The halls were... quiet. Suspiciously quiet. The kind of quiet that made you feel like a ghost with really loud shoes.
Sunlight painted the marble floors with long streaks of gold, and for some reason that made me feel worse. Like the house was pretending to be calm and elegant and not a looming estate of judgment and generational expectations.
I adjusted my skirt before I knocked. Like that was going to help.
"Enter."
I did. Slowly. Like the door might bite.
My father was at his desk, doing the thing he always did—hunched like he carried the sins of the realm in his shoulders. Desmond was there too, naturally. The house's most devoted shadow. The scent of wax and ink and mild resentment hung in the air.
No one noticed me. Which felt about right.
"Three requests from the Western barons this week alone," Father muttered, scribbling like he had something to prove. "And all of them want more funding for their guard posts."
Desmond hummed in that neutral, you-should-be-paying-me-more way. "We could redirect a portion of the southern tariffs to cover it. Though the merchants won't be pleased."
Father swore. "Damn merchants are never pleased."
Truly, the plight of the aristocracy.
I hovered. Silently. Like a haunted painting.
Desmond noticed first. Of course he did. He always did.
"Lady Seris," he said, all courteous and clipped. Smile soft but tired, like maybe he needed a vacation. "Forgive us. We didn't hear you come in."
My father looked up. His face was the kind of tired that made me feel guilty for existing. The kind that said I used to have dreams once.
"Seris," he said. Rubbed the bridge of his nose like I gave him a migraine just by breathing. "Didn't expect to see you in here today. What brings you?"
"I wanted to speak with you," I said. Carefully. Neutral voice. No tremble, no panic, no inner screaming (lies). "Mother suggested I ask you about the journey to the Darkwood."
Something clicked in his brain. He blinked like he'd forgotten I was a daughter and not just another name on a list of royal obligations.
"Ah. Right." He shifted. "The Rite. It's already that time again."
He looked old. Like, start-writing-a-memoir old. Shadows under his eyes. Posture of a man who needed a hug and a therapist.
Desmond, sweet overachiever that he was, gathered the papers like a magician preparing a finale.
"I'll take care of these and send word to the barons," he said. "And I'll have the tariffs proposal ready for tomorrow."
Father gave this tired king nod. "Thank you, Desmond. And… sorry for all this."
Desmond gave a ghost of a smile. "You've nothing to apologize for, my lord. It's the burden of good leadership."
I mean. If I rolled my eyes any harder, I'd need surgery.
He bowed to me, bless him, and exited with the grace of a man who knows he's underpaid.
Now it was just us.
My father leaned back. Exhaled like the kingdom was sitting directly on his chest.
"Feels like the whole kingdom's been pulling at my sleeves lately."
I stepped forward. Tucked my hands in. Said something too soft: "You seem… tired."
He chuckled. "That obvious, is it?"
"Yes," I said. Instantly. "Today you look like you want to commit arson."
And he laughed. Like, full-on laughed. I almost fell over.
"Don't tempt me," he said.
I didn't smile back. Not really.
"Is it true you earned your Brand in the Darkwood?"
He sobered fast. Eyes locking onto mine like I'd asked him about death or taxes.
"Yes," he said. Voice like iron and memory. "I did."
"What was it like?"
He paused. Reached for his goblet like this conversation required alcohol. Honestly? Relatable.
"The Darkwood isn't like the stories," he said. "It's not just beasts and spirits and shadows. It's… alive. And it watches you."
Excuse me? Watches me?
"Not all the dangers come from what you see," he continued, just casually traumatizing me. "Some come from within."
Great. Wonderful. Internal horrors. Exactly what I needed.
"You'll see things you don't understand. Hear things that don't make sense. That's part of the test. The spirits don't just want strength. They want clarity. Purpose. If you walk in there with doubts, they'll know."
So basically I need to enter a sentient forest with the emotional stability of a Zen monk. Fantastic.
He set the goblet down. Leaned forward like he was about to deliver a prophecy.
"But you're a Vale," he said. "You were raised with fire in your bones, even if you don't feel it yet. You'll come out stronger. I believe that."
I nodded. Slowly. As if that would somehow convince the yawning dread in my stomach to go take a walk.
"Thank you, Father."
His face softened. A real softness. A weary, I remember when you were small kind of softness.
"You'll be alright, Seris. And if the spirits know what's good for them, they'll choose you without hesitation."
That made me feel something. I don't know what. Something between comfort and a panic attack.
But I nodded again. Because that's what you do when the world keeps moving and you're just trying not to fall off.