Iris Liora Zephar sat frozen on her bed, caught between the urge to scream until her throat burned raw and the desperate wish to collapse into her mother's arms. Only silence greeted her in the darkness of her chambers.
"Another dream," she whispered, pressing trembling fingers against her temples. Her head drooped until her hair curtained her face. "They're becoming more frequent..." The words tasted bitter, like an admission of defeat. Her silk nightgown clung to her skin, damp with cold sweat, and even the warm summer air couldn't chase away the chill that had settled deep in her bones.
Rising from her bed, her bare feet met cold marble. The mirror on her dressing table caught her reflection—pale skin that seemed to belong to a ghost, once-brilliant emerald eyes now haunted by shadows that hadn't been there weeks ago, her red hair in wild disarray. She barely recognized herself.
The first rays of dawn crept through her chamber windows, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. Soon the castle would stir to life. Iris straightened her shoulders, schooling her features into the composed mask expected of her station. With practiced grace, she pulled the silk bell-pull beside her bed six times—a signal for her personal maids.
Minutes later, soft knocks announced their arrival. "Enter", she called, her voice soft and velvety yet carrying the unmistakable authority that came from years of command.
"Your Highness." Her six maids – Ann, Marie, Claire, Sofia, Berta, and young Lucy – filed in with synchronized curtsies, their practiced movements speaking of years of service to the crown. They moved with quiet efficiency, their eyes carefully avoiding their mistress's evident lack of sleep.
"I require something... different today." Iris moved behind her changing screen, her bare feet silent against the marble floor. "Bring me my old riding clothes, along with my leather boots."
This request earned no visible reaction from her maids, though it spoke volumes about their loyalty. While Claire and Sofia prepared her bath with lavender oils, scenting the air with summer gardens, Berta and Lucy retrieved the requested clothing from a hidden compartment in her wardrobe.
They worked together to transform their princess into a young nobleman - dark brown breeches, crisp white shirt, and a fitted navy jacket. She took a steadying breath and cast the glamour spell, murmuring the ancient words while drawing the runes in the air before her. Magic shimmered around her like a fine mist, transforming her striking red hair into close-cropped dark waves, her delicate features sharpening into a masculine jawline and broader nose. When she spoke to test the spell, a deep male voice replaced her soft, musical one.
When she strode across the room to check her reflection, her walk had transformed – longer strides, shoulders squared, chin lifted with the casual arrogance of a young lord. The man who gazed back at her from the mirror was a perfect stranger, exactly as she'd intended.
"If someone sends for me tell them I am investigating disturbances in the ley lines beneath the merchant quarter." It wasn't entirely a lie - she had sensed something amiss in the city's magical currents lately.
Iris—now Lord Ian— then descended the stairs to the stables where a brown mare awaited her, less conspicuous than her usual mount.
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An hour later, Alaric, her trusted aide and childhood friend, knocked on the study door. When no answer came, he sighed and pressed his palm against the door's ward-stone. The empty room and untouched breakfast tray greeted him exactly as he'd expected.
He left out a heavier sigh this time as he moved to the window, he spotted the familiar cloaked figure weaving through the merchant's quarter on horseback. His keen eyes caught the shimmer of protective wards around the rider - Iris was at least being careful with her glamour today. His shoulders slumped slightly as he watched her disappear into the morning crowd.
The Council meeting was in a few hours – the same Council that had been watching the Crown Princess with increasingly critical eyes recently. He'd have to craft a careful explanation for her absence, a diplomatic dance to protect her if she does not return in time.
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The lower city was already awake and bustling despite the early hour. Merchants set up their stalls, the smell of fresh bread wafted from bakeries, and workers hurried to their stations. Iris - now Lord Ian, as she was known in these parts of the city - guided her horse through the familiar cobblestone streets, keeping to the shadows where possible.
The mare's hooves clicked against the stones as they made their way deeper into the merchant's quarter, past the glassblower's shop with its rainbow-hued windows and the blacksmith's forge already blazing with morning work.
The "Eclipsar" tavern appeared ahead, its weathered wooden sign creaking gently in the morning breeze. It was unremarkable enough that nobility would never deign to enter, which made it perfect for her purposes. Positioned at the crossroads between three provinces, it was a den of whispers and secrets.
Inside, the tavern was dim and smoky despite the early hour. A few regulars nursed their ales in dark corners, while the innkeeper, Old Mae, wiped down the bar with practiced strokes. The woman's eyes flickered briefly to Iris, a knowing look passing between them. Without a word, she gestured toward the back stairs.
Iris climbed to her usual spot - a corner table on the second floor, partially hidden behind a wooden screen but with a clear view of both the street below and the tavern's entrance. As she settled into her chair, she felt the morning's vision pressing against her thoughts...
She stood in a grand chamber she'd never seen before, yet somehow knew intimately. The walls of an immaculate chamber with each deliberate strike, the sound echoing through both the dream and her memories. In the center of this sanctuary, an elderly figure worked tirelessly, her white-clad form creating shadows that danced across the marble floor. Iris found herself frozen, a silent observer to her own creation.
As the woman's gnarled hands shaped the stone with ethereal precision, Iris felt chisel on her own skin, which couldn't get more painful. The once lifeless mound took her form – she watched her own features emerge from the stone: the high, noble brow she saw each morning in her mirror, the sharp yet elegant cheekbones inherited from her mother, the full lips forever set in a dignified smile that she had practiced since childhood. Her distinctive red hair cascaded down the statue's back, each strand seeming to have a life of its own, wild and untamed just like her secret heart.
The figure's silhouette captured everything she was meant to be – the perfect Crown Princess of Zephar, an ideal that seemed to mock her daily struggles to maintain that very image.
Suddenly, the rhythmic tapping ceased. The silence that followed felt heavy, expectant. The hooded figure stepped back, regarding her creation, and pushed back her hood. The face beneath was etched with millennia, eyes holding knowledge that made Iris's soul tremble. Those eyes, ancient and terrible, turned to meet her gaze directly – acknowledging her presence in this memory or vision for the first time.
The sculptor's lips curled into a knowing smile, and Iris felt the weight of destiny settling around her shoulders like a cloak made of stone....
*clink clink clink*
The clink of pottery against wood pulled her back to the present as a serving girl placed ale and a sandwich before her. Iris nodded her thanks, noting the girl's protective amulet - standard issue for Mae's trusted employees.
She lazily began consuming her order, a jug full of ale and a sandwich. The strong aroma of ale lingering on her nose after every sip overwriting the taste of the poorly made sandwich. Yet Iris had not chosen the Eclipsar for its culinary merits. She frequented this establishment out of deep respect for Old Mae's late husband, Commander Viktor of the Third Wardens- a legendary warrior with whom Iris had fought side by side, bringing remarkable victories and valor to the nation. More than that, it was a way to quietly watch over the family of a man who had once saved her life.
After his death though, while other widows might have retreated into grief, Old Mae revealed a strength and spirit that matched her late husband's battlefield valor. She took up his legacy of protecting the kingdom, though her weapons were whispers rather than swords. The Eclipsar, beneath it's veil of weathered wood and ale-scented haze, had become the core of Zephar's intelligence network.
To the casual patron, it was merely a tavern where laborers where able to drown their toils in cheap whine. To the kingdom's less savory elements, it was a dangerous trap masquerading as a safe haven - many criminals had loosened their tongue over Mae's special brew, only to fund themselves at the King's mercy the next morning. But to those who served the crown, it was a sanctuary where information flowed as freely as the wine.
Iris continued nursing her ale, as the conversation of two merchants at a nearby table caught her attention, their words slightly slurred but clear under the tavern's truth wards.
"Did you hear about Prince Leon's birthday celebration next week?" the stouter of the two merchants said, sloshing wine in his cup. "The timid one - the second-born prince. They say the Crown Princess herself is overseeing the arrangements."
His companion, a lean man with graying temples, chuckled wryly. "That princess is something else entirely. My daughter saw her at the spring festival last month. Said she looked like she stepped right out of the old tales, all fire-hair and deadly grace."
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The stout merchant nodded vigorously, nearly spilling his drink. "Blessed by the Goddess herself, they say. Though why would a deity who revels in chaos bless us with such a level-headed heir..." He took another long pull from his cup, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Between her wits and that retainer of hers - what's his name? Ashharld? Ashfloor?"
"Ashford," Iris corrected automatically, then silently cursed her loosened tongue. The merchants turned to look at her - or rather, at Lord Ian - with bleary eyes.
"Right! Ashford!" the lean one exclaimed, raising his cup. "Between the two of them, they've kept the peace better than a garrison of soldiers."
Iris kept her face carefully neutral, though her lips twitched at the mention of Alaric. If only they knew how often he had to cover for her morning escapades into the city, disguised exactly as she was now. The irony of them praising her administrative skills while she sat here, shirking those very duties, was not lost on her.
Their conversation was interrupted by the heavy creak of the tavern's door. Three figures entered, their polished armor bearing Glarion's distinctive crimson serpent insignia - a stark contrast to the tavern's humble surroundings. They moved with military precision, yet something about their bearing seemed off to Iris's trained eye - too rigid, too deliberate, as if performing rather than simply being.
The tallest among them approached the bar, pulling out a scroll sealed with what appeared to be the royal crest of Glarion. "Innkeeper," he called out, his voice carrying the crisp accent of Glarion's capital, "we require your finest rooms. By decree of their Majesties and the trade agreement between our nations, you are obligated to provide accommodation to officials of our standing."
Old Mae regarded the scroll with the same expression she might give a suspicious stain on her counter. "Is that so?" Her weathered hands continued wiping a glass, unhurried. "Funny, the royal messenger who passed through yesterday didn't mention any Glarion officials with approval for unrestricted lodging."
The second man stepped forward, his hand resting too casually on his sword hilt. "Are you questioning the authenticity of our documents, woman?"
The tavern's atmosphere shifted subtly. Several of the regular patrons - veterans by their bearing - straightened in their seats. The two drunk merchants suddenly seemed considerably more sober, their eyes sharp and alert.
Iris felt her muscles tense. The seal on that scroll - she'd studied enough diplomatic documents to spot the inconsistencies even from her position. These men were either impressively bold or dangerously foolish to attempt such a forgery in a city known for its diplomatic scrutiny.
"A round for our...distinguished guests," a smooth voice cut the tension. All eyes turned to see Lord Ian descending the stairs with practiced nonchalance, a half-empty ale jug dangling from one hand. "And perhaps we could spare Old Mae the trouble of explaining the complexities of international hospitality." She placed several gold coins on the counter - far more than necessary for the rooms. "I'll cover their accommodations, Mae. Consider it a gesture of..." she paused, letting her lips curl into a knowing smirk, "international goodwill."
The tallest Glarion official studied her with sharp eyes. "Most generous. And you are...?"
"Lord Ian of House Blackthorn," she replied, the practiced lie flowing smoothly. "A minor noble with... shall we say, a keen interest in changing political winds." She leaned against the bar, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
The three men exchanged glances. The second man, hand still on his sword hilt, raised an eyebrow. "Careful, my lord. Such talk could be considered treasonous."
Iris let out a bitter laugh, one she'd heard countless times from disgruntled nobles at court. "Treason? Perhaps. But how else would you describe a kingdom that lets a mere girl play at politics while true men of nobility are relegated to the shadows?" She took another drink, letting disgust seep into her voice. "Have you seen how they fawn over her? The 'blessed' princess, the 'perfect' heir. It's enough to turn one's stomach."
The third man, who had been quietly observing until now, tilted his head slightly. The gesture was casual, but something in his calculating gaze made Iris's instincts bristle. "Tell me, Lord Blackthorn, how long has it been since a proper noble held real influence in Zephar's court?" His voice carried the silky smoothness of practiced diplomacy, but beneath it lay something sharper. "Perhaps you'd care to discuss such... matters of state in more comfortable surroundings?"
"Nothing would please me more," Iris replied, matching his smile with equal menace. As they moved toward the stairs, she caught Old Mae's eye for a fraction of a second. The innkeeper gave an imperceptible nod - she would ensure their conversation reached the right ears.
In the privacy of the upper room, the men's facades began to crack, revealing glimpses of their true nature. The talk turned to whispered plans of fabricated scandals, of bribes placed in the right hands, of carefully orchestrated "accidents" - all designed to fracture the royal family's unified image.
"The timing is perfect," the tall one, who called himself Kern, explained eagerly. "With the second prince's birthday celebration approaching, security will be focused on the main events. No one will notice a few small... incidents in the outer districts."
Iris nodded thoughtfully, even as her stomach churned. "And these incidents, they're meant to spark larger conflicts?"
"Smart man," the silent one - Malik - grinned. "A few strategic fires in the merchant quarter, some evidence planted to implicate the royal guard... People are sheep. They'll believe what we want them to believe."
"And once the chaos starts," the second man, Doran, added, "well... let's just say Glarion will be happy to help restore order. For a price, of course."
Iris took another long drink to hide her expression. They had no idea how badly they'd miscalculated - not just in their plans, but in choosing this particular tavern to reveal them. Even now, she could hear the subtle creaks of floorboards below, indicating Old Mae's network was already in motion.
Hours passed in a haze of calculated drinks and dangerous revelations. Iris nursed her ale while the Glarion agents grew increasingly loose-tongued, their plans spilling out between boisterous laughs and drunken boasts. When Kern finally slumped forward onto the table, and Malik's words began to slur beyond comprehension, she made her move.
"Gentlemen," she stood, affecting a slight stumble, "as much as I'd love to continue this... illuminating discussion, I have some arrangements to make if we're to proceed with our plans." She straightened her cloak, watching as Doran struggled to focus on her face. "Rest well. We'll speak again soon."
The morning sun had climbed high by the time she reached the palace's secret entrance - a forgotten servant's passage that emerged behind the royal gardens.
Iris made her way to the study avoiding any prying eyes, she dispelled the glamour spell on her way, as her features and stature return to her usual appearance.
She found Alaric pacing in her study, his usually immaculate appearance showing signs of strain.
"You missed the morning council session," he said without preamble, though relief flickered across his features. "I told them you were investigating reports of merchant guild irregularities."
"Not entirely a lie," Iris replied, shedding her cloak and pulling the leather tie from her hair. "Though I suspect the Council would be more interested in what I actually found." She sank into her chair, the weight of her discoveries settling heavily on her shoulders. "We need to talk, I have important information."
She looked him in the eye, her expression grave. "They're planning to sabotage Leon's birthday celebration," she said, watching Alaric's scowl deepen. "But that's only the beginning. Their magic—it felt wrong, twisted."
"Twisted how?" he asked, his voice taut with concern.
She hesitated, organizing her thoughts. "The protective wards were... copied, as if someone tried to mimic Glarion’s magical signatures without truly understanding them. And there’s more.” She paused, her voice barely a whisper. “I had another vi-"
A knock at the door interrupted her from completing her sentence. Both tensed until they recognized the distinctive pattern - three quick taps, two slow. Prince Leon entered, his slight frame nearly lost in the formal robes required for Council meetings. At sixteen, he was still growing into his role as Second Prince, though his talent with a sword had already earned him respect among the people.
"Close the door, Leon," Iris said, then caught herself as her brother's face grew serious. The weight of her discoveries pressed against her mind, but looking at Leon's worried expression - so much like her mother's - she made a different choice. There would be time for warnings later. Right now, her little brother needed his sister more than the kingdom needed its heir.
"Actually," she amended, rising from her desk with deliberate casualness, "let's walk in the gardens. I've been cooped up in meetings all morning." The lie came easily, protected by years of practice and layers of magic. She shot Alaric a meaningful look as she passed. He nodded slightly, understanding - he would begin the necessary preparations while she gave her brother this moment of peace.
The royal gardens were Leon's favorite place in the castle. Their mother had created them years ago, weaving protection wards into every flower bed and fountain. Now, in the late morning sun, the enchanted roses shifted colors with each breeze, and the carved stone benches hummed softly with comfort spells.
"Speaking of which, little brother, your ward designs need work. I slipped past your practice barriers in the east wing again yesterday."
"That's because you cheat," Leon grumbled, but he was grinning now. "Using the goddess's blessing against your own brother. Very royal of you, Your Highness." Iris ruffled his hair, remembering when he was once small enough to be carried on her shoulders. "Someone has to keep you humble. Besides, what kind of sister would I be if I didn't help you test your defenses?"
They settled on a bench, the comfort spells wrapping around them like a warm blanket. Leon fidgeted with his formal robes, suddenly looking very young. "Do you think... do you think Mother Iridia would be happy seeing us here?"
Iris felt her throat tighten. She pulled her brother close, breathing in the familiar scent of spelled ink and parchment that always clung to him. "She would have loved it," she said softly. "And she would be so proud of how far you've come with your swordsmanship."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the enchanted flowers sway. Finally, Leon spoke again, his voice lighter. "There's going to be cake, right? Not just those terrible formal desserts the Council insists on?"
"Three kinds," Iris promised, forcing herself to focus on this brief moment of joy. "I even convinced the kitchen to make the chocolate one with the honey spell that makes it float off the plate." She nudged him. "But if you tell anyone I used my royal authority for this, I’ll deny it."
Leon's laughter echoed through the garden, pure and bright. For a moment, he was just her little brother again, not the Second Prince with his prodigious talent and growing responsibilities.
But as they made their way back inside, Iris felt the weight of her morning's discoveries settling back onto her shoulders. The goddess's visions replayed in her mind: *The stone remembers, even in masks and shadows.* Watching Leon chatter about his plans for the celebration, she made a silent promise.
I'll keep you safe, little brother, she promised silently, feeling her blessing's runes warm in response. Whatever these false agents are planning, whatever shadow is rising... it won't touch you. Not while I draw breath.
"Iris?" Leon had stopped, looking back at her with concern. "Are you all right? You went all serious again."
She managed a reassuring smile, pushing her worries down deep, out of sight. "Come on, you should get back to the Council before they send a search party. I have a few more... disturbances to investigate."
As she watched him hurry away, his golden hair fluttering in the breeze, Iris straightened her shoulders. She had preparations to make, wards to strengthen, and enemies to unmask. But for now, she had given her brother one more moment of joy before the storm.