The sun hadn't yet climbed high, still crouched low behind the rising wall, casting long shadows across the outer market. The sky was washed in a faint peach-gray, with the scent of baked bread and chimney smoke threading through the autumn air. Leaves scraped gently across the cobbles. Somewhere, a dog barked. Crows squabbled over crumbs near a shuttered stall.
Moore stirred late.
His arm hung off the edge of the inn bed, bruises still aching from days past — and from last night. The memory returned slow but clear: the rush of wind, lantern light, laughter echoing against old stone.
The Ember Run.
He hadn't meant to join — not really. But when the older boys knocked on the gate and waved those flickering jars, he hadn't said no either. He still felt the weight of that sprint through the alleys — the burn in his legs, the glow in their hands, the cold that bit like winter's first whisper. A race of firelight toward the old tower. One last defiance against the dark.
His legs were sore now, his jacket still faintly ash-scented. But something in his chest felt… lighter.
He dragged himself upright, tugged on his boots, and limped out into the street. The chill nipped at his fingers. A cart rolled past, creaking, pumpkins stacked high in straw nests.
The bakery door swung open with a bell chime and a rush of warmth.
Cinnamon. Yeast. Toasted nuts. The air was thick with it — sweet and soft like memory.
He spotted them easily — the same crew from the Ember Run. Older teens, clustered around a crooked table by the window. Mugs steamed between their hands. Crumbs dotted their sleeves. A few younger kids hovered nearby, mimicking them, eyes wide with admiration.
One of the boys looked up and grinned.
"Look who crawled out of bed." He tossed Moore a half-roll. "Thought you'd sleep till winter."
Moore caught it, flinched a little at the sore muscle it pulled. "Was hoping to," he muttered, then added with a dry smirk, "You all run like drunk squirrels."
Another boy laughed, reaching over to nudge him with a boot. "You beat half of us."
"Blind luck."
"Nah. You've got lungs under that street stink."
Moore bit into the roll — warm, jammy — and shrugged.
The conversation drifted. Someone mentioned the harvest stalls being set up outside the gates — a twilight festival with masks, folk tales, and games. There'd be a bonfire. Food. Music. Guard patrols, of course — things weren't as safe as they used to be.
"They say the wolves aren't wolves anymore," one kid whispered.
"Corrupted," another added. "Twist under the fur. You can't tell 'til it's too late."
Moore's jaw tightened, just a little. He didn't comment.
One of the older boys leaned toward him. "There's a scavenger trail. Starts near the lantern tree. You coming?"
Moore raised an eyebrow. "Why? You need someone to fall on a trap for you?"
They grinned. "Nah. Just wouldn't be the same without you, champ."
Moore glanced toward the window. Out past the rooftops, strings of unlit paper lanterns swayed gently between posts.
He looked down at the crumbs on his plate. Something inside him softened — not quite warmth, but something near it.
"Alright," he said. "I'll come."
The little ones cheered quietly. The older boys raised their mugs.
Outside, a breeze lifted the dry leaves from the gutter, and a bell rang softly from the chapel square.
Winter was coming — but not yet.
---
The castle felt different in the early light — quieter, more watchful. Like even the ancient stone was bracing for a secret.
Outside the frost-misted windows, the city below shimmered with scattered amber leaves and soft layers of morning fog. But inside the royal chambers, tension curled in the air — not heavy, but precise. Intentional. The kind of silence before a string is plucked.
The princess stood before the tall, gilded mirror, braiding her hair with meticulous care — tighter than usual, each pass of her fingers sharp and deliberate. Her gaze flicked to the side, watching the other girl through the glass.
Ronell stood near the carved bedframe, half-dressed in borrowed silk, fingers stiff on a silver clasp. The fine garments didn't sit quite right on her yet. Not because they didn't fit — they did — but because they didn't belong. Not to her. Not yet.
"You've been mimicking me well lately," the princess murmured, her voice carrying with it a touch of satisfaction — and challenge. "Let's see if it holds."
Ronell blinked. "Wait… You're serious?"
A slow grin curved the princess's lips. "Terribly."
She turned from the mirror, stepping closer. The two of them stood nearly nose to nose. The resemblance wasn't perfect — not enough for mistaken identity under scrutiny — but it didn't have to be. They were the same age. The same height. Their features echoed each other with uncanny symmetry. And lately, their voices had begun to echo, too.
"One day," the princess said, voice soft and low and dangerous, "you'll be me. And I'll be you."
Ronell gave a nervous laugh. "That's insane."
"Isn't it?" The princess leaned in, adjusting the silk collar at Ronell's throat with gentle, precise hands. "But I've been planning this for weeks. Today's perfect."
"Why today?"
The princess smirked, brushing a curl of Ronell's hair behind her ear. "Because today is dull. It's a tea-circle morning. The nobility's daughters are visiting. Lace fans, gossip, embroidery. And later, I'm expected to smile through a council lunch where men three times my age will ask about my future as if I've already been auctioned."
She turned back to the mirror and added, "I'd rather herd sheep through a thunderstorm."
Ronell blinked. "So you're making me do it?"
"Exactly."
A pause. Then a wicked smile. "Unless you're scared?"
Ronell opened her mouth, then shut it. The truth was, she wasn't sure if she was more afraid of failing… or enjoying it.
The princess stepped behind her, straightening her posture with gentle pressure, tapping her shoulder. "Lift your chin. Royalty doesn't cower. Good."
They moved together — rehearsing words, sharpening tone. Matching gaits. Mimicking smiles. The castle bells chimed once — a high, distant sound — and the world continued moving around them like an audience waiting for the curtain to rise.
Ronell adjusted the woven sash over her chest, then paused at the mirror.
She didn't look like herself.
She looked like… her.
And the strangest thing was — she didn't flinch.
Behind her, the princess had already begun changing. She shed the royal outer layers and slipped into Ronell's usual cotton blouse, the charcoal skirt tucked into practical boots, a worn adventurer's cloak thrown over her shoulder with practiced ease. Her movements were light. Relaxed. She tied her braid low and tucked it into the hood.
When she looked back, the transformation was startling.
"See?" she said. "I make a charming street rat."
"And I'm about to make a terrible noblewoman," Ronell muttered, still fidgeting with a gold pin.
The princess laughed. "Then we'll both learn something."
She stepped to the door, pausing only to glance back. "I'll be with Moore. He's expecting you, of course."
"You didn't tell him?"
"Where's the fun in that?"
There was a knock. Two sharp taps — the signal. The handmaidens entered briskly, their eyes trained downward. Already briefed. No hesitation. No questions.
The princess gave Ronell a final look — not quite pride, not quite farewell. Something heavier, and more unreadable.
Then she vanished through the servants' corridor, her cloak trailing behind her.
Ronell remained, a stranger in royal skin, alone with velvet and perfume and the quiet hum of castle breath.
She hadn't just agreed to play the part.
She'd agreed to carry the crown — even if only for a day.
And it was heavier than it looked.
---
Ronell had expected nerves.
What she hadn't expected was displacement.
The moment she stepped out of the princess's chambers, the illusion closed around her like silk — soft, seamless, and stifling. It wasn't the dress, or the braid, or the perfume stitched into her sleeves. It was the way the world responded to her.
A guard bowed, slow and low.A maid dipped her head and whispered, "Your Grace."A steward offered her a scroll without meeting her eye.
No one questioned it.
And that, somehow, made it worse.
By midmorning, she was submerged — carried by the tide of someone else's life. She was led to a private bathing chamber, where steam rose from mint-scented water and handmaidens spoke in soft, unfocused tones. They washed her hair, murmured about appointments. They dressed her in layers of autumn gold — silk sleeves shaped like falling leaves, a bodice embroidered with the kingdom's crest in thread finer than spiderweb.
Her braid was redone, pinned into a soft knot threaded with gold. A final touch: a dab of perfume behind each ear. Faintly floral. Familiar, now.
She stood before the mirror and forgot how to breathe.
The girl staring back wore the crown of someone else's spine. Her posture was perfect. Her smile barely there. Her reflection carried the weight of a hundred rehearsed days.
She looked like the princess.
But behind her eyes… something still flickered. Something searching.
The day blurred forward.
She was guided through the upper corridors — past stained-glass windows and thick, embroidered banners that hung like royal judgments. A steward brought her into a meeting about winter grain storage. She nodded when prompted. Smiled in the shape she'd been taught. She didn't speak unless someone expected it. And when they did, she echoed the tone — clipped, measured — that had been practiced in quiet rooms with a girl who called her "little shadow."
She was playing the part.
But she felt like ink sketched onto someone else's painting.
Later, she was brought to the western wing — a quiet visit with minor nobility she didn't recognize. They bowed too deeply. They smiled too long. She thanked them, and left, and told herself she hadn't been holding her breath the entire time.
It was as she was rounding the corner back toward her chambers that it happened.
The corridor narrowed — wide enough for only two to pass — and ahead, a figure turned into view.
The Queen.
Ronell's steps faltered.
She had seen the woman only in flashes — ceremonies, parades, the back of a moving carriage. But here, up close, her presence changed the air. She wore no crown, no jewels. Just a long navy coat lined with fur, and her silver-streaked hair pulled into a low twist at the nape of her neck. Understated. Regal. Still as stone.
The guards near her bowed and fell back without a word.
Ronell remained alone in the corridor, the sunlight hitting her too squarely, her borrowed breath caught in her throat.
"Daughter," the Queen said, voice calm as snowfall.
Ronell bowed her head — not too deep. Just enough. The way she'd been told. "Mother," she returned, and even to her own ears, it rang hollow.
The Queen stopped.
Her gaze swept over Ronell once. Then again. Slower.
"There's something different about you today."
The pause hung between them like held breath.
Ronell tried to recall something the princess had said — anything clever, anything disarming. Her mind scrambled, then grabbed hold of the nearest thread.
"Just the weather," she offered. "It brings out the… stiff in me."
She regretted it as soon as the words left her lips.
The Queen didn't smile. Didn't blink. Only watched.
Her eyes were sharp — not suspicious, but too still. Too focused. Like a hand resting on the hilt of a blade.
Ronell stood as straight as she could. Prayed the silence would move on.
At last, the Queen spoke. "See that you rest. You look pale."
"Yes, Mother."
The Queen held her gaze for one final beat, then turned without another word.
Her footsteps echoed like a slow drumbeat, fading down the stone corridor.
Ronell waited until they disappeared entirely before letting out a breath. She leaned against the wall, hand pressed to her ribs.
She had survived it.
But something in the Queen's eyes haunted her — not fury, not recognition… but knowing.
She had seen something.Not enough to name.But enough to remember.
And Ronell knew then — the performance wasn't just beginning.
It was already under review.
---
The sky over the city had turned a soft amber, edged in thinning clouds. Rooftops caught slanted gold where the late-autumn sun peeked through. Moore stood just outside the adventurer's guild, arms crossed, his foot tapping a quiet, impatient rhythm against the stone.
He hadn't expected her to show.Not really.
But there she was.
She walked with the same boots, same cloak, same braid. But everything else was off — like someone wearing a familiar song in the wrong key. Her spine was straighter, steps more purposeful. She met his eyes without hesitation and gave a slight nod, the kind Ronell never used.
"Ready to go?" she asked, already adjusting the strap on her satchel.
Moore tilted his head. "You're in a mood today."
She raised a brow. "That a problem?"
He smirked. "Only if I have to do all the thinking."
The guildmaster had assigned them a simple quest: herd a small flock of stubborn sheep from the lower fields back to a hillside pasture near one of the outer watchposts. The kind of job they handed to newer adventurers or unlucky volunteers.
As they left the city's south gate, Moore glanced up. The sky was a bit gray, but still dry — perfectly manageable.
"Sheep herding," he said. "Real glamour stuff."
She didn't miss a beat. "Better than tea-circle embroidery and talking marriage with barons."
He paused. "That... oddly specific."
She smiled. "Let's just say I dodged worse."
They passed through a winding farmland path, the earth soft with autumn rot and last-week's rain. Around them, the hills rolled in sleepy bronze. In the distance, the village was preparing for the harvest festival — lanterns strung between trees, painted masks drying on racks, voices rehearsing a ghost tale.
Moore watched a cluster of kids race past them with paper fox masks and armfuls of dried corn. He didn't smile, exactly, but his shoulders eased.
"People like you here," she said, after watching him help a small girl pick up a fallen mask.
Moore didn't meet her gaze. "People like anyone who doesn't treat 'em like pests."
She tilted her head. "You're softer than you look."
"I am not."
"You just crouched down to tie a kid's sandal."
"She was tripping over it."
"You muttered a rhyme to make her laugh."
"I was… thinking out loud."
"You're adorable."
Moore turned to her with mock horror. "Take that back."
"Nope."
He groaned. "You're really weird today."
She shrugged. "I feel weird today."
They reached the field. The farmer greeted them with an exasperated sigh and a crooked smile. "They've gotten jumpy lately. Something's been stirring up the outer woods. But if you can get them back to the hill pen before sunset, I'll throw in an extra half-loaf."
"Deal," Moore said.
Ten minutes later, he regretted everything.
The sheep were chaotic. Stubborn. Loud.
And then the rain started.
Not a drizzle — a curtain. Wind whipped the hillside sideways. Thunder grumbled like it had been woken too early.
The princess, her cloak soaked through, glared skyward. "You know what I said this morning?"
Moore, chasing a runaway ewe with his arms flailing, shouted back: "What?"
"I'd rather herd sheep through a thunderstorm."
He burst into laughter — the genuine, breathless kind. "Be careful what you wish for!"
One sheep tried to escape under a fence. Moore tackled it. Another leapt onto a stump and refused to move. The princess stared at it, deadpan.
"Do I bow? Offer it gold?"
"Try singing," Moore huffed.
By the time they wrangled the last of them uphill and locked the pen, they were drenched, covered in mud, bruised, scratched — and oddly triumphant.
The princess leaned against the fence, breathing hard, laughing under her breath.
"You alright?" Moore asked.
She nodded, brushing soaked hair from her eyes. "That was awful."
"But?"
"But kind of fun."
He paused. "You're not Ronell, are you?"
She froze. Then smiled too quickly. "What makes you say that?"
Moore shrugged. "Just a feeling."
She looked at him then — longer than she meant to. "You're smarter than you pretend."
He gave her a half-smile, but said nothing else.
They walked back in silence.The rain eased.The sheep were safe.
And for a few strange hours, both of them had escaped who they were supposed to be.
---
Ronell sat straighter than usual, if only because the corset wouldn't let her slouch. The long table in the west solar was arranged with meticulous care — porcelain cups, sugared petals on the rim of saucers, miniature cakes shaped like autumn leaves.
It was meant to be a light gathering. A "seasonal tea" with visiting noble daughters and a few eligible sons of distant lords. The kind of afternoon the real princess would've glided through with poise and mild boredom.
Ronell, however, was struggling to remember which tiny fork was for what.
Across from her, two young ladies in pale lilac whispered behind their fans. Another, in pearl-stitched gloves, leaned toward the man beside her — a clean-shaven noble with a sharp jaw and a voice made for drawing attention.
He was looking directly at Ronell.
"I suppose," he said, swirling his tea, "Your Grace will be expected to consider prospects before winter court, no?"
Ronell blinked. "Prospects?"
His smile widened — the polite, predatory kind. "Suitors."
She very nearly choked. The tea went the wrong way, and she set her cup down with a clatter that made the silverware jump.
The room went quiet for just a breath too long.
Then one of the noble daughters giggled behind her hand. "Oh, don't tease her," she said sweetly. "It's her first season since coming of age, isn't it?"
"Perhaps she's still dreaming of love," said another with a faux-sigh. "A stable boy with windswept hair, maybe? Or a masked bard at a harvest ball?"
Ronell cleared her throat, cheeks warm. "I'm not in a rush," she said carefully. "I've… got things to do first."
"Things?" the nobleman asked, brows lifting slightly.
"Royal things," Ronell said flatly. She took another sip, slower this time.
More laughter — gentle, but laced with teeth.
Someone whispered, "She's changed lately," not quite quiet enough.
Ronell swallowed it all down with spiced tea and forced stillness. This wasn't her world. These weren't her games. But she could wear the mask — just a little longer.
When the tea finally ended, she excused herself politely and stepped out into the corridor, tension in every joint.
And that's when she saw Lady Seriah waiting just beyond the pillar — as if she'd been there the whole time.
"Your Grace."
Ronell froze, then turned — just enough to make it look effortless.
Lady Seriah stood at the end of the corridor, robes like crushed velvet in a deep plum shade, her silver-streaked hair pinned in a perfect spiral. There was a chill to her presence, the kind that didn't come from temperature but from knowing too much.
"A moment, if I may."
Ronell nodded. "Of course."
Lady Seriah approached with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who had always known exactly where her place was — and how easily others could lose theirs.
"I hesitate to bring this to you without full certainty," she said softly, her hands folded. "But some things cannot wait for proof."
Ronell's heart thudded once. Loud. She kept her face still.
"There are whispers," Seriah continued. "From the eastern edge of the city. A girl — remarkably like you — seen walking beyond the gates yesterday. Hooded. Accompanied by a young man. Rougher sort. Not one of ours."
Ronell said nothing. She didn't breathe.
"Some say it was illusion," Seriah added, with no inflection. "Others say nothing at all. But guards talk. And courtiers listen."
She took a small step closer. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I've served your mother long enough to know when a current shifts beneath still water."
Ronell met her eyes. Calm. Steady. "Rumors have many shapes. I suppose the season calls for ghosts and shadows."
Lady Seriah didn't smile. "And yet, not all shadows are harmless." She studied her a moment longer — not as a predator, but as a historian noting the signs. "The Queen is perceptive. If she hasn't already heard, she will. Tread carefully."
Ronell bowed her head just enough to show respect. "Thank you, Lady Seriah. I'll take your words to heart."
The older woman gave a slight nod. "Do. Some masks, once worn too long, begin to mold to the skin."
With that, she turned and swept back down the corridor, her footsteps soft against the stone.
Ronell exhaled slowly. Her hands were shaking. Her heartbeat still loud in her ears.
The silk of her sleeves clung too tight.The castle no longer felt like it was holding its breath.It felt like it had opened its eyes.
---
They were on their way back from the guild quest — the sheep herded (through rain and indignity), and Moore was still half-wiping mud from his sleeves when the princess glanced over, cloak damp, eyes gleaming.
"So," she said, voice casual, "what do you common folk do for fun around here?"
Moore shot her a look. "That was fun."
She grinned. "That was wet."
He snorted. "Well, I was gonna meet the others this afternoon. Nothing fancy. Just… stuff."
"What kind of stuff?" she pressed, leaning in.
"You know. Wandering. Daring each other to climb things we shouldn't. Betting copper on street games. Maybe watching the fire-jugglers if they're out."
She tilted her head. "Sounds terribly illegal."
He gave her a slow side-eye. "That's why it's fun."
She didn't hesitate. "Take me with you."
"What?"
"Take me," she repeated, with a voice far too innocent to be trusted. "You owe me. For the sheep."
---
First stop was the market square, where food carts spilled their scents into the air—sweet, spiced, sour, and everything between. The boys dared each other to try the worst combinations.
Pickled eel with candied onion? Done.
Spiced plum on toasted fish? Barely swallowed.
Then it was her turn.
The princess calmly ordered a bowl of crimson stew bubbling with dried hell-peppers. The vendor hesitated. Moore did too.
"That one might kill you."
She smiled. "Good."
She ate the whole thing. Unflinching. Then licked the spoon.
The boys gawked.
Moore leaned over and muttered, "She's not from here, is she?"
---
When someone jokingly suggested a rooftop shortcut to their next spot, she said, "Lead the way."
A few boys climbed up, leaping easily over eaves and narrow beams. She followed, surprisingly nimble. Royal training had its uses, after all.
Halfway through, she misjudged a slate.
Her boot slipped.
Moore caught her wrist just in time, steadying her with a grunt and a smirk.
"Not as easy as it looks in books, huh?"
She laughed breathlessly, still dangling. "No. But far more exciting."
---
They reached a quiet alley where a few local teens were deep into a game of bluff and coin. The princess, curious, joined.
She didn't know the rules. Not even close.
But she won. Repeatedly.
Moore watched her eyes track each player's face, catching every twitch, every sigh, every fidget.
After the third win, one of the teens threw down his cards. "She's terrifying."
Moore crossed his arms. "You have no idea."
---
Later, they stumbled across a group of younger kids crafting makeshift lanterns from scrap parchment and drift-lights. The boys helped. So did she.
She drew something on theirs—a delicate, curved symbol Moore recognized immediately.
"Royal seal," he whispered. "Bold."
She shrugged. "Let it fly."
And so they did. The lantern lifted into the evening, bobbing through the misted air like a lone star.
---
The final challenge came in the form of a chalk duel. Circles drawn on the stones. Two opponents. One chalk stick each.
She faced Moore.
He held back, but only a little. She was quick, clever. He was quicker.
She lost. Just barely.
She stepped out of the circle, grinning.
"Rematch tomorrow. With sheep as stakes."
Moore laughed. "You're gonna haunt me with that forever, aren't you?"
"Always."
---
As twilight settled in, they wandered to a quiet, ivy-covered wall tucked behind a forgotten shrine.
Locals called it the Whispering Wall.
They said it kept secrets.
The others whispered jokes or wishes.
The princess stepped forward last. She laid a hand on the stone, eyes closed, and leaned in close.
She whispered something Moore couldn't hear.
When she turned back, her face was unreadable.
He didn't ask.
The day ended with laughter and lantern light. For once, there were no titles. No duties. No walls.
Just people. Just mischief.
And maybe something beginning to shift between them—quietly, like a secret whispered into stone.
---
Dusk settled with a hush, casting long shadows across the cold castle floor.
Ronell had barely crossed the threshold of the princess's chambers when the knock came. Sharp. Rehearsed.
Then another — firmer.
Then the turn of a key.
The heavy door creaked open.
Two guards stepped in, their armor humming with restrained tension. Behind them glided Lady Seriah — regal in dusk-hued robes, her face impassive, her gaze honed like a drawn blade.
"Your presence is requested."
No accusation. No raised voices.
Just the inevitability of consequence.
Ronell stiffened. Her tongue felt heavy behind her teeth, but she nodded and followed.
They didn't take her far — just down a narrow side hall into a room she'd never seen before. Not a dungeon. Not an interrogation chamber.
But cold. And hollow.
A single stone room. A wooden table. One chair in the center. No windows.
It was the kind of room where truth went to die quietly.
She was told to sit. She did.
Alone, she waited.
The minutes stretched. Her hands trembled faintly, folded in her lap. The dress — still hers, still golden — felt like it was made of iron.
Then footsteps.
The guards returned — this time with Moore between them.
His wrists weren't bound, but his presence alone made the room feel smaller. He was calm. Irritated. And alert.
"Oh," he said, stopping just inside. His eyes flicked to Ronell, then the guards, then Lady Seriah's unreadable silhouette. "Must be my lucky week."
He gave the smallest, humorless smirk. "So, what's the charge? Unlicensed charm?"
No one answered. No one moved.
Moore's grin faded. He stood straighter, gaze sharpening.
And then came the silence before thunder.
The air in the room changed — subtly, but unmistakably. Like a storm stepping through the door.
Another voice echoed softly across the stone: calm, commanding, lethal in its stillness.
"Let them go."
The guards turned first — and parted.
Through the doorway stepped the real princess.
Not in silk or ceremony, but in the plain travel clothes Ronell had worn that morning. Her cloak was dusted with soot. Her hair, though tied, had come loose in wisps. She looked as though she had come from somewhere real — and that reality had bowed to her.
She crossed the room slowly, every footstep deliberate.
Her gaze didn't fall on the guards. Not on Lady Seriah. Only on Ronell.
"This was my doing," she said quietly, but the room listened like thunder had spoken. "Every part of it."
She turned to Lady Seriah, eyes level.
"It wasn't rebellion. It wasn't espionage. It was a game — foolish, perhaps. A test. I wanted to know if someone else could walk my halls. Carry my burdens. Smile through my duties. It was personal. Private. Misguided."
Her voice didn't waver. "But not treason."
Ronell stared, wide-eyed. The princess stepped beside her and rested a hand gently on her shoulder.
"She meant no harm. And the boy…" Her gaze flicked to Moore. Something unreadable passed between them. "...was simply caught in the current."
The tension in the room held. Still. Electric.
Lady Seriah's expression didn't shift, but her silence was loud.
After a moment, one of the guards — older, perhaps wiser — stepped back.
"By your word, Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly.
Another followed suit.
But Lady Seriah did not bow. Not yet. Her voice was ice as she finally spoke:
"This will reach Her Majesty."
The princess didn't flinch. "Then let it."
Another beat. Then Seriah turned and left, her robes trailing behind her like judgment.
The door closed.
And in the quiet that followed, the weight of what nearly was pressed like a second shadow against the wall.
Moore exhaled — slow, low, controlled.
"So…" he muttered, rubbing his temple, "do all your 'games' end like this, or am I just special?"
The princess smiled faintly. "Only the fun ones."
Ronell finally laughed — shaky, but real.
For now, it was over.
But the ripple had begun.
And the Queen would feel it soon.
---
They were released just as the bells began to toll for supper — deep, measured chimes that echoed down the stone corridors like reminders.
Of time passed.
Of chances spent.
As the guards stepped aside, Moore and Ronell crossed into the cooler air of the outer corridor — no longer prisoners, but not quite free. The hallway was quiet, save for the faint clang of silverware being set in distant dining halls and the slow draw of breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
Moore ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard through his nose. "That was the dumbest brilliant idea I've ever seen."
Ronell tried to smile, but it faltered. "Yeah," she murmured. "It almost wasn't worth it."
Her voice cracked faintly on the last word.
They walked a few paces in silence, boots soft on worn stone. Moore glanced sideways at her — not mocking, not teasing. Just... looking. There was sweat at her hairline. Her shoulders were too still.
"You okay?"
Ronell didn't answer at first. Then, softly: "I don't think I realized how heavy it all was until I stopped pretending."
Moore nodded slowly. "You wore it well."
"Maybe too well."
Behind them, the heavy door clicked shut — not with force, but finality.
Inside, Lady Seriah remained, already seated with a quill in hand, ink blotting like a wound across parchment. Her expression was unreadable. Her report would not be.
And somewhere deeper in the castle, in chambers behind woven drapes and quiet firelight, the Queen sat motionless — her wine untouched, her gaze on nothing.
She had not spoken of it.
She had not summoned them.
She had simply… waited.
But the silence around her had grown dense. Thoughtful. Cold.
She had let it go.
But only for now.
---
The sun dipped low behind the far hills, casting long amber rays across the high branches. As the royal carriage rolled to a gentle halt outside the village gate, a hush passed through the crowd — reverent, expectant. Torches sputtered to life along the winding path, their orange glow dancing against old stone and curled vines.
Smoke curled up from bonfires lit early, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted squash, cinnamon cider, and fresh kindling. The Harvest Walk had begun — an old tradition meant to usher in winter's edge and keep the spirits of the barren season at bay.
But this year, the pageantry ran deeper.
The princess — not the real one, but Ronell cloaked in her identity — stepped down first, flanked by castle guards in polished silver. She held her head high, every movement deliberate, every blink practiced. She wore the red-gold ceremonial cloak with autumn-threaded embroidery, her braid pinned in the royal style.
The crowd bowed.
Moore followed a step behind, expression unreadable, cloak loose over his shoulder. His eyes never stopped moving.
What was meant to be a warm gesture — "a gift of presence," the council had said — felt more like a procession to something uneasy.
He leaned toward the girl beside him, who looked like Ronell — but was very much the princess in borrowed garb.
"You sure this counts as 'normalcy'?" he muttered.
The princess smirked beneath her hood. "It's normal. In that it's thoroughly uncomfortable."
Moore scanned the torch-lit crowd. Children chased each other with paper masks shaped like jackals and crows. Vendors passed out warm cider in carved cups. Lanterns bobbed like fireflies between figures. But behind it all was a thread of tension — stretched too tight.
"Too many guards," he said. "Too many eyes."
"I noticed," the princess replied softly. "So did she, I think."
She meant Ronell — walking ahead in borrowed royalty.
Moore's gaze followed her. Ronell moved with grace, but it was heavy. Calculated. She greeted the villagers with formal poise, offering words wrapped in silk. But even from a distance, Moore could see it — her breath catching, her smile fading too quickly. She was drowning in the role.
Then came the bonfire pits.
A circle of storytellers wove tales into the smoke — some funny, some chilling. One man with ash on his face and a hollow voice spoke of the Wickroot Beast, a forest shade that wore the face of your dearest friend. It would guide you deeper into the woods with kind words — and then disappear, leaving you to wander lost in the dark.
Children clutched their cloaks tighter. Laughter scattered like dry leaves.
Moore's jaw clenched.
The princess — still disguised as Ronell — watched the tale unfold with eerie stillness. "Is that what I've done?" she asked suddenly. "Dragged her in, only to disappear?"
Moore looked at her. "She knew what she was stepping into."
A beat. Then he added, "But maybe don't vanish on her just yet."
The princess smiled. Tired. Fond.
They moved toward the final stretch of the walk — a lantern-lit circle around the main bonfire, where music had begun to swell. Fiddles, lutes, and tambourines rose together in a joyful storm. Villagers danced in clusters. The flames threw sparks into the twilight sky.
Moore didn't dance.
But he stayed close — eyes drawn to the flickering edge where celebration met shadow.
A sudden twitch — far past the torches.
Something moved between the trees.
A figure? A flicker?
He stared. It was gone.
He scanned again — nothing but curling mist and the hush of trees holding secrets.
Still, the prickling wouldn't leave him.
He turned back. Watched Ronell — the princess — lift her arms slightly as if testing the weight of borrowed grace.
And he wondered — not for the first time — how long they could keep the lie breathing.
The harvest lights glowed.
The music swelled.
But the wind had turned cold.
And somewhere, the woods were watching.
---
The lanterns were still glowing when the Harvest Walk ended, their golden light dimmed now by dew and sleep-heavy air. The villagers had begun to quietly dismantle decorations — paper masks folded, candle jars capped, the scent of smoke fading into frost. Bonfire embers pulsed low in their pits, glowing like tired hearts.
Along the path back to the city, the noble party moved in soft procession — guards in pairs, carriages waiting with open doors, laughter now replaced with murmurs and yawns.
Moore had drifted ahead, pulled toward a group of teens still arguing about scavenger hunt spoils. Their voices floated back in snippets — "I did find the black ribbon first!" — and Moore's dry chuckle rose among them.
Ronell, still cloaked in the princess's autumn silk, began to follow.
That's when a hand caught her wrist.
She turned — startled — and found herself face to face with her own reflection.
The princess. Still cloaked as her. Still wearing her face.
Half-hidden behind a shuttered cider stall, in the soft halo of a dying lantern, the princess looked more tired than before. But her eyes still held a glint — quiet, mischievous, and… apologetic.
"One more night," she said, her voice pitched low. Gentle. "Just one."
Ronell stared. "You want to switch again?"
"I want you to stay," the princess replied. "Sleep in silk. Wake up warm. No guards. No council. No fanfare."
She tried for a smile, but it flickered unevenly. "You've earned it."
There was something different in her tone — not just playfulness this time. Something closer to regret.
Ronell hesitated. "After what happened earlier? You're not worried?"
"I am," the princess said softly. "Which is why I'm asking. Not telling."
That caught Ronell off guard. She searched the other girl's eyes, as if trying to pull a reason from them — something more than kindness. Something more than mischief. But the princess just looked away, briefly, toward the distant rooftops and cloud-heavy sky.
"I… need to check something," she added, quieter now. "At the inn."
She didn't say May's name.
Ronell's mouth pressed into a line. She didn't push. Instead, she slowly slipped off the royal cloak — the gold-lined weight of it — and passed it over.
The princess helped her adjust it, fingers brushing the silk at her shoulders, then stepped back.
"You're getting good at being me," she said with a smirk, but it was softer now. Fonder.
"You make it look easier than it is," Ronell replied.
They shared a breath — two halves of one strange masquerade — then wordlessly switched places again. The guards were too far ahead. The festival's glow had dimmed. Only the wind witnessed the change.
The princess touched Ronell's braid — just a second's pressure — and then turned, disappearing down a side street. Her steps were quiet. Intentional.
Ronell watched her go, the silk still warm from her body.
She didn't know what the princess was looking for.
But she let her go anyway.
And this time, she wouldn't sleep uneasily — not out of fear.
But because a part of her wondered if, in the dark, the princess had whispered goodbye.
---
The inn had quieted down by the time Moore returned.
His limbs ached — not from anything grueling, just from existence. A long day, too much running, too much pretending not to care how close things had come to unraveling. He'd left the festival before the others, hoping to snag the last slice of sweetbread and a moment of peace.
The common room was dim, the fire barely clinging to the logs. He climbed the stairs on autopilot, boots scuffing wood, jacket half-unbuttoned, thoughts already giving way to sleep.
Their shared room was just as he left it — May's bed still untouched, perfectly made. Too perfect. The emptiness clung like dust.
He didn't think about it.
The door creaked as he stepped inside. One candle remained lit, flickering low from the nightstand. The bed closest to the window was occupied — someone curled beneath the blanket, braid stretched over the pillow.
Moore exhaled, toeing off his boots. "Back early," he murmured to no one in particular, his voice half-lidded by sleep.
No answer.
He didn't need one. He was already peeling off his jacket, tossing it to the foot of his bed. It landed in a heap beside the little satchel of leftover festival treats — mostly crushed nuts and a sliver of spiced apple.
He passed May's bed. The covers remained undisturbed. Unclaimed.
He paused at the end of the room, rubbing the back of his neck, about to sit—
Then he caught the flicker.
Movement. Quiet, subtle. Not from the bed. From the far wall near May's old things.
A figure crouched by the low table, their back to him. Someone not asleep.
Someone not Ronell.
"…You've got to be kidding me," Moore groaned.
The figure turned slightly. A familiar face — but not the right one.
"Moore," the princess said.
He stared for a long beat, then pointed toward the bed. "That's fake, isn't it."
She said nothing. The braid on the pillow was definitely a decoy.
"That's creepy," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
She returned her attention to May's table, carefully rifling through what little was left — a scrap of folded cloth, a ribbon tucked into the corner.
"You're looking for something," he said, arms crossed now.
"She left in a rush. I thought… she might've left a sign."
"You already looked twice," he pointed out. "Before we even left."
"I had to be sure."
Moore let out a long sigh. He leaned back against the nearby bedpost, watching her in the low light. There was something tight about her — something quiet and unresolved.
"She's not going to leave you a trail," he said gently. "That's not her style."
"I know."
He watched her trace her fingers over the edge of the cloth. Not quite touching it.
After a pause, he added, almost sheepishly, "You know, I thought you switched back. Like, hours ago."
She finally cracked a faint smile. "Sorry."
"Not really."
"No."
He shook his head, a tired smirk tugging at his mouth. "You're lucky I'm too tired to drag you back to the castle myself."
She looked up at him, firelight catching her cheekbones, her expression softer than before. "Would you?"
Moore tilted his head. "You think I wouldn't?"
She didn't answer — not out loud. Just gave him a look. Not quite apology. Not quite thanks. Something in between. Something private.
Then she straightened, brushed her palms off, and crossed to the middle bed — Ronell's bed — her bed, tonight.
"Get some sleep," Moore said, already heading to his own side. "You're gonna need it."
She glanced back. "Why?"
"Because tomorrow," he grinned faintly, "I'm dragging your royal self up a mountain."
She raised a brow, amused. "Is that a promise?"
"It's a threat."
The candle finally gave out, leaving the room dipped in low, humming dark. Wind tapped gently against the windowpane. And in the quiet, the room felt fuller than it had all week — and lonelier, too.
May's bed remained untouched. And neither of them mentioned it.
Not yet.
---
Ronell woke slowly — the way one only wakes in safety.
The world around her was hushed and warm, cocooned in the delicate scent of lavender and polished wood. She didn't open her eyes at first. She didn't need to. The bedding beneath her was impossibly soft, the kind of softness she'd only ever imagined — like sinking into a dream spun from clouds and silk.
A single sliver of sunlight had snuck past the gauzy curtains, casting gold across the marble floor. Somewhere beyond the heavy doors, the quiet rustle of castle life had already begun: footsteps padded softly down stone halls, linens being shaken out, water being poured. Voices — polite, hushed, practiced.
She almost forgot where she was.
Then came the knock.
Featherlight, almost hesitant.
"Your Grace?"
The door opened without urgency. Three attendants stepped inside, each moving like petals on water — graceful, efficient, wordless. They carried with them the rhythm of routine, as though they had done this for years.
Ronell barely sat up before one of them gently helped her rise. Another adjusted the pillows behind her, tucking her in again — as if she might still be dreaming. The third set a polished tray across her lap: cut fruit arranged in flower-like spirals, warm bread with butter and honey, a glass of juice, and a delicate cup of rose tea. A folded napkin. A tiny porcelain bell.
"Your morning bath is being drawn," said one of the women gently. "Shall we begin when you've eaten?"
Ronell nodded. It was all she could do.
The food — light, perfect, effortless — melted on her tongue. Every bite felt too elegant for chewing. She sipped the tea in silence, fingers wrapped around the fragile cup, trying not to grip it like she used to hold tin mugs in the simulation. Even that felt like too much strength here.
The warmth of it lingered in her chest.
When they helped her into the bath, she almost gasped. The water was just right — not scalding, but perfectly heated, steeped in mint and jasmine. Steam rose around her in gentle curls, fogging the mirror and cloaking her in calm.
She sank in, breath slowing. Her thoughts slowed, too.
This was the kind of morning she had read about in fairy tales. Not just the books, but the ones she had written in her sketchpads back in the simulation — daydreams of royalty, of soft beds and kind servants and quiet rooms where nothing hurt and no one yelled. It was a childhood fantasy made real. And that made it stranger.
Almost unreal.
They dried her hair with lavender-scented cloths. Braided it with a golden ribbon — looser than the usual royal coil, but elegant still. They dressed her in a muted coral gown with petal-shaped sleeves and a flowing hem stitched with silver thread. When they laid a new pendant around her collarbone — the royal family's sigil, subtle and beautiful — it took everything not to flinch.
She caught her own reflection.
It was the princess again.
Not Ronell — not the messy, cautious girl who used to climb roof tiles in the rain and track mud into the back stairwell at the inn. The girl in the mirror was composed, radiant, otherworldly.
Only the eyes gave her away. Still green. Still her.
She rose without being told and left the room with the grace they'd taught her.
The castle halls greeted her like an old friend — silent, vast, and dressed in morning light. No one questioned her when she passed the second-floor landing and took a different stair. No one asked why she wasn't headed to the dining chamber or the morning court.
They trusted her. She had become a pattern. A shape.
She passed tapestries and old paintings, her footfalls soft against woven carpet. Then marble. Then stone.
At the servant's gate, one guard stood half-asleep by the door. He blinked — saw her — straightened, and bowed low.
"Your Grace."
She gave the smallest nod.
The door creaked open.
Cold air swept in to meet her, crisp with dew and the scent of morning soil. The rooftops shimmered faintly in the distance, slick with yesterday's celebration, their banners still fluttering like forgotten dreams. The streets were mostly quiet — just the occasional cart or bundled villager lighting a lantern.
She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders.
The city hadn't fully woken.
Neither had she.
But her feet carried her anyway, down the slope and past the outer gate, toward the edge of the castle grounds.
To the place they had agreed to meet before sunrise.
She hoped the princess would be waiting.
Or if not — she hoped she hadn't gone too far.
---
The city hadn't quite stirred when Ronell arrived at the corner where the alley met the frost-dusted plaza.
She hugged the cloak tighter around her shoulders. Her breath clouded the air, soft and white.
The fountain ahead gurgled quietly, its surface rippling beneath a thin film of ice.
Then, from behind a column near the old steps, the princess emerged.
She looked… tired. Not physically — but in the way one gets when they've spent too long wearing the wrong skin.
Their eyes met.
Neither smiled right away.
Then the princess let out a slow breath and said, "You didn't get lost in the velvet, I see."
Ronell gave a small shrug. "I liked the tea. And the mattress. And not waking up to snoring."
The princess smirked. "You say that like I snore."
Ronell raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't talking about you."
A pause — then both of them broke into a quiet laugh, small and real.
The morning mist curled around their boots. Neither made a move yet — just stood in the soft hush of the square, cloaks pulled tight, the echoes of the festival long gone behind them.
Then the princess stepped forward, offering a faint nod toward the edge of the palace grounds.
"Come on. Let's walk."
Ronell didn't hesitate this time.
Side by side, they started down the sloped path, two silhouettes slipping into the fading night — still carrying pieces of each other's lives in their pockets.
And soon, the switch would come. But not just yet.
---
They walked in silence past shuttered bakeries and still-sleeping inns, their steps measured, their shadows long in the rising light.
By the time they reached the edge of the merchant quarter — a small, ivy-climbed alley just out of sight — the streets were beginning to stir. Cart wheels creaked. A rooster called in the distance. Somewhere, a bell rang once, its voice thin and sleepy.
Ronell stopped first.
The princess halted beside her, pulling the folded cloak from her arm. For a moment, she didn't speak — just looked at it. At the weight of it.
Then she smiled.
"Alright," she said softly, holding the cloak out. "I've had enough of the common life for one day."
Ronell raised an eyebrow as she slipped the garment on. "That wasn't very convincing."
The princess huffed — a breath between a laugh and a scoff. "Yeah, well. I almost meant it."
Ronell tilted her head. "You liked it."
"No," she said — far too quickly. Then, with a shrug: "Yes. Maybe. Some of it."
She leaned against the wall now, fingers idly tapping the seam of her borrowed sleeve. "There's something about it, isn't there? Not just the quiet. The freedom. No one watching you like a hawk. No one asking what your future husband should be like over tea."
Ronell's expression flickered — not quite fast enough.
The princess squinted at her. "Wait… did that actually happen to you?"
Ronell averted her eyes, cheeks coloring. She gave a tiny, defeated nod.
The princess's grin sharpened. "Oh no. They did not."
Ronell groaned softly. "They did. Over tiny cakes and everything."
"What did they ask you?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Oh, we are absolutely talking about it."
"They asked me if I preferred brooding knights or scholarly heirs," Ronell muttered, covering her face with both hands. "And then they tried to guess my type."
The princess was cackling now. "That's it. I'm never going back."
Ronell gave her a dry look. "Then who's going to marry the scholarly heir with brooding potential?"
"Not me," the princess said, tossing her braid back with exaggerated flair. "But maybe you left a good impression."
Ronell blushed even harder. "Stop."
"No. Never."
But the princess didn't — not quite. Her smile faded more gently, landing somewhere quieter.
"I love my father," she said, more slowly now. "I love our kingdom. I want to serve it well one day. Rule it well."
She met Ronell's eyes.
"But gods, if I have to spend another hour sipping jasmine tea while pretending I care about curtain textures and embroidery stitching—I swear I'll flee to the northern border and become a hermit."
Ronell smirked. "I thought you liked the castle."
"I do," the princess said. "I like the power. I like the respect. I even like the velvet chairs, I won't lie." She reached up and unpinned her borrowed braid, letting her hair fall loose again. "But the dresses? The rules? The way I have to sit like a statue while people read poetry at me? I don't know."
Her hands fell to her sides. "It all feels like I'm pretending. And pretending gets exhausting."
Ronell studied her for a moment, quiet.
"You're really not what I expected," she said at last.
The princess raised an eyebrow. "Disappointed?"
"No," Ronell said. "Relieved."
They stood like that for a moment, the morning folding around them in pale light.
Then, the princess handed over the last of Ronell's cloak — a well-worn thing with a patch stitched near the collar. Ronell took it and tugged it over her shoulders, letting the weight of familiarity settle against her skin.
The illusion dissolved like mist.
They were themselves again.
The princess turned, shaking out her hair, already smoothing back into her role with every step. But just before she disappeared into the bend of the alley, she glanced back.
"I'll be expected in court this afternoon," she said. "You… might want to steer clear."
Ronell nodded. "That's the plan."
The princess hesitated — only briefly — and then added with a lopsided grin:
"And for what it's worth… you were a damn convincing royal."
Then she vanished into the city's waking heart, her steps light, her posture straight — but a little more herself than yesterday.
Ronell remained behind for a beat longer, watching the wind tug at the alley's ivy.
Then she turned toward the inn, her fingers brushing the edge of her worn cloak.
It felt good to be herself again.
But… she'd miss the tea. Maybe just a little.