Chapter:14 Veil of the Crown

The memory played again.

Steel rang. Sparks danced. Blood hit stone.

She remembered the resistance in his eyes—wild, cornered, determined. Fen, his breath ragged, his body broken, had still tried to rise.

She had knocked his axe from his hand—struck him down—pushed him to the edge of death.

And then…

She stopped.

A drop of his blood had stained the cobblestone, red against gray. In that one second, the sword in her hand had felt unbearably heavy.

Why?

The clash was over now, but it lingered in her mind like thunder that refused to fade.

Princess Vallah stood by the window of her guest chamber in the manor. She had not yet changed out of her dark silk dress, still faintly dusted with green glimmer from her illusion magic. Her long hair, unbraided now, hung like a curtain of midnight.

She didn't notice the breeze that teased her sleeves. Nor the sun still holding high in the afternoon sky.

Only the clash and the blood.

Then—

"Vallah!"

The voice came warmly but firm, through the doorway, followed by the shuffle of quick, familiar steps.

She blinked, breaking from the haze as Helga, her old nanny and closest confidant, swept into the room holding a shawl and a wooden tray.

"Gods above, child," Helga said, half laughing, half scolding. "You haven't changed, haven't eaten, and you're daydreaming again like you're ten years old pretending to fly."

Vallah turned slowly, her voice still distant from the memory.

"…Helga."

Helga paused, reading the girl's expression as she always did. Her face softened.

"I called you twice. You didn't hear," she said gently, stepping closer. "You're quiet today. I'd thought the festival would light you up like a solstice fire."

Vallah offered a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"It was... bright," she murmured. "Loud. Alive."

Helga set the tray down and adjusted the shawl around Vallah's shoulders. "You're not usually one for riddles."

Vallah looked back out the window, a single sentence resting on her lips like the edge of a blade.

"He made me lower my sword."

Helga looked at her, puzzled. "Who?"

But Vallah didn't answer. Not yet.

Outside, the celebration carried on. But in this quiet room, memory and mystery lingered like the scent of smoke after fire.

Helga smoothed the shawl over Vallah's shoulders, tucking it with a practiced touch. "You should rest, child. Tomorrow is the day."

Vallah didn't turn away from the window. Her gaze was fixed beyond the glass, on the blurred lights of New Mug City flickering like distant stars.

"I know," she murmured. "The Auction."

Helga gave a soft grunt, folding her hands before her. "You say it like it's a funeral."

Vallah's lips curled into a faint smile, thin and tired. "In a way… it is. Just not mine."

She turned then, eyes sharp and shadowed beneath the golden strands of her dark braid. "The other governors have already arrived, haven't they?"

Helga nodded. "And with them, their heirs, their spies, and their coin. Your father expects you there. Beside him."

"I always am," Vallah said quietly, her voice edged in something unreadable.

Helga studied her a long moment. "You know what's at stake, don't you?"

"I know more than they think I do," Vallah replied.

The silence between them grew dense. Outside, the final sounds of the festival drifted up—a lonely flute, footsteps echoing on stone, laughter that had long since lost its joy.

Helga stepped closer, lowering her voice. "It doesn't have to be a game of masks, Vallah. Not with me."

That softened her. A little.

"I know," she said again. And this time, she looked at Helga—really looked at her.

The older woman's expression warmed, maternal and lined with quiet concern. "Then sleep. The Auction is tomorrow. But tonight, you're still just my girl."

Helga reached out, brushing a lock of hair from Vallah's cheek the way she had when she was small. "No more blades. No more shadows. Just sleep."

Vallah obeyed, laying back on the silken coverlet, still dressed, her mind a tangle of movement and memory.

But before Helga left, Vallah whispered, almost too softly to be heard:

"He had nothing. No power. And still, he faced me."

Helga paused at the door, but said nothing. Then she slipped into the hall, leaving Vallah alone in the velvet dark.

The moon hung heavy above the city, and sleep would not come easily.