”
Her heart broke a little more — in the best and worst way.
She wanted to hate him. But she couldn’t.
She wanted to fall into him. But she shouldn’t.
Because this — whatever this was — wasn’t safe. It wasn’t royal. It wasn’t allowed.
And yet, it was the only thing that had ever felt true.
“I’m building a kingdom,” she said suddenly.
He blinked. “What?”
She looked him in the eye, fierce and fragile.
“I’m building Velmoré. A place not ruled by old men and older laws. A place where people can be who they are. Where I can be who I am.”
Caelen stared, stunned.
“And you think they’ll let you?”
She shook her head. “I’m not asking anymore.”
The wind whispered between them.
“Then let me help,” he said.
She froze. “Why?”
“Because I believe in you,” he said, softly. “Even if the rest of the world doesn’t.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“Then meet me here tomorrow. Before dawn. If you mean it.”
He nodded, a quiet promise.
And then she walked away — not because she didn’t want to stay, but because she finally had somewhere she needed to go.
Somewhere to become who she was meant to be.
Somewhere called Velmoré.
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