The dress was ivory white. Not a bright white that dazzles the eyes, but a soft white, almost cream, like the color of aged stationery.

  Mira stood still in front of the full-length mirror. Arlene stood behind her, not as Beth, the madam of the brothel, but as a personal servant. The woman’s hands moved deftly, fastening the back of Mira’s dress. The dress was made of chiffon silk that draped beautifully, hugging Mira's body without constricting it. The cut was modest, covering the chest up to the neck with delicate lace, yet leaving her back slightly exposed.

  “White is the color of the canvas,” Arlene whispered, tidying Mira’s stray hairs. “Tonight, let Prince Arlen feel like he can paint anything on you. Don’t be a sword. Be water.”

  Mira stared at her reflection. Her makeup was minimal. The corners of her eyes had a slight peach shadow to give her eyes a “wet” and emotional look. Her lips were coated with balm to make her look anxious. The figure in the mirror was not Mira who had once slain monsters. It was Rhea, a noble daughter lost in a grand palace.

  “Do I look… scared enough?” Mira asked flatly.

  “You look like you need protection,” Arlene corrected. “Remember, Iva is true nobility even if she’s not from The High Nine. Elodie is the graceful daughter of a neighboring kingdom. You need to be something else. You need to be a fragile mystery capable of captivating the prince’s attention.”

  The bedroom door opened. Two guards in silver armor waited.

  “Hold your breath while he talks,” was Arlene's last instruction. “Let your chest rise and fall a little faster. That’s a physical sign of attraction—or fear. For Arlen, it’s all the same.”

  Mira nodded. She took a deep breath, summoning Kars’ shadow in her mind—not to give her fighting strength, but to borrow the pain of that loss so it would show in her eyes. She stepped outside.

  ***

  The royal dining room is the definition of architectural intimidation. Its ceiling arches fifteen meters high, supported by cold black marble pillars. In the center of the room, a long table made of aged Mahogany wood stretches out, its surface so polished that it reflects the candlelight above it.

  Tonight, no servants rush about in panic. There is only disciplined silence.

  Prince Arlen sat at the end of the table. He wore a midnight blue formal royal suit embroidered with gold thread. His posture was relaxed yet commanding, one hand holding a glass of wine, the other tapping the table in a slow rhythm.

  To his right, Princess Elodie of Vsnava. Elodie wore a tightly fitted deep purple velvet gown, reflecting her status as a powerful foreign noble. She sat upright, chin raised, her eyes sharply focused on the strategy map hanging on the opposite wall.

  On his left, Lady Iva of Joenvaa. Iva didn’t look rustic. She wore an emerald green gown with the classic cut of a wealthy village noble. Her brown hair was neatly styled with a pearl clip. She knew how to sit, she knew how to hold a napkin. Yet, her shoulders were tense. Her eyes darted nervously, avoiding direct gaze with Arlen, as if she were a deer aware of a lion in the same room.

  The chair across from Arlen was empty. Mira stepped in. The sound of her footsteps was muffled by the carpet, but her presence made all three of them turn their heads.

  "Ah," Arlen's voice broke the silence, deep and commanding. "Our Wildflower has arrived."

  Mira curtseyed—a bit wobbly, a bit too low, showing excessive humility. "Forgive me, Your Highness. This palace corridor... makes me feel very small."

  "Sit, Rhea," Arlen smiled, a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "This palace is designed to make everyone feel small. Except the king."

  Mira sat down. A servant poured red wine into her glass.

  Arlen did not immediately start the dinner. He twirled his wine glass, watching the red liquid swirl.

  "Before we enjoy the meal," Arlen began, his tone turning serious, the tone of a statesman. "I have just received an intelligence report from our western border. From the Kingdom of Klassidor."

  Mira sharpened her ears. Klassidor. A neighbor of Asnaven with a harsh culture, a mix of military discipline and winter brutality.

  "The city of Angborg," Arlen continued. "A month ago, an incident happened there. Angborg Peak Prison—the prison with the highest magical security on the continent—was broken into."

  Iva carefully set down her glass, without a clink. She gracefully wiped the corner of her lips. "I heard that rumor from my father's wheat merchant, Your Highness," Iva said, her voice soft and polite, reflecting her noble upbringing. "They said Angborg Peak is located in the middle of an ice lake. It's impossible to come out alive without freezing."

  "Exactly, Lady Iva," Arlen nodded, giving Iva validation. Iva looked slightly relieved, her cheeks flushed from the praise. "That's why this is concerning. The ones who breached that prison are not ordinary people. And if even the brutal Klassidor could be infiltrated... what does that mean for us?"

  Arlen looked at Elodie, giving her the turn to speak.

  "Klassidor relies too much on physical strength and ice magic; they're too rigid," Elodie’s cold analysis cut into the meat of her opening with surgical precision. "They underestimated the art of infiltration. Vsnava had long warned King Klassidor to update their defense systems. The fall of Angborg is proof of their arrogance."

  "Sharp analysis, Princess," Arlen smiled wryly. He appreciated Elodie's sharpness. "And you, Rhea? What’s your opinion about that breached prison?"

  This is a test. Mira gives an economic/social perspective. Elodie provides a military/political perspective. Mira must offer a different perspective—the 'Wildflower' perspective. Mira already knows this information from Drek while on the ship The White Swan, not from any trader, not from anyone.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Mira does not touch her food. She stares at the candle in the middle of the table. "I don't know much about politics, Your Highness," Mira whispers. "But... I know about the cold. If someone manages to escape from an ice lake... it means they have a fire hotter than their fear. Such a person... is dangerous because they no longer fear death."

  Arlen remains silent. He looks at Mira intently. That answer touches the philosophical side that Arlen enjoys.

  "A fire hotter than fear," Arlen repeats slowly. "Interesting."

  The three princesses stared at their plates. No one spoke. No one started a conversation.

  "Princess Elodie," said Prince Arlen, looking back at Elodie. "Grey Eyes. We know that he has been haunting the Northern Alliance for several years. My theory is… that man is connected to Angborg."

  Elodie tensed up. Mira felt the same, though she tried to hide it. Mira knew who Grey Eyes was. And Mira knew that it wasn’t that man who broke into Angborg because she had been with him for the past two months.

  "We can’t be certain yet, Your Highness," Elodie replied. "Assumptions will only lead to other possibilities."

  Prince Arlen looked at the three princesses in turn. "The security of the kingdom is a priority. You must understand that more than you understand yourselves." Prince Arlen’s face was expressionless. "What happened in Angborg is a high-level threat. There’s no need to wait a whole month; King’s Cliff is next.

  “Even though King Maren—my father—has already gone there. Tomorrow we will go to King’s Hill to assess the situation. This threat is not from ordinary bandits, and I’m sure all of this is still connected to Grey Eyes.”

  Both Elodie and Mira were trying to hide something. Elodie knew very well what had happened at King’s Cliff, and Mira, although she couldn’t confirm it, was certain that it was related to Grey Eyes—Kars.

  Arlen clapped his hands once. The tense, formal atmosphere broke instantly. "Enough with politics. Tonight I want to get to know my potential companions, not as diplomats, but as women."

  The servants entered, carrying the main course: Roasted Venison with forest berry sauce. Arlen began to eat, and this time, his eyes started to "hunt."

  He didn’t focus on a single person. He distributed his attention with good precision.

  "Iva," called Arlen. Iva straightened her back. "Yes, Your Highness?"

  "I hear you are skilled at embroidery," said Arlen, his voice softening, teasingly. "My mother used to say, a woman who is patient with a needle is usually patient with a man's heart."

  Arlen reached out his hand across the table, touching the back of Iva's hand beside her glass. Iva did not pull her hand away—etiquette forbade a noblewoman from refusing a prince. But Mira could see the muscles in Iva's hand tense. She was scared, yet she smiled politely.

  "I-I just do what my mother taught me, Your Highness," Iva replied.

  "Very fashionable," Arlen pulled his hand back, his gaze shifting.

  "Elodie," Arlen greeted. Elodie met his gaze fearlessly. "I heard you turned down three dukes' proposals in your country before coming here. Are your standards that high?"

  "I am looking for someone who can match my pace, Your Highness," Elodie replied calmly. "Not someone who just wants me to walk behind him."

  Arlen laughed. He liked the challenge. He tilted his head, staring at Elodie as if looking at a wild horse he wanted to tame. "Be careful, Elodie. Horses that run too fast often stumble."

  Then, Arlen's gaze fell on Mira across the table.

  "And you, Rhea."

  Mira put down her fork. She looked at Arlen with her dim, moist amber eyes.

  "You don't have a hobby like Iva. And you don't have a list of suitors like Elodie," said Arlen. He stood up.

  Arlen walked slowly around the table. The sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor was rhythmic. Iva bowed her head. Elodie continued eating calmly. Arlen passed by both of them. He stopped right behind Mira's chair.

  Mira felt the heat from Arlen's body. The prince bent slightly, his hands resting on the back of Mira's chair, locking her up.

  "You're empty, Rhea," Arlen whispered near Mira's ear. "Like a white paper. You have no history in this palace. You have no allies."

  Arlen brought his face closer. His nose touched Mira's hair, inhaling the scent. "Does that scare you?"

  Mira felt the static electricity from Arlen's hand creep into the wooden chair, then tickled her back. His old instinct screamed: Elbow his stomach. Break the ribs.

  But Mira held him back. She remembers Arlene's lesson. Tilt your body. Just a little.

  Mira didn't stay away. Instead, she leaned her back against the back of the chair, bringing himself closer to Arlen's "confinement". She turned her head slightly to the side, looking at Arlen out of the corner of her eye. Her neck was exposed.

  "I'm scared, Your Highness," Mira whispered. Her voice wasn’t that of a soldier, but of a lost girl. "I'm scared because I have nothing to offer... except myself."

  The answer struck Arlen’s ego hard. Mira offered traditional loyalty. Elodie offered political power. Mira offered herself. Total surrender.

  Arlen’s eyes darkened. His pupils dilated. He lifted one hand from his chair and, with his index finger, traced Mira’s jawline. That touch carried a small electric charge.

  Mira flinched slightly—a reflex she allowed to happen. She closed her eyes as if savoring or enduring the shock.

  “Oneself is the most precious offering, Wildflower,” Arlen murmured.

  He withdrew his hand, then straightened his body. He looked at Iva and Elodie, who stood frozen, watching the intimate exchange.

  "Dinner is over," Arlen announced suddenly, his mood soaring. He felt powerful. He felt he held these three women in the palm of his hand in different ways.

  "Iva, you may go back. Keep practicing your embroidery," Arlen ordered. Iva immediately stood up, bowed quickly, and half-ran out of the room, relieved to escape.

  "Elodie, you too," said Arlen. Elodie stood gracefully, straightened her not-so-dirty dress, gave Mira a cold look, and then walked out with her dignity intact.

  Only Mira remained. Arlen returned to his chair at the end of the table. He lifted his wine glass again.

  "Rhea," he called.

  Mira stood up, her legs slightly trembling (acting). "Yes, Your Highness?"

  "Tomorrow morning, before we go to King’s Cliff, come to the private training arena," said Arlen. He gave a sly smile. "I want to see if the 'fire' you spoke of earlier is really within you. We'll dance a little with swords."

  Mira's heart raced. This was it. Her chance to gauge Arlen's physical strength.

  "I… I'm not skilled with swords, Your Highness. My father only taught me the basics," Mira lied.

  "Don't worry," Arlen sipped his wine, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "I'll go slowly. I enjoy teaching beginners."

  "Thank you, Your Highness. Good night."

  Mira made a final curtsey, then turned around. She walked out of the Silver Dining Hall with small, measured steps. Arlene, who had been standing silently in the shadow of a pillar like a ghost, immediately appeared and followed her.

  ***

  Corridor to the east wing.

  As soon as the dining room door was tightly closed and they had already turned two corners, Mira's posture changed. The shoulders that descended rose again. Her footsteps became firm and efficient.

  "You see that?" whispered Mira, her voice cold, a stark contrast to the fragile tone she had used a minute ago.

  "I saw it," Arlene replied calmly, walking beside her. "He touched Iva to intimidate. He touched Elodie to challenge. But he touches you to have."

  "That electricity," Mira touched her own jaw, where Arlen's finger had been. "He doesn't just touch. He stimulates me."

  They arrived in front of the Sun Tower room door. Mira stopped. She stared at the white wooden door.

  "Tomorrow morning," Mira said.

  "Sparring practice," Arlene added.

  "He thinks he’s going to teach a beginner," Mira smirked slightly. A wolfish grin finally broke free from its sheep’s mask. "I’ll let him win, Arlene. But I’ll make sure he knows what it feels like to hold a knife by the sharp side."

  "Be careful, Rhea," Arlene warned, opening the room door. "One wrong move, one overreactive reflex, and he’ll know you’re a killer, not a flower."

  Mira stepped into the room. "I know."