Vélara Aeternis’s footsteps echoed against the white tiles of the corridor.

  The light from the glass panels glided along her silhouette—tall, lithe, shaped more by strength than grace.

  She wore neither cape nor armor, only dark leather pants fitting her like a second skin, high boots, and a white shirt left slightly open at the collar, the thin fabric tracing the lines of her athletic frame.

  Her long platinum-blond hair, pulled into a high ponytail, shimmered under the beams of light like strands of gold.

  She walked with relaxed confidence, feline blue eyes half-amused, bearing the casual assurance of someone who has never had reason to fear the world.

  At her side walked Althéa of Soléandre—smaller, though tall for her age, quieter, almost unreal.

  Her long white hair, so pale it seemed translucent, brushed the strict collar of the black uniform she wore—the same one worn by all Trame Bearers.

  A long, austere tunic without ornament, crossed over the chest, tied by a dark cloth belt.

  The fabric absorbed light rather than reflecting it, making her alabaster skin appear even paler.

  Only her amethyst eyes pierced through that funeral sobriety.

  Vélara glanced at her with a crooked smile.

  “Does the uniform… suit Her Majesty?” she asked in a tone of false deference.

  Althéa did not even lift her gaze.

  “It fulfills its purpose.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it does,” Vélara replied, mocking.

  “But still… black, with no gold or silk? For someone of Soléandre, that’s practically a punishment.”

  Althea answered evenly,

  “Discipline does not require ornament.”

  “Nor a soul, it seems,” Vélara added, teasing.

  “But tell me, how goes your adjustment among the common folk?”

  “Rather well.”

  “‘Rather well,’” Vélara repeated with theatrical exaggeration.

  “I saw the way you ‘handled yourself’ earlier, when the crowd gathered around you.

  There were dozens of them—some nearly fell to their knees—and you… nothing.

  Not a word. Not a glance.

  Even a stone might have seemed more welcoming.”

  Althéa replied without hesitation,

  “They are uninteresting.

  They speak too much, think too little, and grow tired of themselves.”

  “Still as gentle as ever,” Vélara sighed.

  “But I admit, the scene was worth the detour.

  Especially when that tall fellow beat the heir senseless.”

  Althéa lifted her head slightly.

  “Damian.”

  “That’s the one.

  I’ve never seen anyone fight with so much… authenticity.

  Brutal, clumsy, but strangely honest.”

  Althea remained impassive.

  “He did me a favor. It made the boot-lickers scatter.”

  Vélara let out a clear, ringing laugh.

  “You’re incorrigible, princess.

  You despise everything that breathes, and yet the world still bows at your feet.”

  “Perhaps because it mistakes silence for majesty.”

  They entered the Trame Bearers’ Hall, a vast circular nave where the banners of the Houses hung suspended in the air.

  Under their steps, the black tiles reflected their shapes, stretching their silhouettes like twin shadows.

  At the back, the heavy door of Dean Ford’s office rose before them, closed and guarded by two lanterns.

  Vélara stopped in front of it, arms crossed, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

  “Ready?”

  “Always.” Althéa said.

  The handle turned again, as if pulled inward by an unseen hand.

  Vélara entered first, not even slowing down.

  The heavy door opened with a whisper, releasing a spill of golden light.

  A man stood there, clearly startled, a glass of wine in his hand.

  Near the balustrade, another had just gotten to his feet—haggard, exhausted, caught in the remnants of some deep thought.

  Before he could move, Vélara brushed past him with a sharp sweep of her shoulder, making him stumble a step sideways.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He jolted, tried to get out of the way, but she was already past him without a glance.

  The door shut behind him with a clean snap, cutting off the murmur of the corridor.

  Silence fell.

  Althéa stepped in next—straight-backed, calm, her hands clasped behind her.

  She felt a brief disturbance in the air—an echo of presence, of curiosity left outside—then nothing.

  Vélara, however, frowned.

  “Wait a second…” she murmured, staring at the door still trembling.

  “That guy was the…”

  “Dean,” Althea said without turning.

  Velara stopped mid-sentence.

  Dean Ford, visibly shaken, hurried to set his cup down on the table.

  “My lady… you were not expected before tomorrow.”

  Althéa inclined her head slightly—

  a precise, measured gesture, touched with icy elegance.

  “Good evening, Dean.”

  He hesitated, then bent into an awkward bow, shoulders stiff.

  “Princess… I… I was not prepared for your visit.

  Please excuse the state of the place, I didn’t have time to—”

  “Trame Bearer,” Althéa cut in.

  Ford lifted his eyes, startled.

  “Pardon?”

  “I am not here as a princess, but as a Trame Bearer.

  Treat me like the others.”

  The Dean remained silent for a moment, torn between respect and disbelief.

  “Of course… Trame Bearer Althéa,” he managed at last.

  “What may I do for you?”

  Althéa didn’t answer immediately.

  She observed the room—every detail, every glint of glass, the dust suspended in the light.

  The smell of still-warm wine stung her throat.

  She turned her gaze toward the terrace, where the wind gently stirred the curtains.

  Meanwhile, Vélara casually began to explore the room.

  Her eyes drifted over the shelves, the wall maps, the measuring instruments, the stacks of documents.

  She circled the desk like a curious lioness, then noticed a carafe left on the table near the terrace.

  “You weren’t drinking alone, it seems,” she said with playful mischief.

  Without waiting for permission, she poured herself a glass of wine and inhaled its aroma, feigning innocence.

  The Dean shot a panicked glance at the carafe but dared not comment.

  Vélara frowned, still looking toward the closed door.

  “It looks like he—”

  “Dean,” Althéa cut in, her voice calm but sharp.

  “Until now, my family and you have kept me away from the wilderness survival classes.

  This does not suit me.”

  Vélara, caught off guard, raised an eyebrow.

  “Well… excuse me for existing,” she muttered under her breath, turning back toward the table.

  Dean Ford flinched slightly.

  “Prin— Trame Bearer, I… I only followed—”

  “Orders. I know,” Althéa interrupted without raising her voice.

  “But starting tomorrow, I will attend.”

  Ford opened his mouth, sweat already forming at his temple.

  “Th–that was not my decision, I swear.

  I acted under the direct order of—”

  “Tomorrow,” she repeated, implacable.

  Silence fell again—dense, heavy.

  Althéa inclined her head in a brief, flawless bow.

  “Thank you, Dean. Good evening.”

  Then she turned on her heel and left the room with calculated slowness.

  The door closed behind her with a soft breath.

  The Dean lowered his eyes, defeated.

  Ford remained frozen for a few seconds, still tense, before realizing Vélara hadn’t moved.

  She had remained near the table, a glass in hand, looking amused.

  “I’m coming, Trame Bearer,” she called mockingly.

  Althéa didn’t respond, and her footsteps faded into the corridor.

  Vélara waited for silence to settle back into the room, then approached the Dean.

  Her smile had softened, but her gaze remained sharp.

  “Tell me, Dean… the boy who was with you earlier.”

  She tilted her head, voice silky.

  “Tell me a little about him.”

  Ford, still uneasy, searched for his words.

  “That boy? He arrived today.”

  “What exactly do you wish to know?”

  Vélara stepped closer, her fingers brushing the edge of a parchment as if to better command his attention.

  “He seems… odd to me,” she said softly, honeyed.

  “His Elan is too unstable, too dense even for a Trame Bearer. Where does he come from, exactly?”

  Ford hesitated, eyes drifting away.

  “I would… I would prefer not to—”

  Vélara let out a short, light laugh.

  “Oh, come now, Dean. You are in no position to refuse.

  After all, I am the princess’s guard. It is my duty—my right— to gather any information relevant to her safety.”

  She said it like a joke, yet the tone wound itself around him like cold wire tightening at the throat.

  Ford cleared his voice, a shade paler.

  “Very well,” he murmured. “He… he comes from the Broken Crown.”

  The name fell into the room like a stone.

  Vélara blinked, clearly surprised, and an unexpected smile split her face—not cruel, but hungry.

  “Truly? A Trame Bearer… from the Crown?”

  She let the word linger.

  “That is… interesting.”

  “It’s possible,” Ford stammered, ashamed to admit it.

  “He arrived today. We received him not long ago.”

  Vélara whistled softly through her teeth, as if the information delighted her in some secret way.

  “Well, I must say, I’m pleasantly surprised.”

  With a smirk, she emptied her glass in one swift motion.

  She straightened, relaxed yet poised, and cast one last look at the Dean—almost gentle.

  “This week is going to be very interesting.”

  Then, as though the room belonged to her, she set down the glass and strode toward the door with confidence.

  “Princess!” she called over her shoulder, proud and playful.

  “Wait for me!”

  Althéa, already outside, did not slow.

  Vélara followed with a laugh, her voice fading down the corridor.

  The Dean remained still for a second, then slowly collapsed into his chair as though someone had just stripped ten years off his life.

  He pressed his palms to his temples, fingers trembling, and let out a breath that carried as much resignation as fear.

  “By all the gods…” he muttered.

  “This is going to be the worst week of my life.”

  The room seemed to hold its breath, and the sound of Althéa’s and Vélara’s footsteps drifted away, leaving behind a bureau emptier—and heavier—than before.