Chapter two: 1528

The cold wind of Samhain swept across the courtyard, sharp as a blade, threading through the hem of my tunic and pricking at my exposed skin. Frost had begun to gather along the edges of the training yard, lacing the stones like a warning. But I paid it no mind.

I would not stop. Not until my limbs gave out, not until I fell.

Each strike of my sword rang out with purpose. Every breath I took was ragged, drawn through grit teeth, sweat mingling with the morning chill. My body ached — my wrists, my shoulders, the old bruise on my thigh. But the pain grounded me. Reminded me I was alive. Reminded me that he wasn't.

Raphael stood opposite me, his stance relaxed but ready. He'd long since discarded his cloak, revealing the fitted leathers beneath — worn, familiar. Like the way he watched me: cautious, focused, something simmering behind his eyes he wouldn't speak aloud.

"You're pushing too hard," he said at last, stepping back from my swing with a parry. "You've been out here since the second bell. You haven't even eaten."

"I'm fine."

He frowned. "You're not. You didn't even sleep last night. I heard you pacing."

I ignored him, swept in again. Our blades clashed — metal on metal, a clean sound that echoed through the cold.

"You need rest," he said, firmer this time. "You think your brother would want you breaking yourself like this?"

I flinched. Not at the blow — at the words. He saw it.

I lowered my blade, breath steaming in the air between us. "I don't do this for him."

Raphael stepped closer, sword lowered. His voice gentled. "Then why?"

I looked away, toward the frost-glazed trees, the breath of winter rising beyond the walls. Samhain marked the descent of light, the quieting of the earth — but I could not afford to be still. Not now.

"Because if I don't fight," I said slowly, "I'll drown. I see their eyes, the courtiers. I hear the whispers. They think I was crowned by tragedy, not by strength. That I'm only a placeholder."

"You're not."

"I am until I prove otherwise."

He sighed and stepped beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to prove anything today. Come inside. Rivera's been waiting to begin your mana drills. You'll be too exhausted to conjure even a flame."

I glanced toward the high towers, where Rivera's window still flickered with arcane light. The palace mage had never once doubted my potential. But I had to earn more than faith. I had to earn fear. Respect. Command.

Still, my limbs trembled. My knees ached.

"Just a moment more," I said softly. "Then I'll go."

Raphael hesitated — then nodded. He stayed by my side in silence, watching the breath curl from my lips into the morning air, the sword lowered but still in hand.

And in that hush between wind and frost, I let the silence carry me. One more moment of stillness before the war that had not yet begun.

—----

The training had ended, though not without another lecture from Raphael. He trailed after me like a second shadow, scolding gently, always the same refrain: rest, rest, rest.

As if I didn't know my own body. As if I couldn't feel the stretch of my muscles, the fire in my lungs. I knew. And I could still go on.

Their concern was a rope. Every time someone pulled it tighter — for my sake, they said — I felt myself begin to choke.

So I left him behind and wandered the long, quiet halls of the palace alone.

The silence here had grown strange in recent weeks — not empty, but expectant, as though the stones themselves were holding their breath. I passed no servants, no guards. Only the light tapping of my boots echoed against the marble floor as I turned toward the west wing — the forgotten wing.

There, past the arch of ivy-choked gates, the palace began to crumble.

The West Garden had once been part of the Queen's quarters, long abandoned after her death. Vines overtook the walls now, climbing through shattered windows and curling around the ribs of broken statues. The path was fractured, half-swallowed by weeds. Nature had claimed what duty had discarded.

In the heart of it all stood a statue.

A woman, tall and still, arms extended as if in offering — though whatever she once held had long since been broken off. Taken, perhaps. Or stolen. Or simply forgotten.

If it had mattered, surely someone would have restored it.

But like the rest of this place, she had been left to decay.

I stepped closer, brushing my fingers along the stone hem of her gown, worn smooth by rain and time. Her face was serene. Almost too serene. I used to think it made her look kind. Now, I wasn't sure. Maybe it was just emptiness.

This garden had been our refuge once — mine and my brother's. Before crowns and courtrooms, before blood and titles. He'd come here when he was hiding from tutors or avoiding morning scrolls. I would sneak in after sword drills, eager to show him the tiny sparks I could summon from my palms.

We laughed here, once.

But when he was named Crown Prince, everything changed. We were separated by schedules, by ceremony, by expectation. He took to council chambers. I remained in the yard, blade in hand, magic flickering at my fingertips.

We saw each other less and less.

And now, not at all.

The wind stirred. Leaves scraped softly against the stone path behind me, as if whispering something I couldn't quite catch.

I stayed in the garden long after the wind had died, listening to the silence, letting the past rise around me like mist.

I could not remember the last thing I said to him. Only that it had not felt like goodbye.

Eventually, I turned away from the statue.

The air had cooled further, the Samhain wind curling through the cracks in the stone like a quiet breath. The hour was late — I could tell by the dimming of the sky beyond the garden wall, the faint toll of the fifth bell echoing through the hills.

I made my way back through the west corridor. The halls remained empty, as if the palace itself had dozed off. Lamps flickered in their sconces, casting long shadows across the floor. Even the guards had grown quieter after sunset, their presence a distant murmur at the far ends of the passageways.

When I reached my quarters, I paused at the threshold.

The doors opened without a sound.

Inside, the hearth had been lit — someone had been here, perhaps Eloise or one of the maids, preparing the room in my absence. A bowl of warm water waited by the vanity. My bed was turned down. Everything in its place, as always. As if the world had not shifted beneath us.

I shrugged off my cloak and let it fall across the bench near the door.

My limbs ached, not from exhaustion but from something deeper — a restlessness that training could not soothe. A pressure coiled tight beneath my skin.

I sat by the fire. The flame crackled low, gentle. Harmless. I watched it for a while, eyes unfocused, letting the silence creep back in.

No one told me to rest here.

No one told me to be careful, or still, or quiet.

But still, I could hear Raphael's voice in my memory. That gentle worry. That plea in his eyes.

"You'll break yourself if you keep this pace."

"You are not made of iron, Win."

But what did he know?

I had no luxury of rest. Not anymore. Not while the world shifted like sand beneath my feet. Not while my brother's absence still echoed through the halls like a bell that had not yet stopped ringing.

I leaned forward, resting my arms on my knees, fingers clasped.

I did not cry.

I hadn't since the announcement. Since the sealed letter. Since the absence had become final.

But the ache remained, rooted somewhere deeper than tears could reach.

"I'm not done," I murmured to the fire. "I won't stop."

Outside, the wind rose again — low and sharp, scraping past the shutters like a warning.

But inside, I remained still.

Silent.

Unyielding.

I awoke not to the bells, but to the voices.

Even before the shutters opened, I could hear them — raised tones from the outer halls, the scuffle of boots, the sharp echo of a command. By the time I stepped into the corridor, Eloise was already waiting, hands folded, face drawn tight with something unspoken.

"They're speaking in the streets," she said, instead of offering the usual pleasantries. "The markets opened late this morning. Some not at all."

I didn't respond. Just nodded. I walked.

In the council chamber, I was not summoned — yet I entered anyway. The King was not there. Rivera was. So was Lady Mae-Lin, her brows knitted as she read over a scroll with trembling fingers.

"They're starving for answers," she muttered as I passed her. "And for bread."

I made no reply.

Instead, I turned east — through the narrower halls that led toward the outer balconies, the ones that overlooked the lower city.

Below, I saw it: the crowd.

Not a mob. Not yet. But gathering. Like weather before a storm.

Baskets lay overturned near the gates. Grain sacks stood unopened. A shouting match had broken out between a merchant and a noble's steward — something about dried figs and tariffs. On the far side, a row of guards stood shoulder to shoulder, steel flashing against the morning sun.

The border had not closed. But it had been choked.

No wagons from the east. No salt from the lowlands. No rice from the river clans.

And the people were beginning to feel it.

I left the balcony and made my way down — disguised only by my hood, shadowed by two silent guards. The wind smelled of soot and old garlic. The market square was thinner than usual, but still loud. Still pulsing.

"Three silvers for bread?" a man cried. "It was one silver yesterday!"

"Go complain to the Crown," the incense seller snapped back. "Or to the Jhaljie who started this!"

A murmur answered him — half agreement, half caution.

I moved between the stalls. Felt the eyes.

A child with Jhaljie markings passed too close to a vendor and was struck across the shoulder. No reason. Just fear. Just fury.

The merchant's hand lingered in the air, shaking.

I turned — ready to speak — but the moment passed. The boy had run.

And no one said a word.

Beside a spice stall, an old woman held a bundle of incense sticks wrapped in palm-leaf.

"You know," she said softly, noticing me — not as Princess, but simply as another face. "It was Jhaljie who studied most of the herbal plants in mahilaya."

I met her eyes. They were cloudy with age but sharp with memory.

"They were not always traitors," she said. "They were healers. Scholars."

Her mouth twisted, uncertain.

"But people are hungry," she said after a pause. "And when people are hungry, they stop remembering."

A bell rang faintly in the distance — not a palace toll, but a merchant's, signaling the end of morning deals. Only a few buyers remained. The rest had gone home empty-handed or furious.

As I made my way back toward the palace, a group of laborers passed me, speaking loudly to one another.

"They should have struck already," one said. "What are we waiting for?"

"Orders," another muttered. "From the high table."

A pause.

"Or maybe the princess is just afraid."

That stung more than it should have.

I walked faster.

Back in my chambers, I stripped off the hood and gloves. My hands smelled of ash and incense. My pulse still beats with the rhythm of the streets — the unease, the hunger, the slow crawl toward something louder than words.

I knew this kingdom.

And I knew hunger was never just about food.

It was about pride. Power. Pain disguised as principle.

And now, the city whispered it too:

War was coming.

And many were already cheering it forward.

By the seventh bell, I stood in the War Chamber — a vaulted hall of stone and silence, lit by stained glass and flame. The nobles were already gathered, draped in brocade and gold-threaded velvets, their voices clipped, careful.

Only one seat remained empty.

Lord Akarr's.

He governed the southern mines, where the mountains folded into the dense Jhaljie woods — a region brittle with old treaties and older grievances.

The King's steward opened the council with a brief report: a minor uprising had flared near the border watchtower of Kinan. Lord Akarr had gone himself to suppress it.

"We have not heard a word since yesterday," the steward added, voice tight with implication.

At once, murmurs rippled through the lords.

"An uprising—how bold."

"Is it boldness, or are they being fed?"

"By whom?"

Silence, then the inevitable:

"The Jhaljie."

Lady Eirn spoke next — ever the merchant's daughter, ever the strategist.

"With respect, if the trade routes collapse entirely, my province will suffer. We depend on the river roads shared with Jhaljie merchants. Spices. Salted fish. Even winewood resin for healing. We must consider alternate agreements."

Her words were too smooth, too rehearsed.

I caught the flash in Lady Lin-mae's eyes — a wolfish turn. She'd been waiting for this.

"The Jhaljie don't trade. They infiltrate," she said. "They've buried themselves in our lower courts, stolen titles through marriage and false debt. Now they send uprisings? You think this is just about fish?"

"They've done no such thing," Lady Eirn snapped. "We've shared those roads for a century without blood."

"Until now," Lady Lin-mae growled. "Akarr's silence is proof enough."

The chamber swelled with heat, and not from the braziers.

Rivera, the palace mage, stood then — her robes brushing marble like water over stone.

"No proof yet binds this unrest to the Jhaljie court," she said, "nor do we know who started the fire in Kinan. I urge the Council to wait for Lord Akarr's report before drawing blades."

"But the people," said General Giovanni, voice low, "already believe the Jhaljie are to blame. And belief, Princess—" his eyes landed on me, hard, "—moves faster than orders."

All heads turned to me then.

As if my silence had bought me time. It hadn't.

I stood.

Slowly. Deliberately.

"Seal the southern crossings," I said. "But do not draw steel unless struck first."

A pause.

"I will not fan war on a rumor. Not without Lord Akarr's voice in this chamber."

Discontent murmured around the table. But no one spoke to challenge me directly.

Not yet.

I stepped down from the dais and glanced to Rivera.

"If Kinan has fallen, I want to know within the day."

She nodded once, fingers already tightening on her satchel.

Behind her, the map of Mahilaya lay stretched across the table — red pins marking river ports, black ones at forts, and one white pin where Vaskel should be.

Still unclaimed.

Still uncertain.

But not for long.