A Sip of Fear and Power

Ian was not led to the princess.

Instead, once he arrived at the courtyard, he found himself facing a twisted, winding garden path—a maze of blooming hedges, creeping vines, and marble statues that seemed to watch him as he passed.

The moon was low, the world painted in its silver hues as if conspiring with the shadows.

The air damp with dew, carried by it was the fragrance of night blossoms and the faint whisper of rustling leaves.

Maybe this was intentional, Ian thought as he moved deeper into the garden.

The paths forked and wound back upon themselves. It took time—and more than a little irritation—but eventually, he found her.

The princess sat in serene stillness on a seat of stone, its back carved with emblems of things long forgotten. In front of her stood a table, just as intricately made, carved from the same pale stone.

She wore a flowing white dress, sleeveless and unadorned, yet somehow more regal than any jewel-encrusted gown. It wrapped around her figure like sunlight would cling to dawn.

Her legs were crossed elegantly, one foot gently swaying as she gazed into the horizon beyond the garden.

Ian paused, unsure if he should approach. Her silver hair shimmered under the moonlight, impossibly bright—yet even that paled in comparison to her eyes.

She turned to him, and her gaze found his.

Her eyes glowed, softly and unnaturally, a shade of blue too piercing, too alive.

Ian found himself freezing for a heartbeat, not in fear, but in something adjacent.

Reverence, maybe.

A predator recognizing another.

"Come. Sit down," she said. Her voice was calm and polite, yet it carried the strength of an order impossible to ignore.

Ian nodded and stepped forward, sitting in the seat opposite her.

"You look better," she said, her smile faint but genuine. "Without the constant blood and its stench that mars you each time we meet."

Ian gave a small chuckle.

His hair had dried into wild strands, falling in loose, scattered waves. His pale skin contrasted with the dark clothes he now wore.

The lifeless grey of his eyes made him look... distant. Detached.

A reflection of everything he'd endured.

"Thank you," he replied, voice low. "You look great as well."

"Ah, you are too kind," she said, her smile growing just slightly. It was not the smile of a noble speaking to a subordinate.

It was gentler. Human.

She gestured to the tea cup on the table.

"Please."

Ian picked up the stone-carved cup and brought it to his lips. The tea was rich and earthy, with a note of something floral—lavender or jasmine perhaps—and a faint, lingering spice that warmed his throat on the way down.

Unexpectedly pleasant.

He set the cup down gently, and she did the same.

"You know," she began, her gaze never leaving him, "there's a saying in Reiglah—never tell a slave how much he's worth."

Ian listened in silence.

"It was a rule," she continued, "a tactic to keep slaves obedient. Make them believe they're disposable. Replaceable. But it was often a lie. Slaves built cities. They maintained entire noble houses. They bled and died for the pleasure of the privileged."

She paused, tilting her head. "But when a slave knows his worth, he begins to believe in something more. He begins to dream of freedom. And a slave like that... well, they say he's a brewing rebel."

Ian's lips curled slightly. "Is that what you think I am?"

"No," she said softly. "That's what others would think. I don't believe in that notion. That's why I let Eli tell you the truth. And I'll say it again—you are of great importance. To me. To this house."

Ian furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"That is a great question," she replied, setting her cup down. "You see, I have no shortage of enemies. Council members, rival families, even so-called allies with hidden knives. Many of them would rejoice at my death. But none of them act."

"Because of Eli," Ian said.

"Yes," she nodded. "You're catching on fast."

Ian leaned forward slightly. "But Eli and I were gone for almost a month. Who protected you then?"

She smiled, slow and knowing.

"Ah. You misunderstand. Eli's protection does not lie in his presence… but in his existence."

Ian's gaze darkened. "They fear him."

"Precisely," she said, sipping once more. "He is the kind of consequence no one can afford."

She placed the cup down with a quiet clink.

"Let's imagine: my enemies succeed. I'm dead. They think they've won. But then Eli returns. Do you think he would stop to ask questions? Do you think he would investigate?" She chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it.

"No. He wouldn't need to. Anyone who has ever raised a hand against me—even with a whisper—would suffer. Council members, house lords, wandering mercenaries who stared too long. He would find them all. Burn their homes. Slaughter their kin. And when he's taken everything they love... he will grant them the gift of death."

Ian was silent.

The night wind stirred the leaves.

"Even now," she continued, "my enemies are more likely to kill the assassin before he reaches me—just to avoid being associated with the plot."

Ian exhaled slowly, trying to wrap his head around the reach of this fear. The way one man's shadow could strangle an entire city.

"Eli," Ian said finally. "How strong is he?"

The princess's gaze drifted to the sky, the moonlight catching her silver lashes.

She was silent for a moment before speaking again—her voice a whisper of reverence and awe.

"Strong enough that even death would hesitate to collect him. it has many times."