"You should wear the emeralds," Queen Ellarisa’s voice was easy, almost absentminded, but Ellirae heard the weight beneath it, the casual command of redirection. She lifted a hand to her earrings, twisting the rubies between her fingers. They were warm from her skin. "I like the rubies."

  Ellarisa stepped closer without rustle of silk or a wasted movement. "Mm. Then I suppose you’re making a statement." Ellirae smiled faintly, but her fingers did not leave her earrings.

  “Every choice is a statement.”

  Silence stretched, not awkward but not entirely comfortable, the kind of silence where nothing needed to be said because they already knew. The muffled sounds of the palace bled through the drapes, laughter at a distance, the soft murmur of servants and the clink of silver on porcelain. The world carried on as if nothing was changing.

  "You look like me, you know," Ellarisa said suddenly.

  Ellirae’s fingers stilled against the rubies. "I thought I looked like Father."

  "You did. When you were younger."

  The way her mother said it, so simple and factual, sent a quiet thread of unease through her. She turned, meeting her mother’s gaze in the mirror not sadness or nostalgia, but with quiet acknowledgment. Her other’s presence was as unshaken as the tides. Her dark hair, streaked with silver and threaded with pearls, lay smooth against her shoulders, no strand out of place. The years had barely marked her, leaving only the faintest lines at the corners of her pale blue eyes, carved more by calculation than by time.

  "But you’ve grown into something sharper."

  Ellirae looked at her reflection again. She searched for what her mother saw. Her fingers drifted over the jewelry on the table, gems scattered like fallen petals, emeralds among rubies, green, like the forests she had never seen but would soon walk beneath. Her fingers lingered at her ears before she pulled the rubies free, holding them for a moment before letting them rest in her palm. Ellarisa reached forward, plucked the rubies from her hands, and replaced them with emeralds. The cold weight of them settled against her palm.

  "They suit you better." Then, as if the matter had already been decided, because it had, Ellarisa turned and left. Ellirae stood there a moment longer, watching the space her mother had left behind. Then, with a slow breath, she turned from the mirror, the silk of her gown whispering against the marble as she followed.

  The great doors of the feasting hall swung open, and a hush of expectation rippled through the chamber before conversation swelled once more, rich with the timbre of nobility and command. The golden light of a hundred candles bathed the hall in a warm glow, flickering against the silver-threaded banners of House Tiderain hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Beneath them, long oaken tables gleamed, set with polished goblets and fine plates, overflowing with delicacies meant to mark the occasion. Beyond the grandeur, the scent of salt and spiced meats drifted through the high-arched windows, carried on the ever-present sea breeze that whispered through Cliffspire Citadel.

  It did little to soothe the quiet tightness in Ellirae’s chest. She moved forward with the grace expected of her, each step measured. Eyes turned as she entered, some watchful, some assessing, and others politely indifferent. The nobility of Alvaren, the commanders of its fleet and army, the merchant lords whose wealth kept the kingdom afloat. They were all here, and all had a stake in what this night represented. Not merely a farewell, but an acknowledgment of a future no longer hers to shape.

  At the head of the grand table stood Sir Aldren Casker, his presence as immovable as stone. His dark green cloak, clasped with the sigil of House Tiderain, bore none of the excess others indulged in. The Queen’s Arbiter was a man of duty first and ceremony second, and the weight of the night showed only in the deeper lines of his face. When he raised his goblet, silence fell—not demanded, but expected.

  "It is by tradition and by law," Casker began, his voice deep and measured, "that those who bear the gift of veyl’arcanis are sent to the Magi of Eryndor. This has been the way of Alvaren for generations—not chosen by rulers or the desires of those who walk it, but by the veil itself."

  He paused, his gaze settling on Ellirae. "And so tonight, we honor Princess Ellirae Tiderain as she embarks on the path laid before her."

  A stillness followed—not celebration, but acknowledgment. Then the murmur of voices returned, quieter now, as goblets were raised. Ellirae inclined her head, her mask of dignity in place, though the weight of expectation frayed its edges.

  The room was a map of power. At Casker’s right, Admiral Cassian Rotheran sat with the composed stillness of a man long detached from courtly games. His face, lined by salt and sun, carried none of nobility’s vanity. When their eyes met, he lifted his cup—quiet understanding between those bound to duty.

  Further down, Duke Armand Tressel leaned back, fingers idly tracing his signet ring. The emerald silk of his coat bore the golden quill and dagger of House Tressel: power wielded through ink, not iron. His gaze was cool, his interest detached. This night, to him, was a transaction.

  Across from him, Lord Veymar Bannon gave only a slight tilt of the head, silver-threaded robes draped like shadow. Every move, as ever, calculated. Selene Morrayne, the Queen’s shadow, turned her wine in slow, perfect circles. When she smiled, it was small, and did not reach her eyes.

  At the far end of the table, Prince Eramis Tiderain sat rigid. His expression was a study in restraint, his dark hair pulled back, his coat cut sharp. He had said little in these final days—but he didn’t need to. His silence had always said enough. Ellirae’s hands curled into her gown. She should have felt honored to sit among the powerful, to be so publicly acknowledged—but the weight of it pressed down, more funeral than tribute.

  The chamber hummed with polite agreement, echoing off cold stone. A servant poured a ribbon of dark wine into her goblet. She lifted it, her body moving before her thoughts could catch.

  Sir Aldren Casker’s voice returned, calm and resolute. “For Alvaren.” The words rang clear, and others followed, goblets raised with soft chimes of silver.

  Ellirae drank. The wine was warm and smooth—comforting, once, but no wine could dull the unease in her bones. Tonight, she played the role they had cast for her. Soon, she would walk her path alone.

  Duke Cedric Wynn rose with the slow, practiced certainty of a man who had long mastered the weight of ceremony, each motion deliberate, each breath measured. His presence, unburdened by ostentation, carried a gravity that required no embellishment. The hall quieted, not out of obligation, but because Duke Cedric Wynn was not a man to waste words. When he spoke, it was with purpose and purpose alone.

  "What a rare and noble thing it is," he began, his voice even, his cadence that of a man accustomed to being heard, "to gather on an evening such as this. To share in the finest fruits of our land and sea, to drink in the company of old allies. Tonight, we do not feast for conquest, nor for victory, but for duty, and that, perhaps, is the most solemn cause of all."

  A ripple of acknowledgment passed through the hall. Even those who did not favor the man, those who found his brand of pragmatism cold, his calculations bloodless, could not deny that his words carried truth.

  "By decree of the Order of the Magi and by the immutable laws that govern Iskarra," Wynn continued, his gaze sweeping over the gathered nobility, the military lords, the merchant lords, "we honor a tradition older than any banner that hangs in this hall. A law that demands sacrifice, yes, but sacrifice without understanding is mere waste, and House Tiderain has never abided waste."

  Ellirae felt the shift in the air as his eyes landed, briefly, upon her mother. Queen Ellarisa did not move, did not so much as lift her goblet, save for the way her gloved fingers rested utterly still against its stem.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Princess Ellirae departs not because it is convenient," he went on, "nor because it is desired, but because duty is heavier than sentiment, and the price of failing duty is ruin. Alvaren’s strength has never been in its fleets alone, nor its coin, nor even its bloodlines. Our strength has always been in our ability to endure. To adapt. To uphold what must be upheld, no matter the cost."

  A careful glance passed between the merchant lords and the nobles. The military leaders listened in stony silence, the weight of command in their set jaws, their patient, knowing eyes. Wynn did not waste words, and every syllable was a brushstroke upon the political landscape of Alvaren. He turned, at last, to Princess Ellirae.

  “To those who would mourn her departure, I ask: would you mourn the rivers that feed the sea? Would you lament the storm winds that drive our ships forward?” He let the question settle, measured and inevitable. "Ellirae is not lost to us. She is a tide turned outward, a force set upon a greater course. When next we see her, she will not return as the princess we knew, but as something far greater." The finality of his words rang through the chamber like a bell, and when he lifted his goblet, the room followed.

  "To Alvaren," Wynn declared.

  A hundred voices echoed him. Ellirae lifted her own goblet, her grip steady, her mask flawless. She met Wynn’s gaze across the table, and in that moment, she understood the message beneath his speech. Her departure was not exile. It was an investment, and Alvaren always expected a return.

  The swell of Duke Wynn’s toast still hung in the air, though the court had resumed its revelry in earnest. Laughter rang over the clinking of goblets, minstrels tuned their lutes for the first set of the evening, and silver-plated dishes gleamed under the candlelight as fresh courses were laid upon the tables. The great feasting hall of Cliffspire Citadel had turned from ceremony to celebration, or at least the illusion of it. Ellirae moved to retreat from the high table. But before she could slip away, a quiet voice, graveled by years at sea, called her back.

  "Princess."

  Ellirae turned.

  Admiral Cassian Rotheran had not moved from his place at the table, though the glint of candlelight against his cup suggested he had raised it in her name however briefly. He studied her with the same unwavering gaze hshe presumed he used on both foreign dignitaries and storm-chased horizons—measuring, weighing.

  "They will say many things about your departure," he said, his tone even. "Some will call it duty. Some will call it loss. Others," His flicked toward the councilors murmuring among themselves, "will call it strategy."

  Ellirae held his gaze. "And what do you call it, Admiral?"

  Rotheran exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of something like approval crossing his weathered features. "I call it a risk. And I’ve known a great many captains who have drowned believing they were strong enough to weather a storm alone."

  He paused.

  "But I’ve also seen ships return that no one believed would."

  It was neither reassurance nor warning, but something rarer still, a truth laid bare, untouched by the need for comfort or caution, given freely, with no tether of expectation to weigh it down.

  Ellirae inclined her head. "I am not a ship, Admiral."

  "No," Rotheran agreed, his lips barely hinting at a smile. "But you carry more weight than your frame suggests. And the tide does not care who is ready for it."

  Ellirae did not reply immediately. But after a moment, she lifted her goblet slightly.

  "For the tides, then," she murmured.

  Rotheran lifted his own in kind. "For the tides."

  And with that, he turned back to the gathered lords, offering nothing more and nothing more was needed. Ellirae had played her part well. She had smiled, she had toasted, she had accepted the words of duty and tradition with the grace expected of her. Yet, beneath it all, she felt the weight of it settling against her ribs, heavy as a chain of gold.

  Ellirae withdrew to the edge of the hall, where the air was easier to breathe. The distant crash of waves mingled with the scent of spiced wine, and where, standing beneath the archways that opened to the sea, was Lord Edric Greythorne, a man who never seemed to take anything seriously, a man who, in the stifling weight of courtly formality, moved as if the world itself were little more than a passing jest.

  Lord Greythorne was precisely where she expected him to be, draped against a marble railing as though he had all the time in the world, a half-filled goblet dangling from his fingers. The wind toyed with the loose strands of his dark hair, the candlelight glinting against the storm in his gray eyes as he caught sight of her approach. His smirk formed before she had even reached him, as if he had been waiting for just such a moment.

  "If I had your talents, I’d have found a way to keep it hidden," he mused, tilting his goblet in her direction as if it were a conspiratorial gesture. "Imagine the chaos you could have caused."

  Ellirae drew in a breath, and then let it slip through her nose, a whisper of amusement that never fully became a laugh.

  "And here I thought you would commend my sense of duty."

  "Commend it?" He clinked his goblet lightly against hers, the cool chime of silver meeting silver threading through the low hum of the hall. "Ellirae, you wound me. I am nothing if not a firm believer in lost causes."

  His words were laced with easy mischief, but his smirk faltered, just a fraction, just enough for her to see past it. Beneath the charm, beneath the jest, they both knew the truth. She had never had a choice.

  Ellirae took a measured sip of her wine.

  "And what havoc, precisely, would you have had me wreak?"

  "Oh, the usual," Edric said breezily, watching her over the rim of his cup. "Political unrest, scandalous alliances, a naval mutiny or two, just enough to keep the council on its toes."

  "Modest ambitions," she murmured.

  "I do try."

  The music had begun in earnest now, the minstrels plucking out the first notes of a waltz. Across the hall, nobles were stepping into the familiar rhythm of courtly dance, swirling in fine silks and polished boots, their movements as much a performance as any duel fought with steel. Then, like a silk thread weaving into the space between them, came Lady Selene Morrayne.

  "Lord Greythorne," she purred, her voice honeyed amusement, "are you trying to tempt the princess into a life of scandal?"

  "Only hypothetically," Edric returned, tipping his head in mock solemnity. "Which, I assure you, is entirely above board."

  Selene smiled, as if they were all in on some private joke, ans she turned her green eyes toward Ellirae. "I must say, Your Highness, it is rare to see a princess leave before she’s had a chance to leave her impact. A shame, really."

  Ellirae met her gaze with polite ease. "I am told it is a necessity."

  "Ah, necessity," Selene sighed, lifting her goblet as though in quiet reverence. "The oldest excuse in the realm. Second only to destiny, I believe."

  Edric gave a soft laugh.

  Ellirae merely inclined her head. "And what, my lady, would you call it?"

  Selene took a slow sip of her wine, considering. "An inconvenience, most of all. I was so looking forward to seeing what sort of trouble you might cause. Alvaren is terribly dull without a few well-placed upsets."

  Ellirae gave a small, practiced smile. "I doubt the court will find itself lacking in intrigue."

  "True enough," Selene conceded, "but some intrigues are more entertaining than others."

  Edric grinned. "She means to say that court gossip is about to get significantly more tedious without you in it."

  "Exactly so," Selene agreed, casting Edric a knowing glance before returning her attention to Ellirae. "Though I do hope you won’t let the Magi dull that sharp wit of yours. It would be such a waste."

  Ellirae felt the undercurrent beneath the words, the careful probing for reaction, the subtle flick of the wrist that sent ripples through still water. Selene Morrayne was no fool, nor was she a woman prone to idle flattery. She was testing the ground, watching to see whether Ellirae would step into the conversation like a player taking her first move or if she would allow herself to be maneuvered off the board entirely. Ellirae lifted her goblet, the weight of it familiar.

  "Some tides, my lady," she said smoothly, "have a way of returning."

  Selene stilled, just for a breath, just long enough for Ellirae to know the point had landed. Then she smiled, radiant and knowing. She inclined her head ever so slightly in approval.

  "Let us hope," she murmured, "that we are here to greet you when they do."

  The music swelled, and the dance continued.

  Ellirae let the ghost of a smile linger at the corners of her lips as Lady Morrayne drifted away, the weight of their exchange settling. The court was always playing its game, always shifting pieces before anyone could protest, before anyone could even recognize what had been moved. And tonight, Ellirae was the piece being sacrificed, removed from the board before she could carve out her own place upon it.

  Edric exhaled beside her, shaking his head as he lifted his goblet once more. "Well played," he muttered, half amusement, half something sharper. "Though I suspect Lady Morrayne has not yet decided whether to mourn your departure or celebrate it."

  "Neither," Ellirae replied, watching Selene disappear into the throng of nobles. "She is only calculating what it means for her."

  Edric hummed his agreement, but the sharp edge of his smirk had dulled. His gaze flickered past her shoulder. Ellirae didn’t have to turn to know where he was looking. At the high table, her brother sat, unflinching.

  The sound of the ball pressed in, laughter, the clink of crystal, the hum of strings weaving through the air, but it felt distant, like a tide receding from the shore. The moment between them had thinned, stretched taut, waiting for something neither of them would say.

  "Enjoy your last night of peace, Princess," Edric murmured, rolling his goblet between his fingers, slow and deliberate. "It’ll be much quieter without you."

  There was humor in his voice, but something in Edric’s voice resisted dismissal. Ellirae’s fingers tightened around the edge of the marble rail, the chill of it seeping into her skin. He raised his goblet with casual grace, a gesture suspended between acknowledgment and goodbye. Without waiting for a response, he turned and wandered toward a nearby knot of officers, his posture loose but purposeful. Only once he had gone did Ellirae release the breath she hadn’t meant to hold.