You will have to sleep together

There was no song sweeter than the scrape of a ship's hull against the dock. The second the Wind Chaser shuddered and stilled, every molecule of misery evaporated from my body.

I could have wept for joy, but of course, I didn't. I was a Blackwell and a princess, not some delicate flower.

Still, as I lay on my narrow cot, staring up at the wooden ceiling, a giddy energy spread through me, dizzy and bright—like being brought back to life after days in the grave.

No more rocking, no more nausea, no more indignity. The world was still again, and so was I.

I practically sprang from bed, nearly tripping on the blankets in my hurry to wash the last traces of sea-sickness from my skin.

The relief was so overwhelming it was almost embarrassing. I bathed in the tiny adjoining closet, washing away the salt and sweat, then took extra care as I dressed.

No more wilted nightclothes or travel-worn uniforms.

I chose a gown in deep violet—rich, elegant, and intimidating. The fabric clung to me like armor, the bodice laced tight and the sleeves embroidered with silver thread.

I pinned up my hair, powdered my cheeks, and donned a simple diadem. In the mirror, I looked restored, almost regal—like myself again.

I smiled, sharp and cold, and rolled my shoulders. The princess had returned.

When I finally opened the cabin door, sunlight sliced through the corridor and blinded me for a second.

As my vision adjusted, I nearly tripped on a long, booted leg sprawled across my threshold.

I blinked, and there she was: Lyra, sprawled half-upright against the wall, chin tucked to her chest, mouth slightly open, arms crossed over her chest, sword propped beside her.

She looked almost peaceful—except for the way she snored, low and faint, like someone refusing to surrender even in sleep.

I paused, taking in the scene. Had she been here all night? On the bare wooden floor, like some loyal hound? The idea was almost touching, except that it was Lyra and she looked utterly ridiculous.

I poked her with my toe, none too gently. "Get up, you brute. We've arrived. Unless you want to be left here to rot in the sun."

Lyra startled, snorting herself awake. For half a heartbeat, she looked so confused and bleary-eyed that I nearly laughed. She blinked up at me, face creased from sleep and hair falling into her eyes.

"Morning, Princess," she rasped, dragging herself upright and rubbing the back of her neck. "You look… different."

"I feel different," I said, unable to hide the small, victorious smile tugging at my lips. "The ship's stopped moving, so I'm no longer halfway to the grave."

She stood, stretching so her shirt lifted, revealing a sliver of muscle above her trousers. "I thought you'd died in there. Was about to break down the door and start planning your funeral."

I rolled my eyes. "Next time, please try harder to look dignified when you pass out on my floor. The staff will think I keep wild animals as pets."

Lyra grinned, unashamed. "Only the dangerous kind. Didn't want to risk anyone getting to you while you were out."

I sniffed, gathering the skirt of my gown. "I assure you, I'm more dangerous than anything this place could throw at me."

She made a show of dusting herself off, boots clomping as she followed me out. "I'll keep that in mind, Your Highness."

For the first time in days, I felt sharp, unbreakable. I stalked down the corridor, Lyra trailing behind, and we made our way onto the deck.

The air outside was warm and scented with flowers and the sharp tang of seaweed. Sunlight glared off the water, sending shards of gold and blue skittering across the waves.

Dockworkers bustled about, shouting, unloading cargo, and staring openly at the ship's newest arrivals. I took a breath—deep, clean, glorious—and didn't care if I looked smug. I felt alive again.

At the bottom of the gangplank, a small welcoming committee waited: two palace officials, stiff in formal uniforms, and a pair of guards in bright livery. They bowed deeply as I approached.

"Welcome, Princess Isolde," the elder of the officials intoned, voice practiced and bland.

"We are honored to receive you on behalf of the southern realm. Her Majesties await you at the castle."

Her Majesties. Plural. Of course. The queens of the southern islands were legendary: married to each other, ruling as equals, and famed for running the most unpredictable and prosperous corner of the kingdom.

I reminded myself to be cautious, but not too cautious; the South played by its own rules.

Lyra flanked me, alert and watchful, as we were led to a waiting carriage. It was less ornate than I expected—painted wood, sturdy wheels, soft blue cushions—but comfortable enough.

Lyra loaded our luggage without a word, climbing in beside me at the last moment. The doors closed, and we rattled away from the dock.

I kept my back straight, hands folded in my lap. Lyra, beside me, kept one hand on the hilt of her sword and the other drumming a silent rhythm on her knee.

Outside, the city passed in a blur of whitewashed walls, palm trees, and bright markets. Every face we passed seemed curious, watching from windows and doorways.

Eventually, the city faded into the sun-baked roads winding up toward the castle—a sprawl of pale stone perched high above the sea.

It looked nothing like home: open courtyards, gardens spilling over walls, banners snapping in the wind, laughter echoing from some distant celebration.

We pulled up before the gates, where two more guards bowed and opened the doors. Inside, the air was cooler, perfumed with hibiscus and something sharper—lemon, maybe. The walls were covered in intricate tilework, swirling with colors. I didn't let my awe show.

We were led straight into a bright, airy receiving room, where two women waited—both tall, both beautiful in very different ways.

One wore a gown of green and gold, her dark hair braided with pearls and shells; the other stood in crisp blue, her skin sun-browned, eyes sharp, hair cropped short.

They rose in unison, moving together with the ease of long practice. The first queen smiled, genuine and warm. The second assessed us with a warrior's gaze.

"Princess Isolde," the first queen said, bowing slightly. "I am Queen Thalia, and this is my wife, Queen Marena. Welcome to our home."

I curtsied deeply, then nodded to Lyra. "Thank you for the welcome, Your Majesties. This is Lyra Skyblade, my bodyguard."

Lyra bowed, more casual but respectful. Marena gave her a nod of approval—soldier to soldier.

"We're grateful you answered our request," Thalia said. "I wish your visit could be all pleasure, but I'm afraid our troubles have made that impossible."

I composed my face into a mask of attentive sympathy. "We're here to help however we can. Please, tell us what's happened."

The queens exchanged a look, then Marena took over, her tone crisp.

"It's pirates, mostly. Organized, fast. They've struck four times in the last month.They've taken hostages, burned farms. My soldiers do what they can, but these aren't ordinary thieves. They're magic-users, some of them. We suspect a rival claimant to the southern throne might be funding them."

Thalia laid a gentle hand on Marena's arm. "We requested you, Lyra, for your reputation. But of course, as Isolde's bodyguard, we understand your first duty is to her."

Lyra straightened, face serious. "If the princess is safe, I can assist wherever I'm needed."

Marena nodded, satisfied. "Good. We'll brief you on the specifics tomorrow. For tonight, you must rest. I'm afraid our castle is… less prepared than I'd like. Too many refugees, too little space."

Thalia smiled apologetically. "We hope you'll forgive us for one small inconvenience."

She glanced at her wife, who continued with a faint, teasing smile, "We're short on rooms. Lyra will have to sleep in the same chamber as you, Isolde. There simply isn't another space available."

I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. Lyra smirked, clearly delighted.

"I trust you'll manage?" Thalia added, eyes twinkling.

I drew myself up, voice frosty. "Of course. We are nothing if not adaptable."

But my heart was hammering, and the prospect of sharing a room with Lyra—after all the chaos of the journey, after everything—made my skin prickle.

Just perfect.