Chapter Text
A Quiet Rebellion
The palace gardens were in full bloom, the late afternoon light casting golden threads across the marble pathways and the delicate petals of pale lavender roses. The fountain in the center burbled softly, a gentle counterpoint to the murmur of feminine voices and the occasional trill of laughter. Beneath a silk-draped canopy, Princess Donna presided over the tea table like a queen in miniature—poised, polished, and only marginally amused.
Her smile was faint but fixed, trained expertly for gatherings like these. To her left, Rachel, her most trusted lady-in-waiting, leaned in with a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. She didn’t need to say a word—Donna could already tell from the way Rachel’s brows twitched that gossip was about to be served.
“Have you heard,” drawled Lady Greer, swirling her teacup, “that Duke Specter has returned to the capital?”
Gasps rippled through the women seated at the table.
“Oh, not officially,” Greer added, savoring the effect. “But they say he’ll be presented at court within the week. After all—he did win us the war.”
Donna tilted her head, keeping her expression neutral. “Is that so?” she said lightly.
“They say he’s a brute,” said Lady Charlotte, a bit too eagerly. “Cold. Cruel. Half-beast, half-man. You know he hasn’t set foot in the capital since he was a boy.”
“He was sent to their estate in the north,” Rachel added, voice mild but precise. “For his heir’s training, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, and no one's seen him since.” Charlotte leaned forward, lowering her voice like it was a state secret. “When his father died, they say the Duke barely had time to grieve before he was thrust into battle. Can you imagine? Freshly titled and flung into war.”
“Well,” murmured Donna, placing her teacup gently down, “if the crown sent him, he must have had something worth sending.”
Rachel hid her smirk behind a sip of tea.
“I heard he never even had a proper season,” another girl said. “Not a single court appearance. And yet now—he wins a war and comes back with glory? It’s unnatural.”
“Or strategic,” Donna murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
“Speaking of strategy,” said Rachel quickly, redirecting, “have you all heard the latest about that merchant house? The Westmere Trading Company?”
At once the table brightened with curiosity.
“They’re expanding again,” Rachel said, “this time west, into the Amberlow Mountains. They’ve secured the rights to mine there.”
“I heard about that!” Lady Greer jumped in. “They unearthed a new gemstone, didn’t they? One that seems to capture the night sky.”
“The gem is called aetherite,” Rachel supplied. “Rare, difficult to refine, and extremely valuable. Only one mine on the continent so far.”
“They say the company’s leadership is a mystery,” someone whispered reverently. “Some shadow board, no names. But the way it’s grown? Unmatched. Its reach spans across kingdoms now. Whoever’s behind it must be impossibly clever—and absurdly rich.”
Donna traced the rim of her teacup slowly, her eyes distant for just a breath. A gem that rare. A business that powerful. A man nobody had seen.
Then she smiled.
“Well,” she said lightly, “I do admire ambition.”
The conversation drifted to lighter fare—lace suppliers, embroidery patterns, some poor girl who had fainted at the last spring ball from wearing a corset too tight—but Donna barely heard any of it. She nodded, laughed where expected, let her eyes sparkle like a good princess should.
But inside, her mind was already moving.
-----
The dining room was cloaked in velvet dusk, its towering windows letting in the final gasp of twilight. Gold sconces flickered along the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced over tapestries older than either occupant at the table. The scent of roast duck and cloves hung heavy in the air.
Donna sat straight-backed at the far end, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a picture of royal composure. Across from her, nursing a goblet of red wine, lounged her elder half-brother—the king. The crown sat lightly on his head these days, now that the war had tipped in their favor. And yet, there was something taut beneath the surface, something hungry.
“I received word today,” he began, swirling the wine absently. “From the frontlines.”
Donna didn’t look up.
“The war’s nearly over. Specter pushed through the eastern border. Routed them. Again.” He took a slow sip, eyes watching her over the rim. “The soldiers chant his name now, you know. Even the peasants write songs.”
She reached for her fork, mostly to avoid replying.
“A man like that,” he continued, cutting into his meat, “can do more than just win battles. He commands loyalty. From men. From commoners. Even from those who once looked to us.”
There was a pause, deliberate.
“Dangerous,” he added, lifting his gaze. “If left… untethered.”
Donna chewed slowly. Swallowed. “You sound worried.”
“I sound prudent,” he said, smiling thinly. “Which is my burden to bear, as king.”
There was that tone again. Patronizing. Always reminding her of the difference in their bloodlines—his full royal lineage, her mother’s foreign blood diluted into courtly decoration. He set his utensils down with care, fingers steepling before him.
“He’ll be returning to the capital next week. For a commendation. I’m hosting a banquet in his honor. Something grand, befitting a war hero.”
She didn’t answer, but her hand froze slightly over her wine.
He leaned forward, voice low and silken.
“You’re of marrying age now, Donna.”
The words struck like a blade through silk.
Her appetite vanished. She stared at him.
“Imagine it,” he said, eyes gleaming. “The hero duke and the royal princess. It would be a union praised in every province. A man like that deserves a princess at his side.”
Donna said nothing. Her pulse drummed in her ears.
The king tilted his head, the cruel edge of his smile blooming like poison.
“Look your best, sister.”
-----
The late afternoon sun painted golden bars across the floor of her private chambers, slanting through sheer drapes and warming the papers spread across her desk. A fresh pot of tea steamed beside her, untouched.
A knock came, soft but sure.
“Come in,” Donna said.
Rachel entered, her movements crisp and practiced. She placed a sealed envelope on the desk.
“From the Information Guild, as you requested.”
Donna offered a small nod. “Thank you, Rachel. That will be all.”
Alone, she reached for the envelope, broke the wax seal, and carefully unfolded the parchment. Her eyes scanned the header:
Subject of Investigation: Michael Ross
Position: Owner and Principal Director, Westmere Trading Company
So there was a name after all.
She read on in silence, the only sound the delicate rustle of pages as she flipped through the report.
No noble blood. No court ties. No known scandals. Educated abroad. Built the Westmere Trading Company from a modest port operation into a sprawling mercantile empire in less than a decade. Known for calculated risk, sharp instincts, and a frustrating refusal to bend to politics or bribes.
Respected by other merchants. Whispered about in court circles—not because of vice, but because of how little could be used against him.
She tilted her head.
Honest. Principled. Brilliant.
She hadn’t expected that.
Donna reclined in her chair, the paper dangling from her fingers. So this was the man behind the company that had dominated trade routes, pushed out guild monopolies, and made itself indispensable to nearly every court on the continent. Her half-brother and the king’s advisors had spoken in low voices about Westmere’s influence just days ago—trying, and failing, to determine who truly ran it.
Now she knew.
Michael Ross.
A man who, by all accounts, couldn’t be bought. But perhaps… he could be persuaded.
Her gaze sharpened. Her fingers tapped once against the rim of her teacup.
She was to be wed to Duke Specter—the war hero with a spine of iron and a reputation as unsparing as the blade he wielded. Her brother’s solution to their kingdom’s fragility: an alliance sealed with her body.
But what would the Duke do, she wondered, if the woman offered to him was already… ruined? The insult alone would send him storming back north.
The alliance would collapse. And her brother’s carefully laid plans would crumble at the feet of a quiet scandal.
Her lips curved slowly as she looked back at the report.
Michael Ross was the best sort of man. And that made him the perfect one to help her become the worst kind of woman.
-----
The room was dim, lit only by the low flicker of the hearth and the gold-amber light cast by the torches beyond the windows. Distant laughter, music, and drumbeats drifted up from the city below—the Victory Festival in full swing. A celebration of peace. Of heroes returned.
And tomorrow, the most prized hero of all—the Duke of Specter—would be formally presented at court.
But tonight, Donna lay still beneath her blankets, feigning sleep.
There was a soft knock on the door.
“Come in,” she murmured.
The door creaked open, and Nanny Elinor stepped in, carrying a porcelain cup on a silver tray. The scent of chamomile and honey filled the air.
“I heard you didn’t finish your supper,” Elinor said softly, her voice lined with worry. “And Rachel said you had a headache.”
Donna sat up, brushing her hair behind one shoulder. “Just tired. It’s been a long week.”
Elinor set the tray on the bedside table and sat beside her, just as she’d done since Donna was a child. The older woman reached out and gently smoothed a stray lock from her forehead.
“Oh, my dear girl,” she sighed, her gaze tracing Donna’s features with maternal warmth. “You’ve always been brave, you know that? But you don’t have to carry everything on your own.”
Donna swallowed, blinking once. Then offered a small, tight smile. “I know.”
Elinor took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see. Sometimes, these things… they find a way of turning out better than we expect.”
“Maybe,” Donna whispered.
“Try to get some sleep.” Elinor kissed her brow, like she had so many nights before. “You’re strong. Just like your mother.”
Then she stood, gathered the tray, and with one last smile, slipped out the door. The latch clicked shut behind her.
Donna waited. One hour. Then another.
Outside, the festival roared on. The crowds would be thick enough now. Distracted. Loud. Anonymous.
She rose quietly from the bed, peeled off her silk nightgown, and reached for the simpler gown hidden beneath the false bottom of her cedar trunk. Gray wool, unadorned. A cloak followed—dark, hooded, heavy enough to blend into shadows. She bound her hair in a loose knot and tugged the hood low.
Crossing to the window, she parted the drapes.
Below, the city pulsed with color and sound. Strings of lights arched across alleyways, torches flickered like stars, and smoke from roasted chestnuts curled into the night. Somewhere, a violin danced.
She pressed a hand to the glass.
Her brother thought her a pawn. The Duke would expect a prize.
But if she were to be sold, Donna would name her own price.
She slipped from her room without a sound. And into the firelit dark.
-----
The festival swells like a living beast—its belly full of music and firelight, its breath spiced with cloves and roasting meat. Every cobblestone seems to pulse with laughter. Street performers twirl flaming batons; ribbons dangle from the lampposts, catching the breeze in colorful snaps. Children dart between legs with sticky fingers, their shrieks of joy ringing like bells.
Donna keeps her hood low as she moves through the current, a thread of stillness in the chaos.
All around her, the people are alive with relief and revelry. Soldiers share flasks with townsmen, bakers hand out honeyed pastries, and children—faces painted in bright swirls—chase paper dragons through the alleys. Lanterns sway from every balcony. Above it all, the palace towers glitter distantly like a watching god.
The scent of lavender oil clings faintly to her cloak. She keeps her chin tilted just enough to avoid notice, her gait even, eyes sharp. This is the kind of night that makes it easy to disappear—or to follow someone unseen. But she isn’t trailing anyone. Not tonight.
She’s hunting. She walks with purpose, quiet against the chaos, past stalls of velvet and sugared almonds, past lovers sneaking kisses behind ale barrels, past songs she doesn’t have the heart to hum.
The inn is just ahead, tucked beside an apothecary and framed by a wooden sign depicting a great white hare mid-leap. The sound of clinking mugs and drunken singing leaks from its doors, and from one of the open windows, she hears someone declare their undying love for a goose.
Inside, it’s warmer—rowdy, dense, buzzing with the scent of ale and sweat. A bard plucks a merry tune on a lute near the hearth, nearly drowned out by the noise. Donna makes for the bar. The barmaid, young and flushed, is mid-pour when Donna catches her wrist, gentle but firm.
She leans in close, slides two silvers beneath the edge of the tankard, and says softly, “Michael Ross.”
The girl’s eyes flicker—curious, a little wary—but she nods. Then, with a slight jerk of her head, she gestures toward the back corner of the tavern.
The barmaid blinks at her—then jerks her chin toward the far corner.
Donna turns. The man is seated at a long table, a tankard in one hand, his dirty blond hair is mussed, not styled. He’s laughing, surrounded by several others—six, maybe seven—all of them big, grim-faced men dressed in travel-worn leathers and muted armor. Soldiers, clearly, or mercenaries, maybe his personal guards. One slaps him on the shoulder. The man—Ross, she assumes—throws his head back, the sound rich and easy.
He is not what she expected. Not even close. She thought he’d be slight, maybe, bookish. A man with ink stains on his fingers and delicate manners. The brilliant but faceless owner of the most powerful merchant house to rise in the last three years.
This man?
Broad shoulders. Tanned skin. A jaw carved like it had been honed on battlefield steel. His sleeves are rolled past his elbows, his forearms flex lazily as he lifts his mug and even from a distance she can tell they’re corded with strength. When he smiles at something one of the guards mutters, there’s a glint of mischief in it. Sharp. Dangerous.
He looks like a war god slumming it with hired blades.
She stares, intrigued despite herself. She continues to study him, trying to match this image with the man she read about. Brilliant, discreet, calculated.
There’s nothing polished about him. Nothing meek. He looks like he belongs on a battlefield more than in a ledger room.
Then he turns. Meets her eyes—like he felt her looking.
His gaze doesn’t waver.
And then he smirks. Slow. Deliberate. A devil’s grin, the kind that speaks of trouble and triumph.
Donna’s spine straightens, heat crawling up her neck. Her heart stutters once in her chest but she doesn’t look away.
The game has begun.