Ch3. A person who keeps their back straight.

Facing her father, Anna straightened her back, as if propping herself up—even if only by the faintest margin—to gain a little more leverage for herself.

The air in the study seemed to congeal.

King Phetlantis did not speak at once. He set down his feather‑pen slowly, a gesture that betrayed no need to assert his authority with haste. His gaze lifted from the documents, settled on Anna—first her face, then drifted down to her hands, which hung quietly at her sides yet were subtly clenched, and finally returned to her eyes. He regarded her in silence, as though he were looking at something he had once believed tamed, only to see it suddenly bristle with thorns again; his expression held surprise, but beneath it lay a deeper, colder reassessment.

“Terms.”

He repeated the word, his voice not loud but carrying a weight that made the air feel thin, like a thumb pressing ever so lightly against a slender bone—just enough for the other party to sense the pressure’s presence.

Anna did not retreat.

It was this very steadiness that made Phetlantis pause—her spine was upright, not the desperate, corner‑driven defiance of the night before, but a quieter, more deliberate straightness, like a sword being drawn slowly from its sheath, not to strike but simply to reveal its blade, letting the observer know it existed. He narrowed his eyes, the habitual gaze of superiority flickering as something sank within him.

Silence stretched, broken only by the occasional, distant birdcall drifting through the window—soft, far away, as if it came from another world.

Anna felt the lashes on her back tug and burn with each deliberate straightening of her posture, the heat climbing along her spine. She did not move; she pressed all that pain into the soles of her feet, turning it into the weight that kept her standing, rather than a reason to collapse. Her eyes locked onto her father’s, devoid of tears, devoid of pleading—only a calm, lucid resolve she had never felt before.

She recalled the voice she had heard on the tower:

Those who tell me to obey are not worth my life.

She drew a deep breath and spoke.

“I can marry,” she said, her tone even, like stating a weather forecast, “but I have conditions.”

She continued, “Prince Geelong must wait until the Empress Dowager’s mourning period ends before he comes to claim me… and…” she paused, swallowed, “he may not touch my body. If he does… I will die before his eyes.”

She had won herself at least three months—the Empress Dowager’s anniversary was still that far off—time in which anything could happen, even a miracle.

Phetlantis’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. No other expression shifted, but that slight squint was like a blade drawn soundlessly through the air—its presence felt even before it cut.

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he lifted his teacup with deliberate slowness, took a shallow sip, set it down. The soft click of porcelain against wood rang especially loud in the study’s hush. He watched Anna, as if re‑measuring the weight of a piece on a board, while that piece—until now silent—had suddenly spoken.

“The Empress Dowager’s anniversary.”

He repeated the phrase, his tone flat, neither granting nor mocking.

Anna stood still, motionless. She knew she was gambling—betting that he still held a shred of regard for the Empress Dowager’s name, that he needed to preserve a façade of propriety before Prince Geelong, that refusing to wait until the mourning period ended would look like a breach of filial decorum and could tip the delicate scales of the marriage negotiations. She had found that crack and used it to prop open three months of time.

Phetlantis fell silent for a long stretch.

Long enough that the burning sensation on Anna’s back deepened another notch, long enough that the occasional birdcall outside the window faded into nothing.

Then he spoke, his voice as calm as an official dispatch:

“Three months.”

He said it as though he were merely endorsing a petition, “You have three months.”

His gaze slid from her face down to her clenched hands, lingered a second, then lifted back to her eyes. Something flashed there—too quick to name, like a candle half‑burnt then snuffed, leaving no trace. His voice dropped again, low and level, like a lid sealing a coffin.

“But you must appear with proper decorum at tonight’s banquet,” he said, “so that Prince Geelong can see you and be satisfied.”

He paused, letting the final words drift out slowly.

“The rest is whatever you say.”

The meaning was clear as black ink on white paper—three months were his concession. The clause “he may not touch my body” was hers alone; he neither affirmed nor denied it, merely let it hang in a space where it held no binding force over him.

Hearing this rare concession from her father, Anna knew she had guessed right. The flicker of hope and joy that had rarely found purchase in her chest rose again. “I will attend tonight,” she said calmly, suppressing the surge of emotion within— a habit instilled in her since childhood.

She gave a shallow bow, then left the study.

The study’s door closed softly behind her, as silent as turning the page of a weighty tome, then shutting the book.

Anna stood in the corridor, her back to the door, not moving at once. She drew a breath; as it entered her chest, the pain in her back tugged with the rise and fall of her lungs. She closed her eyes briefly, letting the ache and the breath sink together, then exhaled and opened her eyes.

The corridor was unchanged—same stone floor, same slanting light through the window cracks—but something had shifted.

She could not pinpoint what, only that the leaden weight she had carried from the tower, pressing against her chest, felt a little lighter—not gone, but transformed from dead weight into something she could bear, a weight with direction, something she could now carry forward. She lowered her gaze to her skirt, watched tiny specks of morning light dance across the fabric, her lips remained unmoving, yet in the depths of her eyes a faint, fleeting spark flickered—so brief it was almost imagined.

Three months.

She let the number sit on her tongue, unspoken, feeling it rest at the root of her words.

Anything could happen.

She lifted her head, stepped forward, and walked toward her chambers. Her footsteps echoed in the corridor—neither hurried nor lagging, exactly as they had been when she entered the study—but now they carried a subtle difference, one only she could feel: the step of someone who had reclaimed a sliver of something for herself.

At the corridor’s turn, Klopp followed three paces behind, silent as ever.

He watched her back—her straight spine, her measured stride, the absence of any superfluous motion—and thought of the twenty years he had spent in the palace, of all the sorts of people who had emerged from that study door: some weeping, some stumbling, some never seen again. He had never known what they looked like before they went in, nor what they were like when they came out—indeed, vaguely, it seemed as if they carried something more now than they had before.

He said nothing, merely softened his steps ever so slightly, as if not to disturb the quiet she had forged.

The city’s streets were beginning to buzz—vendors shouting, wheels rattling over stone, the air threaded with the smell of roasted flatbread and stable straw.

Jeffery led his horse through the crowd, unhurried, like a casual traveller just passing through. Yet his eyes did not linger on the stalls or the passers‑by; they swept, without leaving a trace, toward the palace wall, then slipped back again.

He found a small inn, tied his horse to the post outside, went inside, and took a window seat. He ordered a pot of hot tea and a plate of dry rations.

The innkeeper glanced once at the sword at his waist, asked no further questions, and moved away. Jeffery loosened the collar of his coat, rested his elbows on the table, cradled his teacup, and gazed out at the street, his expression tranquil, like deep water that has settled to the bottom. His other hand slipped into the inner pocket of his coat, fingertips brushing the haft of the letter opener he had taken from Anna, pausing there only to feel that it was still present—he did not draw it out, merely let his fingers rest upon it, as if checking that a certain thing remained.

Tonight, there would be a feast in the palace.

He lowered his head, watched the ripples in his tea, his brow furrowed over a thought he had not yet untangled, his mouth pressed into a straight line.

He did not know how she was faring inside.

But he knew she was alive, that she stood, that she walked within those palace walls.

For him, that was enough.

Soon, the hour of the royal banquet arrived. Nobles streamed into the hall, for Prince Geelong was to make his formal proposal, and the occasion was grand.

The banquet hall’s candles were all lit at dusk.

Hundreds of candles hung from chandeliers and wall sconces, bathing the entire space in a golden blaze. Crystal cups and goblets caught the light, scattering tiny sparkles across the guests’ garments and jewels, like a carefully staged dream—beautiful, yet with a hint of artifice.

Nobles arrived in succession, men in variously coloured formal coats, women’s skirts brushing the floor, their jeweled hairpins swaying with each step. Murmurs floated through the hall like delicate ripples on water, some guests leaning in to whisper to their neighbours, others raising their wine glasses toward the high table, every face wearing the half‑genuine, half‑polite smile of the banquet‑goer.

Everyone knew the night’s purpose.

The prince of Gongchinido was to ask for the princess’s hand.

That news had already slipped through palace gossip that morning, winding its way through the city by evening—even the street‑side vendors had heard it: the western prince had taken a fancy to Loxinitro’s loveliest princess, the two kingdoms were about to ally, it was a match made in heaven—yet none of those who said so had ever seen Anna’s eyes, none knew of the wounds on her back, none were aware of what had transpired on the tower that dawn.

Seated at the head table, King Phetlantis wore his usual imposing mien, like a bronze statue that had been cast flawlessly—no trace of last night’s fury, no hint of this morning’s compromise, merely the image of a king enthroned at the pinnacle of power, looking down over the whole hall.

Meanwhile, Prince Geelong occupied the seat of honour among the guests, dressed in a sombre, more formal outer coat emblazoned with Gongchinido’s crest in gleaming gold thread that caught the candlelight. He held a wine glass, his posture relaxed as he chatted with the neighbouring nobles, but his eyes never ceased scanning the hall’s entrance, bearing the calm, patient look of a hunter who already senses his quarry entering the net.

The clock ticked toward the moment.

The hall’s din gradually swelled, glasses chiming, strings in the corner playing a soft, unhurried melody; the banquet chamber felt like a pressure cooker about to be lifted—surface calm, depths simmering.

When the banquet began, Anna’s face wore the prescribed smile, but it did not reach her soul. Her violet eyes burned with an inner fire—not a hot flame, but a smoldering ember buried deep in ash, grey on the surface, red within, ready to flare again at any moment. She swept her gaze over those who bowed to her, who smiled at her, who offered congratulatory words; in her mind each face automatically transformed into another vision—a roaring inferno swallowing everything, turning smiles and fine garments to ash. She pictured it serenely, her smile unchanged, as if the two scenes were occurring in wholly separate realms that never touched.

She approached her assigned seat.

Along the way she passed Prince Geelong.

He had seen her the moment she stepped through the doors; now he rose, lifted his wine glass, and walked two steps toward her, his mouth curling into that nauseating, self‑satisfied smirk of a man who already considered the prize his, merely performing a final check.

“Princess,” he said, his voice deliberately softened, “this evening is truly splendid.”

Anna halted before him, her violet eyes lifting to his face, calm, gentle, still bearing that correct smile. In her mind, the inferno raged most fiercely over him—it devoured his coat, his smile, the eyes that clung to her—leaving nothing behind.

“Your Highness,” she replied, her voice soft, each word placed just so, “you are too kind.”

She gave a shallow bow, her skirt flowing with the motion, then lifted her head again and continued toward her seat, brushing past him, the faint stir of her skirt lifting a breeze that did not touch his coat.

That smile remained on her lips.

It never managed to reach those violet eyes.

She had no wish to draw near Prince Geelong, but she had promised her father she would appear with decorum, so she smiled—yet the instant she turned her head, that smile vanished.

And as she did, her gown revealed the bandages on her back, the wound still seeping blood. It seemed as though her father had deliberately arranged this, to let everyone see the joke they were making of her.

Look, they seemed to say, at this famously stubborn princess—still, after the lashes, she has agreed to the marriage.

The candles illuminated the hall, also throwing into sharp relief the thin strip of bandage that showed just beneath the neckline of her dress—barely there, yet sufficient, as if the tailor had purposely shifted the seam half an inch downward when sewing the gown. The white bandage stood out against the deep purple fabric, clean but arresting, and at its very edge a faint, dark trace of seepage lay still, quietly visible in the candlelight.

People noticed.

A noblewoman leaned toward her companion, fan half‑covering her mouth, whispered something; the companion’s glance flicked to Anna’s back, then moved away, lips turning in a gesture that was unclear whether pity or malicious delight. A little farther off, two young nobles lowered their heads to exchange words, one gave a light chuckle that was quickly suppressed.

No one spoke aloud.

Only their glances—darting from different angles, light as needles—briefly settled on that spot, then drifted off again, as if they had seen nothing, as if they had not noticed the bandage, the blood, the father’s silent proclamation:

See? No matter how stubborn her temperament, she has still bowed.

Anna took her seat, her waist and back straight, the posture preventing her from leaning fully against the chair; the wound continued to weep with each minute shift, she felt it, yet she did not so much as twitch her brow. She lifted the wine before her, took a small, measured sip, let her eyes glide over the table, over the glances that flicked away then crept back, taking each in, then releasing each.

She knew exactly what they were looking at.

She knew it all.

Her violet eyes burned in the candlelight, deeper and quieter than before—like a pool of congealed lava, its surface crusted over, its depths still seething. Her face bore no expression; the proper smile had died the moment she turned her head, leaving only a blank, composed countenance, like a stone that has been rubbed smooth too many times to retain any mark.

She thought back to that morning on the tower.

Those who tell me to obey are not worth my life.

Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass, the pressure feather‑light, as if she were soothing something—or being soothed by something. She did not lower her head, did not let her spine bend under those gazes even a fraction.

Let them look.

She told herself, voice even, like a stone sinking to the bottom of the deep and then lying still.

Let them look at a wounded woman who still holds her back straight.