The knights bowed. "Yes, Your Highness."
They dragged the broken steward out, leaving a sar of sweat and tears on the stone.
For a mont, the room was quiet. Only Lisa remained, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white.
Elara returned to the desk and sat. "Lisa."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"You’ve seen what happens to people who steal from ," Elara said. "To people who stay silent. To people who think I won’t notice." She opened a fresh page in the ledger. "You stayed. You talked. You obeyed."
Lisa swallowed. "Yes, Your Highness."
"From today," Elara said, writing a single line under a new heading, "you’re my acting housekeeper. All staff reports co through you. All shortages, all irregularities, all ’small favors’—you bring them to ."
Lisa stared, stunned. ", Your Highness?"
"If you decide to steal," Elara said, not looking up, "you already know what happens. If you decide to keep your mouth shut, you also know what happens. If you work, you get paid and you stay." She closed the ledger. "It’s simple."
Lisa bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the floor. "Yes, Your Highness. I... I understand."
Elara stood and looked around the stripped, quiet hall. One day ago this palace had been a leaking ship full of thieves, ghosts, and cowards. Now it was half-empty, but at least she knew who was left.
"Good," she said. "Then we start rebuilding."
Elara looked at Lisa and stood. "Help get ready."
She tossed the last file onto the desk and walked toward the door. Halfway there, she paused and turned back to the knights still standing at attention.
"Good work," she said. Then she gestured at the room—the overturned furniture, the scattered papers, the stains on the floor. "Clean this completely. Everything gets thrown out." She paused at the threshold. "Actually—tell your teams that if they want anything from this room, they can take it before disposal. Furniture, rugs, whatever. First co, first served."
The knights stared at her, faces blank with shock.
Elara didn’t wait for a response. She left, Lisa hurrying after her.
Behind them, the two knights exchanged glances. One looked at the heavy wooden desk. The other at the silk rug now marked with boot prints and worse. They’d spent their entire service being told they couldn’t touch, couldn’t take, couldn’t even look too long at anything that belonged to the people they guarded.
Now a princess was telling them to help themselves.
They didn’t know what to feel.
’’’
Elara’s personal chambers were on the far side of the wing, past two more corridors and through a set of carved doors that stuck slightly when pushed. The room inside was larger than she’d expected—windows on two walls, a canopied bed draped in pale silk, shelves lined with books she hadn’t opened, and an enormous wardrobe that took up half the back wall.
Lisa rushed ahead and threw the wardrobe doors open.
Elara stopped three steps in and stared.
Dresses. Gowns. Layer upon layer of fabric in every pastel shade imaginable, each one heavier and more elaborate than the last. Lace collars. Embroidered hems. Sleeves that would drag on the floor. Skirts wide enough to require three people just to sit down.
She reached out and lifted one by the hanger. The weight pulled at her arm imdiately—four kilograms, maybe five. Wearing this would be like carrying a small child on her back all day.
"Absolutely not," Elara said, and dropped it back.
Lisa shifted nervously. "Your Highness, these were made by the imperial seamstresses—"
"They’re cages made of silk," Elara said flatly. She pushed hangers aside one by one, each gown worse than the last. Ruffles. Bows. One had actual feathers stitched into the bodice. "Is there anything in here I can actually move in?"
Lisa bit her lip. "There’s... there’s sothing in the back corner, Your Highness. But you told us never to touch it."
Elara turned. "Show ."
Lisa hesitated, then moved deeper into the wardrobe. Her hand brushed sothing hidden behind the wall of gowns, and when she pulled it forward, dust billowed off the outer wrapping. She set the bundle on the bed, coughing.
It was wrapped in three layers of cloth and tied with old string that had gone stiff with ti. The outer fabric was filthy—thick with dust, like it had been buried and forgotten.
Elara untied the string and peeled back the layers. The outer wrapping was covered in gri, but the innermost layer—sealed with so kind of preservation spell—was pristine. When she pulled it away, the contents inside were untouched, as if they’d been placed there yesterday.
A white silk shirt with a sharp collar and tailored seams. White trousers, high-waisted and fitted. A white blazer cut like a tuxedo jacket—structured shoulders, clean lapels, buttons that would sit flat and professional.
It looked like sothing from another world. Modern. Practical. The kind of thing you’d wear to a boardroom, not a throne room.
Elara held up the blazer. The fabric was finer than anything from her old life, but the design was almost identical to what she used to wear—minimalist, functional, built for soone who had work to do.
"What is this," she said.
Lisa’s voice ca out quiet. "You made it, Your Highness."
Elara looked up. "I made this?"
"Two years ago," Lisa said, wringing her hands. "You drew the design yourself and took it to a tailor in the lower city. You were so excited when it ca back. You tried it on and said it was perfect." Her voice dropped. "But then you wrapped it up and hid it."
"Why."
Lisa glanced at the floor. "You said people would laugh. That it wasn’t appropriate for a princess. That wearing sothing so different would make you stand out even more, and you already—" She stopped herself.
"Already what," Elara said.
"You already stood out, Your Highness," Lisa finished softly. "Because of your mother. Because of your na. Because you weren’t like the others. You said you didn’t want to give them one more reason to mock you."
Elara looked at the suit in her hands. The original princess had wanted this. Had designed sothing she could actually function in, sothing that reflected who she wanted to be. But fear had locked it away—fear of judgnt, of standing out, of being even more of a target than she already was.
"She’s not here anymore," Elara said. "And I’m not interested in their opinions."
She stripped off the borrowed robe and pulled on the shirt. It fit perfectly—tailored to her fra, comfortable at the shoulders, sleeves that ended exactly where they should. The trousers were the sa: fitted but not restrictive, designed for movent. The blazer settled over her shoulders like it had been waiting, the weight distributed evenly, the cut sharp and professional.
She fastened the buttons and turned to the standing mirror.
Much better.
Her hair was still a problem. It fell past her shoulders in long, impractical waves—the kind of hair that got in the way during long etings, that required pins and care and ti she didn’t want to waste.
She scanned the vanity, found a pair of sewing scissors, and picked them up.
"Your Highness—" Lisa started, alarm clear in her voice.
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