Ch3. The One Who Stands Straight

Facing her father, Anna straightened her back. It was as though the act itself were holding her together. However little strength it gave her, she would use it to fight for something more.

The air in the study seemed to still.

Phetlantis did not speak at once. He set down the quill in his hand with deliberate slowness, like a man who had no need for haste to remind anyone of his importance.

His gaze left the documents and returned to Anna. From her face, down to the hands hanging at her sides—hands that had quietly tightened against the fabric of her skirt—and then back to her eyes. He studied her in silence. Like something he had believed thoroughly subdued had suddenly raised its thorns again. There was surprise in his eyes.

But more than that, there was something colder. A reassessment. “Terms?” He repeated the word. His voice was not loud, yet it carried a weight that seemed to thin the air around them. Like a thumb resting slowly against a fragile bone. Not pressing hard yet.

Only making sure the other person knew the pressure was there.

Anna did not retreat.

That was what truly irritated Phetlantis. Her spine was straight now. Not with the desperate defiance of someone cornered against a wall, as she had been the night before. This was quieter. More deliberate. Like a sword being slowly drawn from its sheath. Not striking.

Only exposing the blade so everyone could see that it existed. Phetlantis narrowed his eyes.

Something darkened in the gaze of a man long accustomed to looking down upon others. The silence continued.

The only sound in the study was the occasional call of a bird slipping in through the narrow window. Light. Distant. As though it came from another world entirely. Anna could feel the wounds across her back pulling beneath the effort of standing straight. Heat crawled upward along her spine. She did not move.

Instead, she forced all of the pain downward, into the soles of her feet, turning it into the weight that kept her standing rather than the reason she might collapse.

She looked directly at her father.

There were no tears in her eyes.

No pleading. Only something calm and lucid. Something she herself was feeling for the first time. She remembered those words. Not worth trading my life for.

Anna drew in a deep breath. “I can marry him.” Her voice was steady, almost as though she were discussing the weather. “But I have terms.” She continued. “Prince Geelong has to wait until after Mother’s death anniversary before he comes to take me away.”

She paused and swallowed. “And…” “He is not allowed to touch me.” “If he does…” Her gaze never moved. “I’ll die in front of him.”

She had fought for something. Her mother’s death anniversary was still at least three months away.

Three months. Anything could happen in three months. Even a miracle. Phetlantis’s eyes narrowed slightly. That was all. No further expression.

And yet the motion felt like a blade passing silently through the air. Nothing had been struck. Still, the edge was unmistakable. He did not answer immediately. Instead, with deliberate slowness, he picked up the teacup beside him. Took a shallow sip. Set it down. The sound of porcelain meeting wood was unusually clear in the quiet study.

He looked at Anna as though he were weighing a chess piece again— a piece that had unexpectedly begun to speak. “Your mother’s death anniversary?”

He repeated the words without inflection. There was no way to tell whether he was considering the request or mocking it. Anna stood motionless. She knew she was gambling.

Gambling that some remnant of restraint still existed where her mother’s name was concerned. Gambling that, before Prince Geelong, her father still needed to maintain the appearance of a respectable man who understood propriety.

To marry off his daughter without even waiting for the anniversary of his dead wife’s passing— that would become a small flaw in the polished story of this political marriage. And Anna had found that flaw.

She used it to pry three months of time out of him. Phetlantis remained silent for a long while. Long enough for the burning across Anna’s back to deepen.

Long enough for the birdcall outside the window to disappear completely. Then he spoke. His voice was as flat as an official decree. “Fine.” The word sounded like approval stamped onto a document. “Three months.” His gaze moved from her face to her tightened hands. Paused there for one second. Then rose again.

Something flashed through his eyes too quickly to identify. Like a wick burned halfway down and abruptly pinched out. Nothing remained. His voice lowered again. Cold and even. Like a stone sealing a grave. “But you will appear properly at tonight’s banquet.”

His eyes remained on her. “You will let Prince Geelong see you.” “You will make sure he is satisfied.” He paused, placing the last words very slowly. “The rest was your own condition.” The implication was as clear as ink on paper. The three months— those, he had granted.

But her words— He cannot touch me— belonged to her alone.

He neither accepted nor rejected them. He simply left them suspended in a place that placed no obligation on him. Anna heard the compromise.

Rare as it was. She knew immediately that her gamble had worked. Something she had thought lost to her—

hope. A small, unexpected spark of relief. It surfaced. “I’ll attend tonight.”

She kept her voice calm, forcing the emotion back down. It was a skill she had been trained in since childhood.

Then she bowed. Turned. And left the study. The door closed softly behind Anna.

Without drama. Almost without sound. Like the turning of one very heavy page before a book was shut again. Anna stood in the corridor with her back to the door. She did not move immediately. She drew in a slow breath. As her chest expanded, the wounds across her back pulled painfully.

Her eyes closed for a moment. She took that pain and the breath together, pressed them both down, then let the air out slowly.

When she opened her eyes again, the corridor was unchanged.

The same stone floor. The same walls. The same bars of light slanting through the windows. Everything looked exactly as it had before she entered the study. And yet something was different. Anna could not have said exactly what.

Only that the leaden weight she had carried back from the tower that morning felt slightly lighter. It had not disappeared. It had changed. Before, it had been dead weight. Now it was living weight. Weight with direction. Something she could carry while moving forward.

She lowered her gaze to the hem of her dress.

Morning light scattered across the fabric in tiny fragments.

Her mouth did not curve into a smile.

But something in her eyes flickered— very faintly. Very briefly. Three months. She repeated the number silently in her mind. Did not speak it aloud. Only let it rest at the back of her tongue for a moment. Anything could happen. Anna lifted her head again and began walking toward her chambers. Her footsteps echoed through the corridor. Not fast.

Not slow. Exactly the same pace she had used when walking into her father’s study.

And yet there was something subtly different in them. Something only she could feel. The stride of someone who had managed to take one small thing back for herself. At the turn of the corridor, Kloop followed three paces behind. Silent as ever. He watched Anna’s back. That straight spine.

Those measured steps without a single unnecessary movement.

He had spent twenty years inside this palace.

He had seen all kinds of people come out through that study door. Some crying. Some stumbling.

Some never came out at all. Kloop said nothing. He simply made his own footsteps a little quieter. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ The streets gradually grew busier.

Vendors called out from the market. Cartwheels rattled across the stone roads. The air carried the smell of baked flatbread and straw from the stables. Jeffery walked through the crowd leading his horse. He did not hurry. To anyone watching, he looked like nothing more than a traveler wandering without purpose.

But his eyes were not on the stalls. Nor on the people. Once, almost without appearing to do so, he glanced toward the palace walls.

Then looked away. He found a small inn inside the city. Tied his horse to the wooden rail out front. Went inside. Sat beside a window. Ordered a pot of hot tea and a small plate of dry provisions. The innkeeper looked once at the sword hanging at his waist, decided not to ask questions, and walked away. Jeffery loosened the collar of his coat. Rested one elbow on the table. Held the teacup between his fingers. And watched the street through the window. His expression was calm.

Like deep water whose currents had sunk far beneath the surface.

His other hand slipped into the hidden pocket inside his coat. His fingertips touched the handle of Anna’s letter opener.

He paused there. Did not take it out.

Only touched it. As though checking that something was still where it belonged.

There would be a royal banquet tonight.

Jeffery lowered his gaze to the ripples inside the teacup. Something he had not yet fully understood weighed between his brows. His lips pressed into a straight line.

He did not know how she was doing inside those walls.

But he knew she was alive. Still standing. Still moving somewhere inside that palace. For now— that was enough. The time for the royal banquet came quickly. Nobles from across the court arrived in large numbers.

Prince Geelong was expected to formally ask for Anna’s hand, and the palace had made certain the occasion would be grand. By evening, every candle in the banquet hall had been lit. Hundreds of flames burned from chandeliers and wall sconces, bathing the room in gold. Crystal goblets fractured the candlelight into countless points that scattered across silk, brocade, jewels, and polished metal. The whole hall looked like an elaborate dream. Beautiful enough to feel false.

The nobles entered one after another.

Men in ceremonial coats of every color.

Women in sweeping gowns, jeweled hair ornaments trembling faintly as they walked. Low conversation spread through the room like ripples over water. People bent close to whisper into one another’s ears. Others raised their glasses while glancing toward the seats of honor. Every face wore that particular banquet smile—

half genuine. Half performed. Everyone knew what tonight was about. The prince of Gonchinido intended to propose. The news had already leaked quietly through palace servants that morning.

By evening, even street vendors in the city had heard. The western prince had chosen the most beautiful princess of Losinitro. The two kingdoms were preparing to unite through marriage. A perfect match. That was what everyone said. Not one of them had seen Anna’s eyes.

Not one knew about the wounds across her back. Not one knew what had happened on the tower that morning. Phetlantis was already seated in the place of honor. His expression held the same authority as always. Like a bronze statue cast into its final form. There was no trace of the rage from the night before. No trace of the compromise he had made that morning.

Only a king seated at the summit of power, looking down upon the hall beneath him.

Prince Geelong sat among the highest-ranking guests. Tonight he wore a darker, more formal ceremonial coat embroidered with the crest of Gonchinido. Gold thread caught the candlelight with every movement.

A wineglass rested casually in his hand as he laughed with the nobles beside him.

But his eyes kept returning to the entrance of the hall. Patient. Confident. With the careless expectation of a hunter waiting for prey to walk into a trap.

A quarter hour remained before the formal beginning. Conversation slowly gathered in volume. Glasses chimed.

String players in one corner performed something light and elegant. The banquet hall felt like a sealed vessel under pressure. Perfectly composed on the surface. Something heavy beneath.

Then Anna appeared. The moment she stepped into the doorway, the voices in the room faltered. Only for an instant. A barely perceptible rest inside a piece of music. Then conversation resumed. But its direction had changed. Every attention in the room had shifted toward her. Anna wore a dark purple gown. The skirt flowed to the floor. The line of her shoulders was long and elegant. Addie had arranged her hair carefully, leaving only two loose strands beside her ears. There were few jewels. Just enough. As though someone had deliberately chosen not to bury her beneath decoration.

Leaving her face completely exposed to every gaze in the room.

She walked into the hall with steady steps. The hem of her gown moved softly around her. Her spine was straight. Because of the wounds beneath the fabric, there was a faint tension in that posture—

something only a careful observer would notice.

Anna was smiling. It was the correct smile. The proper curve. The proper warmth. A smile measured, practiced, and corrected throughout childhood until it had become flawless. But her purple eyes were something else.

There was fire in them. Not warm fire. Cold fire. The kind that burned deep beneath ash. Gray on the surface. Red underneath. Always capable of catching again.

Anna looked across the faces bowing to her. Smiling at her. Offering congratulations.

And in her mind, each face transformed into the same image. Fire. A great blaze consuming their smiles. Their expensive clothes. Their jewels.

Everything. She imagined it with perfect calm. The smile on her face did not move at all.

As though the two things existed in separate worlds. She made her way toward her seat. On the way, she passed near Prince Geelong. He had noticed her the instant she entered. His gaze had clung to her ever since. Now he stood, wineglass still in hand, and moved two steps toward her. There was that same smile on his mouth.

A self-satisfied imitation of charm. The look of a man who already believed the prey belonged to him and merely wanted one final confirmation.

“Princess.” His voice softened deliberately. “You look exceptionally beautiful tonight.” Anna stopped before him.

Her purple eyes lifted to meet his face. Calm. Gentle. Still wearing the correct smile. And inside her mind— the fire burned hottest around him. It consumed his coat. His smile. Those eyes that would not stop clinging to her.

Burned every last part of him until nothing remained. “Your Highness.” Her voice was soft. Every word perfectly measured. “You are too kind.” She gave him a shallow curtsy. The fabric of her skirt flowed with the movement. Then she straightened and continued toward her seat. She passed him without so much as letting the edge of her gown touch his coat.

The smile stayed on her face.

It never once reached her purple eyes. Anna wanted nothing to do with Prince Geelong.

But she had promised her father she would behave properly. So she smiled. And the instant she turned her face away from Geelong— the smile vanished.

The gown exposed part of the bandaging across her back. The wounds beneath were still bleeding. It was difficult not to think the choice had been deliberate. A lesson arranged by her father.

A reminder that everyone in the room was watching.

Watching the notoriously stubborn princess sit obediently at a banquet after being whipped— and agree to the marriage. The banquet hall blazed with candlelight.

And in that light, the strip of white bandage visible just above the back of Anna’s gown stood out clearly. It was not much. Just enough. As though whoever had designed the neckline had deliberately lowered it by half an inch. The white bandage showed starkly against the edge of dark purple fabric. Clean. And yet impossible to ignore. At one corner, a small dark stain had begun to seep through.

Quietly visible beneath the candlelight.

People noticed. A noblewoman leaned toward the person beside her and lifted her fan over the lower half of her face. She whispered something. The other person glanced at Anna’s back. Looked away. The curve of their mouth held something difficult to identify— pity, perhaps. Or satisfaction at witnessing someone else’s humiliation. Farther away, two younger nobles exchanged a few quiet words.

One of them gave a small laugh before quickly suppressing it.

No one said anything aloud. There were only glances. One after another. Thin as needles. Landing from different directions on that exposed patch of bandage before sliding away again as though nothing had happened. As though they had not seen it. Had not seen the blood.

Had not seen a father using his daughter’s body to make a declaration before the entire court.

Look. However stubborn she is— she still knelt in the end. Anna sat at her place with her back straight. She could not fully lean against the chair. Every small movement caused the wounds to seep a little more beneath the bandages. She could feel it. Her expression did not change. She lifted the wineglass in front of her. Took a small sip. Then calmly let her gaze pass across the tables before her. Across the eyes that looked away—

and then secretly returned. She noticed every single one.

And let every single one pass.

She knew exactly what they were looking at. She knew everything. Her purple eyes burned more deeply now. More quietly. Like molten rock that had cooled into a hard crust on the surface while remaining incandescent underneath. The proper smile had died the instant she turned away from Geelong. Now her face was simply still. Clean. Cold. Like a stone polished so many times that nothing could carve another mark into it.

She remembered that morning.

Remembered the voice that had said: The people telling me to obey weren’t saying anything worth trading my life for.

Her fingers moved lightly over the stem of her wineglass. Once. Almost like soothing something. Or being soothed by something she could not see. She did not lower her head. Did not allow her spine to bend beneath those stares by even the smallest degree.

Let them look.

The thought came quietly. Like a stone sinking through deep water until it reached the bottom and stopped moving.

Let them look. Let them see someone sitting here wounded— and still sitting straight.