In the very, very old Empire of Oaiya, the imperial bloodline had remained unbroken since the founding.
How? Simple. The gods played favorites.
The goddess Enia blessed the first king, Dauthar, for his wits and sacrifice in the war between man, beast, and demon. His gift of foresight became the empire's legacy — passed down through generations, ensuring that even an illegitimate child of royal blood could compete for the throne.
That gift shaped destinies.
Cursed them, too.
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As soon as the young lady was out of sight, the Prince clenched his fist and struck the trunk — the impact shivered through the branches.
A redheaded youth tumbled out of it, landing with a graceless thud. His hair was a sunlit copper, his skin faintly tanned — unusual among the pale nobility. He rubbed his head, blinking up at the scowling prince.
"Are you quite done pretending to be me?" he muttered, voice lazy but good-natured.
The prince's sharp blue eyes flicked down at him. "I was saving her from embarrassment. Think nothing of it."
Ryder Belmont — son of a minor baron, loyal companion, and habitual napper — stretched his arms with a yawn. "Embarrassment or not, Your Highness, she'll find out eventually. Lying to a duke's daughter isn't exactly subtle."
"I know," the prince said simply. "That's the point."
"The point?" Ryder tilted his head, one brow raised. "You're a strange one, you know that?"
"You'd rather I humiliate her?" Raymond smirked faintly.
"Honesty, is a better word for it, but I guess chivalry counts sometimes" Ryder shrugged.
" It wasn't chivalry, it was courtesy " Ray said simply,
" What's the difference?"
The prince didn't answer. He just turned and walked away, cloak catching the wind behind him.
"Right. Brooding silence. Always a treat. You know you've never treated me with such mercy." Ryder mumbled, trudging after him.
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Back in the grand hall, Duchess Hampton and the Dowager Princess sat together, exchanging pleasantries like lifelong friends.
"They'll both be the most eligible debutantes of their time," Mother said brightly.
The Dowager Princess smiled with practiced grace. "And with what you've told me about her temperament… perhaps their personalities will even complement each other well."
I entered, scanning the crowd for Mother's familiar curls.
"There you are!"
I turned—and immediately regretted it.
"My, my. Iris Hampton," came the velvet tone of my own personal migraine. "Never thought I'd find you here, of all places."
Marissa Riddict glided toward me like a swan that knew it was beautiful. Golden curls, pined to perfection, but brief, Ember-golden eyes gleaming with polished distain. Her every movement oozed breeding — posture straight, chin poised, eyes sharpened to a weapon's edge.
"Lady Marissa," I greeted, forcing civility into my voice.
"I must say," she continued, her lips curving in polite mockery, "it's quite the surprise to see you at an event of this… emotional weight. You were never fond of formal gatherings, were you?"
"I'm escorting Mother," I replied.
Her smile widened, practiced and pristine. "How dutiful of you. Though I must admit," her eyes flicked down my gown, "one wouldn't expect such radiance at a memorial service. Is it a mourning dress… or a performance piece?"
A ripple of whispers flitted through the surrounding nobles like the flutter of silk fans.
"She's provoking her…"
"At a memorial? How tasteless."
"But that Hampton girl's dress—goodness gracious, it is bright."
{Nobles. So exhausting. The dress wasn't even myidea! }
I smiled sweetly. "Perhaps you're right. But if it's blinding, at least it's keeping the flies away."
Marissa's fan paused mid-wave. Her lashes lowered, masking irritation behind poise. "You always did have such… creative interpretations of etiquette."
"I try."
Her gaze hardened ever so slightly. "You know, some of us spend years learning the art of refinement, while others seem to stumble into it by sheer accident."
"Oh, don't worry," I said cheerfully. "You make the effort look painful enough for both of us."
That earned me some muffled laughs and gasps in the crowd.
For a moment, a heartbeat even, I got a glimpse of what was under that perfect posture, the insecurity-the fury.
Marissa worked hard- tirelessly to be a poised noble lady, just to be compared to me at every turn.
I understood her. I mean I never did anything, yet everyone praised me. And Marissa never got praise even when she did everything right.
{I almost pity her, Almost. But pity is an insult I can't afford to give, I lack the heartforit.}
Then came the sharp, commanding voice that sliced through it all:
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Oh dear, it's the Dowager Princess," someone whispered.
"Children these days…" another sighed. "Causing scenes at such an event."
The Dowager stopped before us, regal and cold. "Well? What's the issue?"
{Crap.}
"Nothing, Your Grace," Marissa said smoothly, dipping in a graceful curtsey. "I was merely greeting my dear cousin. It has been so long since we last spoke."
I smiled politely, pretending to agree. "That's correct. Your Grace."
The Dowager's expression didn't change. "Good. Then perhaps you may continue your greetings after the memorial has concluded."
We curtsied in unison, and walked back.
Marissa leaned closer as she turned to leave, her voice a sugar-coated whisper only I could hear.
"Enjoy your little moment of shine, Lady Iris. It might be a once-in-a-lifetime thing."
I met her gaze, unflinching. "Then you'd better start rehearsing your applause."
Her smile froze. "How charming."
And with that, she glided away, every inch of me was full of noble restraint.
{I want to yank her hair out!}
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On the carriage ride home, I watched the scenery blur past the window. To anyone else, I probably looked pensive and poetic. In truth, my brain was a mess.
That dream still lingered — too vivid, too strange to brush off.
{Does it mean something? Am I actually meant to do something here? After all these years?}
I sighed — louder than I intended.
"Tired?" Mother asked gently.
"A little," I said, eyes still on the window.
"How was the ceremony? You disappeared for a while, so I thought—"
"The dress was suffocating, the heels were... weapons, and standing still felt like punishment," I cut in flatly. "So I went out for air."
Mother frowned. "Are you always going to be this socially awkward? Becoming heir means understanding the family's vessels — creating bonds, building alliances. You can't do that if you keep avoiding every gathering."
I turned, meeting her gaze. "You call it awkwardness. I call it social exhaustion. And once Father names me heir officially, they'll have no choice but to acknowledge me, bonds or not."
"As true as that may be—"
"Mother." I paused, choosing my words. "I know you'd rather I lived quietly as a noblewoman. But I've made my choice. I'd rather be a Lord."
Her expression hardened. "You don't have the strength for it."
"Not yet," I said calmly.
She opened her mouth to argue again, but we both knew how this conversation ended. It always ended the same way.
{After all, anything's better than dying.}