With my chin held high, I strode down the grand corridor, my cape snapping behind me as I lengthened my stride toward the war room.
Knights flanked me on either side, their armored boots striking marble in brutal rhythm. Steel scraped softly with each movement—reassuring, familiar. Power had a sound, and it echoed wherever I walked.
We passed the training yard.
The stench of sweat and iron hit me like a wall. I grimaced, lifting the edge of my cloak to cover my nose without breaking stride.
General Griselda noticed immediately. She leaned closer, her voice smooth, amused.
“For a warrior princess,” she purred, eyes sliding over me, “you certainly despise the scent of hard work.”
“I respect hard work,” I replied evenly, meeting her gaze without flinching. “What I despise is filth.”
She straightened, lips curving wider, entertained rather than offended.
Then she dipped her head and fell back into step.
“Lady Zaeran.”
The voice came from my right—gruff, deferential. I did not look at him.
“Her Imperial Highness is present at her post,” the knight continued. “She requests your presence for urgent matters.”
His gaze remained fixed on the floor. A fraction too rigid.
Everyone feared me.
It was not surprising. Occasionally, it was inconvenient. They feared my title more than my temper—as though one misplaced glance might cost them their heads.
Principissa Sanguinis Sibi.
I had earned it.
Every drop of sweat. Every ambush endured. Every battlefield soaked red. Every command taken when others faltered.
I stopped before the war room doors. Sunlight spilled through the narrow gap between the curtains, casting a dull gold across the stone.
I knocked—twice. Sharp. Decisive.
“Who is it?” came the voice from within. Cold. Absolute.
“Zaeran Drevnov,” I answered. “May I enter?”
Fabric rustled. Chairs scraped. Murmurs died.
“Enter.”
A guard opened the doors. I stepped through without acknowledging him.
The room stilled.
Generals and councilors looked up—some wary, some judgmental, some already calculating consequences. General Isaac sat rigid at the table. Counselor Derek beside him, his father looming like a stormcloud. Griselda took her seat to my left without ceremony.
After all, I was a woman.
A princess.
I was not meant to be a general—let alone the Head Council Chief.
But someone had to humble them.
At the center of the chamber sat the Empress.
Odessa Drevnov.
Platinum-blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, falling to her waist. Her features were almost gentle—angelic, even—but her eyes were crimson, sharp as freshly spilled blood. Pale skin. Perfect posture.
Power incarnate.
“Are you going to keep staring, child?” she said lightly, tilting her head. “I am quite flattered.”
She wore black robes with off-shoulder sleeves that draped like shadows, white gloves pristine, heels sharp enough to kill a man.
Which, notably, they had.
I tore my gaze away and rested my hand on the hilt of my sword.
“You summoned me.”
She gestured lazily toward the scrolls scattered across the table.
“As I did. Sit.”
With a flick of my fingers, the knights behind me formed a semicircle. I took my seat opposite her. Throats cleared. Eyes shifted.
“General Isaac,” Mother said coolly, “are you finished staring at my daughter?”
Griselda let out a sound suspiciously like a snort and disguised it as a cough. I allowed myself a faint, humorless smile.
Isaac looked everywhere but at me, fingers tapping against his knee.
“My apologies, Your Highness. No offense intended.”
Counselor Derek elbowed him sharply.
“Perhaps conversation would be less unsettling,” I said calmly, “and Counselor Derek—refrain from violence in my court.”
The ability to command—to be obeyed—was intoxicating.
Mother clapped her hands once.
“I have exiled Ruslan Drevnov.”
Silence.
The air thickened, heavy enough to choke.
“What?” The word escaped me before I could stop it, my grip tightening on the armrest.
Mother regarded me coolly. “What do you mean, what?”
Isaac half-rose, instinctively, but Griselda’s hand stilled him.
My pulse thundered. It made no sense. My father had always protected her—stood behind her without question.
Why would she exile him?
Without warning. Without counsel.
Oh gods—Atarae-!
“What of her?” I surged to my feet. Griselda seized my arm.
“Release me—!”
“Zaeran,” she hissed, “compose yourself.”
Mother’s next words struck harder than any blade.
“I have decided to send Atarae to the Mortalis realm for her upbringing.” She let the words settle. “You will remain here. Beside me.”
“You have exiled the Emperor,” Isaac said sharply. “Not merely your husband. This threatens the kingdom’s balance.”
“Why Princess Atarae?” Derek roared, scarred face twisted. “His Majesty named her heir—! You need a man for stability! You’ve removed the only—”
“Zaeran is my heir,” Mother cut in smoothly. “She is worthy.”
Derek slammed his fist onto the table. Goblets rattled.
“A woman cannot bear the burden of war alone—!”
Isaac gripped his father’s shoulder. The room coiled tight with tension.
Mother did not blink.
“I am the Empress,” she said softly. “This outburst borders treason.”
Rule Thirty-Four.
Punishable by death.
Derek bowed his head. Isaac’s jaw clenched.
Griselda’s hand tightened on my wrist.
Mother leaned toward me, voice low.
“Your father had an affair,” she said. “With the mistress of the Scarlet Court.”
Her smile vanished.
“Seraphyne Valthorne bore him a son. Fourth in line for the Fae Throne.”
My breath caught.
Atarae would not survive this.
Because I had not.
“Fourth in line?” I whispered, dragging a hand through my hair as I sank back into my seat.
“By law,” Griselda added quietly, “you remain second. Princess Atarae is third.”
If the people learned—
The unrest would be catastrophic.
The room blurred.
Pity flickered in Griselda’s eyes as her hand pressed gently to my shoulder.
I despised it.
“Do not,” I warned.
“Zaeran—”
“I said do not.” I shoved her hand away and stood, chest burning. “You shatter lives and deny me truth? You send my sister away and expect silence?”
Mother looked away.
Every eye was on me.
I did not care.
Griselda seized my arm.
“You will retreat,” she murmured. “Now.”
I allowed myself to be dragged toward the doors, casting one last look at my mother.
She did not meet my gaze.
Only the Empress remained.
The doors closed behind me.
Later, alone in my chambers, I sank onto the edge of my bed, forearms braced against my knees.
How was I meant to face Atarae?
If I failed her now—
I would fail not only as her sister.
But as her protector.
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