Elara gathered her hair in one fist, pulled it forward over her shoulder, and cut. The blades weren't meant for hair—they were dull and awkward—but they did the job. Long strands fell to the floor in uneven clumps. She kept cutting until the length stopped at her chest, then dropped the scissors and shook her head. The shorter hair settled around her face, no longer dragging at her neck.
Lisa looked like she might faint. "Your beautiful hair—"
"Was inconvenient," Elara said, running her fingers through the shorter strands to smooth them into something resembling order. "It'll grow back if I decide I need it."
She turned back to the vanity. A small wooden box sat open, filled with brooches and decorative pins. Most of them were floral—delicate roses, soft lilies, things designed to look harmless and pretty. She pushed them aside until her fingers found one that didn't match.
A butterfly. Golden wings spread wide, small rubies set along the body and wing edges. Nothing sweet about it. Sharp. Clear. Unmistakable.
She pinned it to the blazer's lapel and stepped back to look at the full picture.
The woman in the mirror looked nothing like the Fourth Princess who'd collapsed in a hallway three days ago. The hair was shorter, practical. The clothes were modern, professional, designed for function instead of decoration. The stance was straighter, shoulders back, chin level.
She looked like someone who'd walked out of a different world and decided this one needed fixing.
"Good," Elara said. She adjusted the lapels one final time, checked that the blazer sat correctly, and turned toward the door. "The Emperor sent word he wants a report on today's activities. I'd rather deliver it in person before someone else tells him their version."
Lisa's face went pale. "You're going to see His Majesty? Now? Dressed like that?"
"Dressed like someone who actually manages her own household," Elara said. "Yes."
She walked out, the white suit crisp and sharp, the golden butterfly catching torchlight as she moved. No trailing fabric. No dragging hems. Just clean lines and purpose.
Behind her, Lisa grabbed a cloak and hurried to follow, already praying this wouldn't end with both of them dead before sunrise.
.
.
.
When Elara stepped out of her chambers and started down the corridor, every knight whose eyes landed on her showed a flicker of something—shock, confusion, maybe recognition that the person wearing that suit was not the princess they'd learned to ignore. Their faces stayed neutral, disciplined, but their postures shifted just slightly. Shoulders straightened. Gazes tracked her longer than they should have.
Elara said nothing. She carried a thin file in one hand and walked with purpose toward the main gates. The Emperor's personal palace was technically part of the same imperial complex, but "same complex" meant very little when the grounds were large enough to house a small city. From her wing to his throne hall was a solid twenty-minute walk on foot—and walking was the only option.
The Emperor had standing orders: no flying, no carriages, no mounts, no running. Anyone approaching his palace did so on foot, at a measured pace, visible the entire way. It was a security measure and a power play rolled into one. It gave his guards time to assess threats and gave petitioners time to reconsider whether their business was worth the trip.
Elara made it ten minutes before her legs started to protest. The fatigue hit suddenly—a deep, bone-level ache that radiated up from her calves and settled into her lower back. She slowed, then stopped, bracing one hand against a stone pillar.
'Damn it.'
This body was weaker than she'd estimated. A ten-minute walk shouldn't feel like a marathon, but her breathing was already uneven, and her vision had started to blur at the edges. She gave herself ten seconds, then straightened and forced herself forward again.
She'd barely taken three steps when a voice called out behind her.
"Oh, 'sister.'"
Elara stopped. The tone wasn't warm. It was the kind of false sweetness people used when they wanted to sound polite in front of witnesses.
She turned.
A girl in a pink gown stood fifteen paces back, flanked by two attendants and one knight. The dress was elaborate—layers of silk and lace trimmed with white fur at the collar and cuffs, the kind of thing that cost more than a servant's yearly wage. The girl wearing it was younger than Elara, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with carefully arranged curls and a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Behind her, a man in formal armor stood at parade rest. He was tall, with long silver hair pulled back in a single braid and eyes the color of old gold. No horns. No visible tail. But the way he moved—fluid, controlled, too smooth—marked him as beastkin immediately. Snake lineage, Elara guessed, based on the eyes and the way he held himself like he could strike from stillness without warning.
He looked at Elara, then bowed from the waist, fist over his heart. "Greetings, Fourth Highness."
His voice was polite. His expression was unreadable.
Elara filed away the details in seconds. Lisa had mentioned this: at sixteen, every prince and princess was assigned a personal Beast Knight—one bound directly to them, not to the palace guard. It was tradition, protection, and status symbol all rolled into one. These knights were expensive, elite, and bound by ironclad rules: they never raised their hand against royal blood, no matter the order.
Elara had never taken one. According to Lisa, the previous princess had refused the assignment, citing some vague concern about "not needing protection." In practice, it meant she'd been the only royal without a personal enforcer standing behind her at court functions—another visible gap in status that everyone had noticed and no one had corrected.
The princess in pink tilted her head, smile still fixed in place. "Fourth Sister, how unusual to see you out walking. And dressed so... 'distinctly.'" Her gaze traveled over the white suit, the short hair, the butterfly pin. "Are you feeling well? I heard there was quite a commotion in your wing today."
Elara kept her expression neutral. "I'm fine."
"Oh, good." The princess's smile widened a fraction. "It's just that we heard soldiers were dragging servants through the halls. And some rather 'unpleasant' noises. People were worried you might be unwell again."
Translation: 'Everyone knows what you did, and they're already talking about it.'
Elara adjusted her grip on the file. "Just routine auditing. Nothing to worry about."
The princess's eyes gleamed. "Of course. I'm sure Father will be very interested to hear all about your... 'routine' work." She glanced at the silver-haired knight, then back at Elara. "Well, don't let me keep you. You look tired. Perhaps you should rest before continuing."
It wasn't concern. It was observation wrapped in mockery—a polite way of pointing out that Elara had stopped mid-walk because her own body couldn't handle a twenty-minute trip.
Elara met her gaze without blinking. "I'm fine," she repeated. "But thank you for your concern, Sixth Sister."
She turned and kept walking, pace steady despite the ache spreading through her legs. Behind her, she heard the rustle of silk and the quiet murmur of voices—the princess saying something to her attendants, probably something cutting, probably something meant to be overheard.
Elara didn't look back.
She had ten more minutes to go, a file full of financial crimes to present, and an Emperor waiting who'd either back her play or shut it down before it started.
One crisis at a time.