Neril's eyes widened, then hardened with resolve.
"Let's see if she takes the bait. No matter how they twist it, the scandal won't be able to touch Your Highness."
— The Hidden Passage — They slipped out through a narrow side door concealed behind stacked crates in the western training-ground warehouse.
"This tunnel was dug by the Royal Guard," Neril explained quietly. "For… unauthorized excursions. It opens directly onto the city."
The royal family had no idea it existed. Restless Guards, chafing under discipline and confinement, had carved it out themselves.
For something bored into rock without proper tools, it was remarkably solid. Medea found herself, against her will, respecting the determination of those long-gone soldiers.
At the far end of the passage, an unremarkable four-wheeled carriage waited, half-swallowed by shadow.
Tom – Coachman "There you are, Neril. Thought you'd dug a new tunnel and left me to rot with the horses."
The young coachman flicked his whip with idle ease.
When he spotted Medea behind Neril, his smile wavered, then fixed itself again—too wide, too polite.
"Greetings, Princess."
"Tom. Show some respect."
"I'll try. But we lowborn aren't exactly bred for etiquette. Best you don't expect much."
Neril shot him a flat, warning stare.
"I told you already—"
"It's all right."
Medea cut her off gently and stepped into the carriage without comment.
His posture, the way his fingers curled around the whip— an archer's hands.
One of Gilliforth's disciples, then. A man who had bled for the crown and come home to find its Princess a byword for frivolity.
Of course he despises me.
"Hyah!"
The carriage jolted into motion as Tom snapped the reins, wheels rattling over cobblestone before grinding onto rougher ground.
🐎💨 Beyond the palace's paved approach, the road deteriorated quickly. Stones jutted up like broken teeth; the wheels thumped and lurched. Neril hissed as she braced Medea with her shoulder.
"Hyah! Hyah!"
Tom whooped as the carriage bounced hard enough to lift them half off the seats.
"He's doing this on purpose," Neril muttered. "I should—"
"We're on our way to your former commander."
"Let it be."
Medea leaned back against the seat, outwardly unbothered.
He thought she was a Princess who had never stepped in mud, never slept without a mattress. In another life, she'd spent months in trenches where the ground moved and monsters erupted from beneath their feet.
This was almost gentle by comparison.
Medea drew back the curtain and watched the world outside the walls.
No kitchen smoke.
Fields left fallow or simply dead.
Houses sagging inward, corners caving like tired shoulders.
This was Valdina now. The Valdina the Regent had tried so hard to keep from her sight.
The castle's gleaming corridors had never shown her this—only polished floors, bright torches, carefully curated prosperity.
A decade of war had not made life easier. Even winning battles had come with a price.
In King Peleus's absence, the Regent's influence had swelled like rot beneath a bandage. Small uprisings had flared and been put down; each one left more ash and fewer sons.
Meanwhile, the King's sister had been paraded as a symbol of decadence—draped in silk and jewels while the people starved.
Yet not once had Peleus blamed her.
Peleus, I won't let it unfold that way again.
"Hey! We're almost there. See that hill? That's Lord Gilliforth's estate."
Through the window she saw it: a red-brick mansion perched on a rise, solid and stubborn.
Around it, dots clustered in thick lines—hardly ornamental landscaping.
As they drew closer, the dots became people.
"Retired soldiers and their families," Tom said loudly enough for the carriage interior to hear. "As the war drags on, there are more each month."
The line was made up of men with missing limbs, women in patched clothes, children clutching dented bowls.
"Their villages burned, or they can't go home with injuries like that. They fought for this country—for that flag." He jerked his chin toward the distant castle.
"Instead of honor, they're barred from even stepping into the castle grounds."
His laugh ended in something sharp and bitter.
"The Master couldn't ignore them. So he feeds them, at least. Can't house them all, so they eat out here."
Just as they entered the cluster of tents and cauldrons, the carriage juddered violently.
CLUNK.
"Oh! Wheel's gone bad again. This stretch always breaks something."
Tom's face appeared at the window, all bright apology.
"What a shame. I'll have to fix it here. Won't be long."
"You—"
Neril shot to her feet, fury crackling around her like static.
"What? Are you going to hit me because the road's rotten?" he called lightly from outside. "I'm no magician. Wheels break where they break."
His insolent grin vanished as he ducked away.
"My apologies, Your Highness."
"It's fine."
Medea's voice was level, her expression unruffled.
The halted carriage was impossible to ignore. Heads turned.
"Who's that? Someone from the castle?"
"Probably a noble come to look at us like animals."
Harsh winters and endless levies had stripped away courtesy. The longer the war dragged on, the heavier the taxes and forced labor had become.
Valdina had never been rich. Now, it was simply… empty.
"We scrape for soup and they feast every night inside those walls."
"At royal banquets, meat stacks as high as your hand. Wine flows like water."
"One slice of their meat, and I could work for a week."
"And the Princess? I hear she wraps herself in jewels paid for with our blood."
"Parasite's the word. A bedbug with a crown."
They didn't know the intricacies of the royal family tree. They didn't need to. "The Princess" was enough of a target.
The retired soldiers had pitched their tents so close that every word carried clearly to the carriage.
Medea listened in silence as their anger lashed at the image of her—a frivolous parasite in silk, drunk on wine and jewels.
They want me to hear this.
She could sense Tom's intention in the route he'd chosen, and perhaps Gilliforth's in allowing these people to camp so near his gate.
"Your Highness…"
Neril shifted uneasily, clearly torn between railing at the crowd and shielding Medea from their words.
"Friend, if you don't know the facts, keep quiet. Why would she wear jewels?"
"You really haven't heard? About what happened in the palace?"
A new voice, rough but defensive, cut through the bitterness.
The crowd quieted, curiosity edging out their anger.
The rumor Medea had sown within the palace was finally reaching the ears that mattered most.
---