“On the Care and Calling of the Messenger Kestrel”

  by Master Ellgren, Keeper of the High Rookery at Kael Kestrel, 288 o.L.

  Transcribed from his lectures to junior apprentices

  “A true Scrollhawk doesn’t just return home—it remembers where it’s been. Once taught a place, it can fly to and from it without fail, provided the air is clear and the handler remains true. That’s the heart of the craft: not direction, but trust. You don’t tie a message to its leg and hope—it must know where it’s going, and why. Treat your kestrel like a living map, not a feathered arrow. And never send it somewhere you haven’t shown it first.”

  Date unknown, 572 o.L.

  Ronan Blackarken

  Breakfast had been delicious. He hated to admit it, but it was true. He had been starving—he hadn’t eaten properly since waking, aside from a few bites of cake yesterday. That was reason enough, he told himself, for why it had tasted so good.

  He ate as the two women went about ‘making him ready for the day,’ as they called it. They moved in perfect harmony, their hands swift and efficient, as if the strangeness of the morning had been forgotten. Their focus had shifted entirely to their task—preparing their noble charge.

  The moment he finally pulled his gaze away from the face in the mirror and looked down at his breakfast plate, he felt a flicker of relief. A distraction. Something simple. Something real.

  So he let them continue. Let them wipe away the last traces of sleep, let them press warm, floral-scented cloths to his skin. It felt wrong. Every stroke of the damp fabric against his body was a reminder that his hands should be the ones doing this. That his body should not feel this light, this unfamiliar. But he had already decided. He wanted to live. He wanted answers. And for now, that meant going along with this masquerade—no matter how strange, how humiliating it felt.

  The bread was the first thing he had tried. Still warm from the oven, its scent rose softly with the steam. At first, it seemed familiar—dark, soft, and dense, much like the bread his father would sometimes bring home in the mornings back in Kestrel—but that’s where the similarities ended.

  Back home, bread was plain rye, maybe a few flaxseeds if the baker was generous. This—this was something else. Richer. Softer. Alive with warmth and spice.

  Then there was the spread. One slice was coated in butter so rich it melted on his tongue, amplifying the bread’s flavor. The other, draped in golden honey, tasted of sweetness edged with lavender.

  Just breakfast. But finer than anything he’d eaten in months. A far cry from charred rations on the march, from stolen bites of hard cheese and dried meat, from the bland meals of a soldier’s camp.

  He reached for the fruit next. Modest in selection, yet no less indulgent. Back home, apples and pears from the market had been a treat, their sweetness at its peak in the harvest season. But even the ripest fruit of his youth could not compare to this.

  The cantaloupe glowed orange, sweet and soft as sun-warmed sugar. Grapes snapped cold between his teeth, their tang washing away the melon’s syrupy weight. Then came the peach—golden slices, smooth and perfect, until the juice spilled across his lip before he could catch it. He wiped it away hastily, expecting the roughness of calloused hands—only to feel, once again, the smoothness of his new hands.

  There were no imperfections, no hurried cuts from a cook tossing scraps together for weary soldiers, no bruises from a merchant’s cart. It had been selected, arranged, prepared.

  At first, the plate had seemed too small to sate his hunger. But as he finished the last pieces, he realized he was full. Before all this, he could have easily eaten another plate and a half. Now, he struggled to finish what was before him.

  But he had enjoyed every bite. Every flavor, every texture had drawn him in, fully consuming his attention. He had eaten without thought, without hesitation, lost in the richness of it all. It was only when he looked up that he noticed them—the two women preparing him, hands still busy, but their eyes flicking toward him. Their glances were subtle, fleeting, but unmistakably amused.

  The younger of the two let out a quiet giggle, eyes alight with amusement. "You must have been starving, my lady," she said, barely suppressing a laugh.

  The older woman gave a small shake of her head—not disapproving, but faintly exasperated. "You’ll learn not to tease, Mira," she murmured, her tone dry but not unkind. Then, to Ronan: "You didn’t even bother with the fork or knife."

  Heat rushed to his face. His gaze dropped instinctively. Beside the now-empty plate, untouched and gleaming in the morning light, lay a silver fork and knife, resting atop a finely folded cloth. His stomach twisted. Of course. A noblewoman would have used utensils, savoring each bite with delicate precision—not wolfing it down with her fingers like a starving soldier.

  Embarrassment curled in his chest, sharp and undeniable. Yet, beneath it, for the first time in what felt like ages—he felt like himself. Wordlessly, he took the cloth and wiped his fingers clean, ignoring the servants’ barely concealed amusement. Then, with deliberate ease, he lifted his cup and took a sip of his now-lukewarm tea.

  He exhaled slowly, gathering the courage to speak. "Thank you for the breakfast," he said at last. His voice felt steadier than he expected. "It was delicious."

  The older of the two smiled, still laced with quiet amusement. "Of course, my lady," she replied smoothly. Then, with the same practiced ease, she gestured toward him. "Now, please sit still while we fix your hair and face."

  Without waiting for a response, they set to work. The younger woman, Mira, swiftly took up a brush, running it through his hair with practiced efficiency, while the older began opening the pots and containers laid out before him.

  The moment of quiet familiarity from breakfast shattered. Apprehension crept back in, curling cold in his stomach.

  "Do you have any preferences for today’s look?" the older one asked, her tone turning serious again. "You’re meeting with Lady Emhin and the esteemed Voice of Aethor, yes? Do you prefer your hair up or down? And your colors? I was thinking something bold, as with yesterday’s ceremony."

  Ronan froze. He had no answer. The casual ease with which she spoke—the way she expected him to have opinions on these things—made his thoughts stutter. Only minutes ago, he had been focused on food, on something that, for a moment, had felt real.

  Now, he was lost again.

  "Uhmm…" He hesitated, grasping for something, anything that wouldn’t make him seem entirely clueless. "Yesterday’s was fine, I guess."

  If they noticed his uncertainty, they didn’t acknowledge it. The women simply set to work. "Perfect," the older one said, already moving. "Hair down, then. And a nice red lip to match your nails."

  As Mira woman continued brushing his hair, the older took his hands, turning them over with practiced efficiency, inspecting his fingers as though he were an object to be assessed.

  "The color from yesterday is still good," she noted, releasing his hands without a second thought. "No need to paint them again."

  She moved on, selecting brushes and small pots—delicate tools whose purpose Ronan couldn’t even guess at.

  Meanwhile, the steady rhythm of the brush through his hair, once unfamiliar, began to lull him. With each stroke, the foreign sensation softened, becoming something almost… comforting. Without meaning to, he leaned back slightly, allowing himself to sink into the feeling as the two women continued their work.

  The scent of rosewater and crushed petals filled the air as the older woman dabbed something cool along his cheeks and forehead, her fingertips pressing lightly against his skin. A brush traced the contours of his face, sweeping something powdery over him, its texture fine and weightless. He should have flinched—should have tensed at the sensation of unfamiliar hands tending to him—but the steady rhythm of the brush, the delicate pressure of fingers smoothing in creams and pigments, dulled his resistance.

  Mira worked in tandem, her movements effortless as she arranged his hair. Pins slid into place with practiced ease, securing strands in a way that felt too intentional, too delicate. A light oil was smoothed over the ends, its faint fragrance lingering in the air—something floral, something noble. He wanted to hate it, to resist the way his body responded to the pampering touch. But each stroke of the brush, each careful adjustment, chipped away at his tension, lulling him deeper into a strange, unwilling relaxation.

  “Almost done,” the older woman murmured, stepping back to examine their work. A final brushstroke along his lips, a faint tint applied with an expert hand. She nodded in satisfaction.

  Mira tilted her head, assessing him with a quiet smile. “There. You look perfect, my lady.”

  His fingers twitched in his lap. He should have been repulsed by how easily he had let them shape him, by how quickly the unfamiliar sensations had dulled his resistance. But the disgust he expected never fully came. In its place, a dull resignation settled over him like a heavy cloak.

  He exhaled slowly, steeling himself. He had already decided—he would play the part. At least for now. Whatever they had done to him, whatever game was being played, he needed to understand it first. And that meant not fighting. Not yet.

  A quiet breath settled in his chest, though it did little to ease the weight pressing down on him.

  "My lady, please stand so we can get you dressed."

  The two women stepped back from the table, hands folded neatly before them, expectant but patient.

  He hesitated—just for a breath. A flicker of resistance curled in his chest, instinct screaming at him to refuse. His gaze flicked toward the garments they had prepared, the underthings as delicate as they were unnecessary. The soft corset, a deep green to match the gown, lay folded neatly atop the shift, its silk laces threaded loosely down the sides, meant to shape rather than constrict.

  But it was the dress that loomed largest. Emerald silk, fine as water beneath candlelight, embroidered with curling gold filigree and delicate white accents. The bodice, sleek and fitted, was edged with a trim so fine it might have been woven from light. The sleeves tapered at the wrists, lace pooling like whispering ivy over the hands. Every inch of it spoke of wealth, refinement, control.

  It hadn’t been uncomfortable to wear one yesterday. That wasn’t the problem. It was what it represented. A role. A life. A truth he was being forced to wear.

  "Come now, my lady," the elder woman chided lightly. "After the interruption this morning, we are running low on time."

  Mira, smoothing out the shift, let out a soft hum. "And I do hope you won’t make us rush, my lady. It would be a tragedy to waste such a beautiful gown on a poor dressing."

  He swallowed, throat dry. He should refuse. Should argue. Should do anything but what they expected. But they were waiting. His fingers twitched at his sides. Then, with careful control, he forced himself to exhale—and he walked over to them.

  They were efficient, thank Aethor. The nightdress and robe slipped from his shoulders in practiced motions, the cool air brushing against his skin before they had already moved to the next step. The small underpants he had slept in were removed just as swiftly, and before he had a chance to linger on the moment, they guided him to step into a fresh pair.

  Lacy. Green. The color struck him as he caught a glimpse of the delicate embroidery. Of course, it was green—Rosalia’s favorite color, it seemed. A detail that was not his, but one he would now be expected to embody.

  Then came the corset. Soft, boneless, but shaping nonetheless. They wrapped it around his torso with ease, settling the silk against his skin before beginning the slow, practiced ritual of tightening.

  "Exhale, my lady," the elder instructed, her tone gentle, as though coaxing a skittish horse. He obeyed, the breath leaving his lungs, and he felt the laces draw snug.

  By the time they deemed it perfect, he could feel it—not restriction, but support. The corset lifted his bust, shaping it in a way that made it impossible to ignore. The weight, the softness, the unfamiliarity of it all pressed against his senses. But there was nothing to do except stand there and let them work.

  Six straps dangled from the corset, brushing lightly against his thighs. He barely had time to register them before Mira was guiding his foot forward.

  "Step in, my lady."

  Silk stockings—fine, delicate, utterly unnecessary—were slipped up his legs with practiced ease. The silk caressed his smooth, hairless skin, sending a faint shiver up his spine. He almost let himself enjoy the feeling again. Almost.

  Instead, he forced the thought away, retreating into empty silence as they fastened the garters. The straps clicked into place, a subtle but final sense of enclosure. A cage as soft as silk, but no less binding.

  The next layer followed—a thin dress, sleeveless and lighter than air, brushing over his shoulders and down his body as they pulled it into place. Lace traced delicate floral patterns along the bust and hem, more decoration, more softness, more of what he wasn’t.

  And then, the final piece. The dress. The elder servant lifted it with care, spreading the silk as if revealing some sacred treasure. The emerald fabric shimmered as the morning light caught it, a fluid cascade of green and gold.

  "Step in, my lady."

  The silk whispered against his skin as they drew it up, the sensation so smooth, so light, that he almost shivered again. The voluminous sleeves billowed as they slid up his arms, barely brushing against his skin before settling into place.

  The skirt—he assumed that was the right term—flowed down in a perfect column, shining emerald broken by stark white stripes and gold filigree. His fingers twitched at his sides.

  It was heavier than it looked, the weight pooling around his legs in a way he knew would limit his movement. He suspected it would be far more constricting than any simple pair of pants.

  As they fastened it behind him—some arcane method that was not the buttons he had tried and failed to loosen yesterday—he suddenly understood the corset.

  Even with his waist drawn in, the dress still clung, tight across his stomach and waist, pressing in as though it had been shaped for him alone. The fabric smoothed over his torso, accentuating every line, sculpting him further into her silhouette.

  The opening at the neck was wide and square, exposing more of his chest than he expected. The top of his breasts—fuller, higher, unmistakable—were lifted by some unseen structure in the dress itself, forcing a shape, a presentation.

  The sleeves, long and voluminous, framed the image further, pooling at his wrists in delicate folds. He could feel the silk shift with every movement, a whisper against his skin, foreign and utterly inescapable.

  He felt trapped, utterly and completely trapped, and regretted his earlier decision to play along. This was too much.

  He was a man. A blacksmith. A soldier. An initiate for the Aetherian Knights. But here he stood, breasts pushed up into his face, a tight skirt that would hinder every step, his face painted like the prostitutes of Clifftown back in Kestrel. This was not him, and yet it was. It was Rosalia, and for better and for worse, he now had to play the role forced on him.

  His stomach twisted at the thought, the weight of the makeup on his skin suddenly suffocating. The corset pressed in, the silk of the dress whispering against his legs with every small shift. It clung. It framed. It defined.

  "You look absolutely radiant, my lady! By the Light, I wish I had your figure."

  Mira’s voice carried a light, almost wistful admiration, as if she hadn’t spent the morning painting his face and shaping his body to be this way. She adjusted the final lace at his sleeve, stepping back to admire their work.

  "Now for the last few finishing touches," the older woman said as she walked back to the table.

  Ronan’s stomach turned. What more could they possibly require? He had the dress, the corset, the stockings, the painted face—every inch of him had already been wrapped, reshaped, claimed by their hands. Yet still, there was something missing?

  She quickly returned, carrying a small, finely decorated wooden box. Dark ebony, polished to a perfect sheen, its surface carved with towering stags, dense forest lines, and in the center—a lone tower, shrouded in mist. She opened it with careful reverence.

  Inside, gold glinted under the morning light—rings, bracelets, earrings, and necklaces, each piece more delicate, more elaborate than the last. Ronan barely breathed. The small box alone, its contents nestled in silk, was worth more than his father’s smithy. No. Not just worth it. It could buy it. Twice over. And still, there would be gold crowns to spare. His stomach twisted. All of this. For decoration.

  Mira’s eyes sparkled as she leaned over the open jewelry box, her fingers already reaching for a pair of delicate ruby earrings. "Which pieces do you want today, my lady?" she asked, her voice sing-song. "Oh—these! The rubies. Just look at them—they’d match your lips perfectly. And your nails! And that lovely new eye color! Don't you agree Leta, aren't they just perfect for her." She grinned, clearly delighted by the artistry of it all.

  Beside her, the older woman, Leta, remained quiet. Her gaze lingered on the open box longer than necessary—not studying the contents, but weighing something. "Perhaps something simpler would be kinder for today," she said at last, her voice soft but steady.

  Mira paused, a hint of confusion crossing her face.

  Ronan didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. Their words slipped past him, drowned in the weight of it all. Mira, cheerful and expectant. Leta, unreadable. The box, filled with gold and stones that shimmered like they belonged to someone else.

  "I…" He cleared his throat. "I trust your judgment."

  His words felt like someone else’s, but Mira’s smile widened as if he had given the perfect answer. She quickly went to work.

  The gold earrings were first. Delicate, dangling things, each with a small chain holding two red gemstones—rubies, he guessed. The moment they were hooked into place, he felt them sway gently with the slightest movement. Their weight was light, almost nonexistent, yet somehow, he was constantly aware of them.

  Next came the bracelets—gold, finely decorated with more forest motifs, wrapping snugly around his wrists. The moment they settled, the soft clinking of metal followed his every movement, another constant reminder of his gilded cage.

  Then, the rings. Each was more intricate than the last, delicate filigree wrapped around his fingers, like chains made to look like art. One, however, stood out—a ruby, deep red, set at the center of an otherwise simple gold band. Not large, but just enough to be noticed.

  His fingers twitched as he looked at it. He had to admit—the color matched his nails nicely. The thought sent a strange, sinking sensation through him. He wasn’t supposed to notice things like that.

  The last piece was a necklace—gold again. A simple chain, delicate, but with weight, ending in a small shield pendant. As they fastened it around his neck, he resisted the urge to flinch. The clasp clicked into place, and the cool metal settled against his skin, resting just above his breasts. It was cool at first, but warmed quickly, as if claiming him.

  His eyes drifted downward. The shield bore a familiar image—the same mist-shrouded tower carved into the ebony jewelry box. A family crest, maybe? His throat tightened. A house he didn’t belong to. A name that wasn’t his. The weight of the pendant felt heavier than it should, pressing against his skin like a brand.

  "There we are, my lady—as radiant as always." The older woman beamed, as if he had done something deserving of praise. But he had done nothing. They had shaped him, painted him, dressed him.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Radiant? The word felt hollow.

  "Now come here," she said, gesturing toward the full-length mirror, almost hidden on the inside of an ornate cabinet. Its doors were open, revealing racks of dresses, silks, and finery—more clothing than he had ever owned in his life. All his now.

  His stomach twisted. He hesitated, his feet unwilling to move. How could he face himself again? The last time had been a shock—seeing his reflection had shattered something deep inside. Now, with the full weight of this transformation—the jewelry, the dress, the painted lips and nails—how much worse would it be? He stood frozen. The mirror waited.

  Behind him, Mira began tidying the table, humming to herself, while Leta stood still, watching—not pressing, not guiding, merely waiting.

  Ronan inhaled slowly. Shaky. Measured. And then—because not looking wouldn’t change the truth—he stepped forward. The mirror caught him like a trap. She stared back at him. Rosalia.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move. He simply looked.

  Her skin glowed in the soft morning light, kissed by powder and rose-tinted creams. Her lips, full and red, parted slightly in surprise—his own expression reflected in their shape. The emerald gown clung perfectly to her frame, hugging an almost impossibly thin waist, then falling in elegant lines that shimmered with each subtle shift of breath. Her hair—his hair—was a waterfall of auburn silk, pinned just enough to stay out of her face, the rest curling softly at her shoulders. Even her posture—trained, sculpted, unfamiliar—seemed regal.

  Beautiful. She was beautiful.

  Not like the girls he had known in Kestrel. Not like Emma, laughing in her yellow dress. Not like Lyra's warmth and closeness, tousled hair and skin that smelled faintly of lavender and smoke. The last woman he’d touched, before all of this. Her beauty had been easy—earthbound, open, meant to be reached for. This wasn’t that. This was something else. Something curated. Timeless.

  Rosalia was elegance made flesh. Regal. Untouched. Her beauty wasn’t an invitation—it was a statement. It didn’t beckon. It arrived. And Ronan couldn't look away.

  His breath caught in his throat. He shifted slightly. The figure in the mirror shifted too, and the silk rippled across her hips. He turned just a little, watching how the light caught her cheekbone. How the earrings—rubies, dangling, delicate—swung gently beside her neck.

  He didn't think of himself in that moment. Not as Ronan. Not even as Rosalia. He just looked—and saw a pretty girl.

  She turned. He turned. She smiled faintly—unsure, hesitant—and he realized it was his own expression, twisted into something soft and feminine. That same hesitation reflected back at him in soft lashes and trembling lips.

  He lifted a hand. Her hand. Slender, graceful. Long burgundy nails catching the light. It should have felt like a stranger’s body. And in a way, it did. But it was a stranger he couldn’t stop staring at.

  Then, something shifted. His gaze drifted downward—and caught. The fit of the bodice. Too snug on the left. Barely noticeable unless he was looking for it, but now that he saw it, he couldn’t unsee it. A faint asymmetry. One breast lifted just a little higher than the other. A wrinkle in the fabric where it clung too tightly, breaking the illusion of perfection.

  His breath hitched. It was a small thing, but it made her—him—feel real again. Not divine. Not perfect. Just... flawed enough to exist.

  Behind him, Leta moved. She stepped in without a word, her fingers swift and practiced. A light tug here, a smoothing motion there. The wrinkle vanished like it had never been. “Good eye, my lady,” she almost praised him.

  He said nothing. Couldn’t. Because even that—the correction—had reminded him of who they expected him to be. And worse still—for a moment, he'd liked it. Liked how Rosalia looked. How he looked.

  The thought made his stomach twist. Not because it was wrong. But because it felt too easy. Too close. Too tempting. He looked away from the mirror, jaw tight, shame curling low in his chest.

  He took a breath. Slow. Steadying. He couldn’t dwell on it. Alena had promised him answers, and despite their talk yesterday—and this morning—he still had questions. Questions he wouldn’t answer by standing here, staring at himself, feeling sorry.

  He needed to move. He crossed into the sitting room. In the morning light, it looked cozy and disarmingly calm. The fire from yesterday had faded to glowing embers, casting only the faintest warmth across the rug.

  He didn’t pause. Just passed through, his silk skirts whispering softly as he reached the door to the hallway. Footsteps followed. He heard Mira whisper something, then Leta’s voice, soft but urgent.

  "I'm sorry, my lady?” she said. “You've forgotten your shoes."

  Of course he had. Always something else. Another layer. Another piece of fabric or ornament or polish meant to complete the illusion. Another small way to be contained.

  He turned, forcing his expression into something close to warmth. "Of course. Thank you. I must still be half asleep."

  The words felt hollow, but necessary. Leta and Mira had done their work with care. They didn’t deserve the brunt of his discomfort.

  Mira stepped forward, cradling a pair of elegant high-heeled shoes in both hands. Emerald-dyed leather, embroidered with delicate gold filigree, the heels modest by court standards but still enough to reshape his stance. Shoes designed to lift, lengthen, correct.

  “Come,” Leta said gently, gesturing toward the couch. His breath catching just slightly as he saw it—the same one he had curled into yesterday, curled around himself like armor, holding in everything he couldn’t let out. He sat without protest.

  His stockinged feet—darkened slightly by the fine weave of silk, smooth and shapely—rested neatly beneath the hem of his dress. Mira knelt and slipped one shoe on, then the other. The buckles clicked gently into place.

  She sat back on her heels, looked up at him with a small, reassuring smile. “You look well-rested this morning,” she said softly. “No one would ever guess otherwise.”

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. It was the kind of kindness that didn’t ask for acknowledgment. Leta stepped forward and offered him her hand. He took it, and rose.

  The shift was immediate—subtle, but inescapable. The heels tipped his balance forward, tilted his hips, straightened his spine. They didn’t hurt. Not yet. The discomforting feeling from yesterday made itself known again. Somehow, his body knew how to move in these. He should be fighting for balance, tripping every step, but instead they felt normal, just another pair of shoes.

  He hesitated by the door, glancing back at the two women.

  “Do you know the way?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “Where Lady Ale... Where Lady Elowen is meeting Sorin?”

  Leta nodded, already reaching for the door. “Of course, my lady. Just follow me, I'll show the way.” He nodded, murmured a quiet thanks, and stepped out, Leta following behind him out the door.

  The corridor beyond his borrowed quarters opened into a high-vaulted hall, warm with amber light spilling through arching stained-glass windows. Every surface seemed touched by reverence—stone polished to a quiet gleam, walls etched with depictions of sunrises and radiant flame. The scent of melted wax and sacred oils lingered in the air, clinging to velvet hangings.

  Ronan’s steps echoed faintly behind Leta’s as she led the way—soft clicks of his unfamiliar heels against stone. Every footfall felt deliberate, graceful in a way that unsettled him. Not clumsy. Not hesitant. Practiced. He hated that, and yet was grateful for it, because the alternative was stumbling around.

  They passed beneath a soaring arch carved with the eight-pointed star of Aethor, its lines inlaid with gold leaf that shimmered beneath the ever-present lantern light and the golden morning sun. Devotion was carved into every inch of the Dawnspire—into its halls, its stonework, its silence.

  Just past the second arch, Leta stopped and gestured toward a pair of heavy wooden doors, their surface inlaid with a design of light and flame entwined. “Here, my lady,” she said, her voice calm and respectful. “This is the Voice of Aethor's office.”

  Ronan nodded once, lips pressed thin. “Thank you.”

  She bowed and stepped back. He placed a hand on the handle, took a breath—then pushed the door open.

  The door opened with a muted groan of ancient hinges, revealing a spacious chamber, that richly decorated and filled with more books and scrolls than Ronan had ever seen.

  The air inside was cool and still, thick with the scent of old parchment, melted wax, and faint incense. Tall windows along the far wall gave a breathtaking view of the Northern Ocean. Ronan had never seen the ocean before. The largest expanse he had seen before was Lake Stonemist, the great lake south of Kael Kestrel, the lake on which the opposite shore was home to Kelmist, and Rosalia's family. His new pretend family.

  Shelves of scrolls and volumes lined the walls, interspersed with relics resting on velvet cushions. At the room’s heart stood a long table of dark wood, flanked by high-backed chairs, and behind it, a tapestry of the The Fifteen crossing a river, the gleaming morning sun in the background.

  Alena stood beside one of the tall windows, hands clasped, posture composed. She turned at the sound of the door.

  And beside her stood him. Cadog his silver-trimmed robes unwrinkled, his expression composed. The light caught the pendant at his chest—an eight-pointed star of flame and crystal, the symbol of Aethor, heavy with meaning.

  Ronan stopped at the threshold. The last time he had seen this man, he had woken in his new body, disoriented and panicking. And Cadog had looked at him like a failed calculation.

  Now, the same unreadable expression met him again—measured, unblinking, as if cataloging a puzzle no one had solved yet. Alena stepped forward. Her smile was soft, but not overly warm. She gestured to the seat nearest the far side of the table. “Rosalia. You’re just in time.”

  The name felt like a stone dropped into a quiet pool. Ronan did not correct her. Not yet. He heard the door close behind him as he moved toward the seat, his eyes never leaving Cadog—who did not flinch, did not look away. But the way his fingers tightened slightly at the edge of his sleeve was answer enough.

  They all sat at the desk. Cadog in the big chair behind it, clearly his, while Ronan and Alena Hanruli sat in two chairs facing him.

  Alena broke the silence. "Cadog was just telling me he might have found an explanation to why you came back, and not Isolde." She was smiling, as if this was good news, the solution to all Ronan's problems.

  "I believe that Isolde is still alive. I've sent a Scrollhawk to the estate in Ashferm to confirm this." Cadog was showing emotion at this, excitement as if discovering something new, and Alena was still smiling at him.

  Ronan stared between them. The implication landed hard.

  "What does this mean for me?" he asked, uncertain whether to feel dread or relief.

  Alena took a breath, her tone careful. "It means that you are... unprecedented. You were born with power equal to that of The Fifteen. The first in all our history."

  Cadog stepped forward slightly, continuing, "This means that you are not a mistake. You are one of us, Ronan. In spirit. In power. In potential."

  Ronan's brow furrowed. He let out a breath that was more scoff than sigh, a short, bitter sound that slipped between clenched teeth. His shoulders tensed, and his hands curled slightly, as if gripping a memory he couldn't put down. "You say that like it's supposed to mean something to me. Like being 'one of you' is some kind of gift. But I’m the son of a blacksmith. My greatest destiny before all this started was to take over my father's work."

  He looked at his hands—not calloused and smoke-marked like his father’s, but soft, fine. Rosalia’s hands. He could still remember the scent of the forge—burnt metal, soot, the tang of sweat and coal. The rhythm of hammer against steel had once been his heartbeat. Now these hands trembled without weight. She had never swung a hammer. Never bent iron. And yet they moved with his reflexes now.

  That contradiction sat wrong in his bones, like a misfit joint grinding every time he breathed. It made him feel unmoored, disoriented—like the ground beneath him might give at any moment, and take what little of himself he still recognized with it.

  "You talk about power and potential like I should be grateful for it. But all power and potential has ever given me is dead and destruction. My supposed blessing made me relish killing, made me kill enough Varnmen that they eventually fled. In the end, this blessing is what got me killed."

  He shook his head. "Power? Potential? That wasn’t mine. And now it is not Rosalia’s either. You don’t get to rewrite who we were just because you aren't ready to die."

  "Don't presume to judge us child. I’ve buried more names than you’ve ever known. I will not bury peace as well." It was the first sign of emotion from Cadog, but it was quickly buried again.

  Alena met his eyes. "It might not seem it now, but this power means you have a choice others never had. It means something you can help shape the future of this kingdom."

  He stared at her. "You say I have a choice. But if that were true, I wouldn’t be in her skin. Wearing her name. Living her life. So tell me, Alena—how much of that choice is real, and how much is just the illusion you give to make it easier to swallow?"

  "And what choice did Rosalia have? Did she offer up her life so Isolde could use her, so she could extend her life?"

  Cadog tilted his head. “Rosalia was chosen, by Isolde herself. For her placement, her standing. Her potential reach across noble circles. It made her... ideal.”

  “An ideal host,” Ronan repeated. The words scraped like iron across his throat. “You talk about her like she was furniture.”

  “She was a vessel,” Cadog replied.

  Ronan’s voice sharpened. “She was a person.”

  Alena’s expression shifted. Barely—but he saw it. A flicker at the corner of her mouth, a tightening around her eyes—just for a breath. It was enough to betray something: regret, perhaps. Or doubt.

  “She didn’t ask to die so someone else could move in and take over her life. She was picked like a piece of meat at a merchant’s stall.”

  Cadog’s gaze stayed steady. “The needs of the realm outweigh the burden of one life.”

  Ronan's hands clenched around the dress. “Then say it plainly. You steal young peoples lives so the old can live forever. You dress it up in ritual and incense and pretend it's sacred, but it’s parasitism.”

  Cadog’s tone didn’t shift. “We preserve what would otherwise be lost.”

  “And how many are killed like Rosalia?” Ronan demanded. “How many children from powerful families, raised with perfect manners and soft smiles, just waiting for their moment to be erased?”

  A silence fell. Alena leaned forward, voice low. “We don’t pretend it’s just. But we do what the world demands. What survival demands.”

  “And how many times has survival just meant your survival?” Ronan shot back. “Isolde chose Rosalia for her influence. Her proximity to power. And maybe—maybe even for her beauty. It made her easier to present, easier to accept. Not because she deserved anything—but because she was useful.”

  Alena flinched. That time, she didn’t hide it.

  “You all talk about duty, but the only ones making sacrifices are the ones who don’t get to choose.”

  She exhaled. “You’re right.”

  Ronan blinked.

  She looked at him, gaze clear, steady. "You’re right, Ronan. We chose her. Isolde chose her. Not because she was ready. Not because she understood. But because she was... convenient."

  She took a breath. "Her name carried weight. Her family stood well among the nobility. That kind of lineage smooths doors open before you even knock."

  Another pause. Her voice dropped slightly. "And yes—her beauty helped. It’s a sad truth, but it matters. A beautiful face earns trust. It disarms suspicion. It makes people listen who might otherwise turn away. Especially when it comes to women."

  She glanced toward the tapestry on the wall, as if seeing some older version of herself reflected in the woven gold. "This is what The Fifteen have always done—guided the realm, quietly, persistently, from behind the veil. Not through conquest. Through influence."

  She turned back to him. "We told ourselves that with time, with poise and grace, she could become the voice Isolde would use to guide part of the kingdom. Not to bring peace with banners and parades—but to bend the river's course without ever stirring the surface."

  “But you never asked her,” Ronan said.

  “No,” Alena admitted. “We didn’t.”

  Ronan turned his head, staring out the window. The ocean below stretched vast and unknowable. He didn’t speak for a long time. Then, quietly: “She didn’t deserve this.”

  “No,” Alena said. “She didn’t.”

  He looked down at his hands—her hands. Rosalia’s hands. And hated that he couldn’t deny the truth in Alena’s voice. That this wasn’t clean. That maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t entirely about evil men in robes and power-hungry souls. Just broken people making broken choices in a broken world.

  And for the first time since waking up in her body... he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. His gaze dropped to the necklace resting against his chest—a gold chain ending in a small shield pendant. It had been placed there by Mira and Leta that morning, part of the costume chosen for him.

  He touched the pendant lightly. The metal had warmed against his skin, resting just above his breasts. It felt heavier than it should, like a brand more than an ornament. Not his. Not earned. Just another piece of someone else’s life draped over him.

  And now he was standing in the echoes of it, unsure if they were meant to guide him... or haunt him. He turned back to face them. “You admit it,” he said. “That you didn’t ask. That Rosalia was chosen like a pawn on a game board.”

  Alena nodded once.

  “And yet you still think this is worth it?”

  Cadog answered before she could. “Yes. Without hesitation.”

  Ronan shook his head, silken hair dancing around his shoulders, voice rising. “You think sacrificing innocence is justified if it buys you another decade to shuffle pieces on the board?”

  “It buys the kingdom stability,” Cadog replied coldly.

  “No,” Ronan snapped. “It buys you relevance. It buys you a future where your names still matter. Where your hands are still on the levers. Don’t pretend this is about the kingdom when it’s really about your own fear of being forgotten.”

  Cadog’s jaw clenched.

  “You talk about memory,” Ronan Blackarken continued. “But memory without change is stagnation. You’re just reliving your old glories in new bodies, and calling it duty.”

  Alena’s voice was quiet. “We don’t do it for glory.”

  “Then why not let yourselves rest?” Ronan demanded. “Why not pass on? Let new people lead. Make their own mistakes.”

  “Because those mistakes cost lives,” Cadog said. “We have seen what happens when untested hands steer the ship. The kingdom tears itself apart. We offer continuity. Wisdom.”

  “You offer control.”

  Alena spoke, her voice was calm, but there was something raw in it now. “You think we don’t wish there was another way?”

  Ronan stared at her.

  “We are not gods,” she said. “We’re just the only ones who remember how to keep the storm from swallowing everything. And yes—it’s broken. But breaking it further doesn’t heal the wound.”

  His voice dropped, low and bitter. “Then maybe it needs to bleed.”

  Silence.

  “You keep saying this is about peace,” Ronan said, each word sharper than the last. “But peace isn’t the absence of change. It isn’t silence. It isn’t young women in gilded cages made to smile while you wear their skin.”

  He paused. His voice softened, but only barely. "I would have died,” he said. “I might not have been ready to, but it happened. Instead I am sitting here, and Rosalia is now the one returned to Oblivion. Because your ritual decided someone else's life was a better fit for your narrative. So now I’m in her place, wearing her clothes, speaking in her voice. And no one asked me, either.”

  Alena looked away. Cadog didn’t.

  “And what if I say no?” Ronan asked. “What if I won’t be her? What if I tear down everything you’ve built and make damn sure no one else ever gets chosen again?”

  Cadog’s voice was like ice. “Then you will not only condemn us, you will be responsible for the deaths of thousands. The kingdom will be destroyed.”

  “And maybe,” Ronan said, forcefully putting a delicate hand to the table, “it should. If this is what it takes to keep it alive.”

  A beat of silence. But then—Alena’s voice, softer than before. “Would you really condemn all those lives? The villages who thrive under stability? The border towns depending on peace to survive? The Empire of old is just waiting for one sign of weakness to take back their old provinces. To them we are nothing but an errant child.”

  Ronan said nothing. His jaw tightened, and he stared at the table, seeing none of it.

  “You think you’re fighting for justice,” she said. “But justice without mercy is just vengeance.”

  He looked up. And in her face, beneath the calm, he saw it—grief. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just worn. Settled like dust behind her eyes. The kind you carried too long to name.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But without choice, it’s not justice either.”

  His voice cracked—barely, but enough to betray him. He drew a breath, slow and shaking. “She could have been anything. Rosalia. She could have lived a quiet life. Fallen in love. Had a family. A child, maybe. Something of her own. But she never got the chance. Because your version of peace needed another vessel.”

  He glanced down at his own hands, curled slightly on the table. The slender fingers. The soft skin. Everything that wasn’t his. “And now I’m here. Sitting in her life. While she’s not.”

  Alena didn’t look away. Her hands folded in her lap, unmoving, her voice steady—but not cold. “That is exactly why you have to listen,” she said. “Let her death mean something. If you throw this away now, then both of you will have died for nothing.”

  “You carry her weight now,” Cadog said quietly. “As do we.” His gaze didn’t waver. There was no fire behind it—just something steadier. Older. “You think we did this for power. We didn’t. We did it to stop others, to stop many more from being buried.”

  A breath, drawn slowly. His fingers shifted toward a scroll resting on the desk, brushing it without focus. “You speak of choice—how it was stolen from you. I won’t argue that. But now you have one.” He paused, then met Ronan’s eyes. “You carry more than her name. You carry potential. If you want to change how this world works… this is how you start.”

  Elowen leaned forward, just slightly, her voice softer now—threaded with something like hope. “And that’s why we need you, Ronan. Not as a symbol. Not as a vessel. But as someone who remembers what it’s like to live outside all of this.”

  She gestured subtly to the room around them—the fine walls, the heavy tapestries, the quiet weight of luxury. “You weren’t raised behind marble and etiquette. You didn’t spend your childhood memorizing bloodlines or learning how to command with a smile. You come from iron. From fire. From a world where justice has to mean something real.”

  Her gaze lingered on him, steady and unflinching. “You see what we’ve forgotten—what we can no longer see. The fractures. The forgotten. The cost of comfort.” A breath. Then, gently: “Use that. Use this voice, this potential, to make things better. We can guide. Support. Open doors that would stay shut to anyone else. With your perspective and our reach... you could do real good.”

  Cadog spoke next, more direct, his words clipped but unwavering. “Or walk away. Let Rosalia’s death be for nothing. Squander what no one else in history has been offered.” He met Ronan’s gaze. “It’s your choice now. But choices carry weight.”

  Silence settled in the room. Ronan didn’t speak. His fingers rested lightly against the table’s edge, the skin pale against polished wood. He wasn’t trembling anymore. But something in him had gone still—like a hammer raised but not yet swung.

  What would he change? The thought came unbidden.

  A child in Kael Kestrel who didn’t have to choose between warmth and bread. A widow not crushed by taxes owed to a nobleman she’d never seen. A farmer helped instead of being worked to death by grain taxes.

  But then came the memory of the forge. His father's voice. The clang of hammer on steel. The scent of smoke and sweat. The real world. The honest one. He looked down at his hands again—slender, fine, noble. Her hands. Could they even hold a hammer anymore?

  The question lingered. Across the table, neither Elowen nor Cadog spoke. They watched him—but not with pressure. Just waiting. He didn’t know what he was going to say yet. He only knew that—for the first time—he wasn’t sure he wanted to walk away.

  But could he really do this? Could he live a lie so large it wore a name that wasn’t his? Could he shape the world with borrowed hands and sleep at night knowing someone else had been erased to give him that chance?

  Yes, Rosalia might be gone. Truly, finally gone. But would it be kinder to let her memory be mourned? To let her family bury a daughter, rather than love a ghost? Was it mercy to let them believe she still breathed? Or was that just another lie dressed up as duty?

  Ronan did not know. His throat felt tight. There were still too many questions. Too many things that didn’t sit right. But the truth was, he didn’t want to walk away. Not yet. Not when there was a chance—even a small one—that he could make something of this.

  Maybe not justice. Not yet. But something.

  He looked up. Met Alena’s gaze first, then Cadog’s. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Rough at the edges. “I’m not saying yes. Not fully.”

  A pause. He let the silence breathe. “But I’ll listen.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, spine stiffening—not regal, but defiant. Present by necessity. “And if what you’re saying is true—if I have power like yours—then I expect you to respect it.”

  His hand tightened slightly against the table. Not in surrender, but in quiet protest. “I won’t be handled. Or led around like some precious heirloom you're desperate to make useful.”

  A flicker passed through Elowen’s eyes—relief, maybe, or respect. She didn’t smile, but she nodded once.

  Cadog inclined his head, slow and deliberate. “Then speak plainly. We'll listen.”

  Ronan leaned back in the chair, his posture remaining rigid. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Somewhere distant, the sea murmured restlessly against the cliffs. In that quiet, he understood—for the first time since waking in this body—that fighting reality wouldn’t change it. Not yet, at least.

  He exhaled, frustration still tightening his chest. “I'll need help. I don't know how to pretend to be a noble.” A pause. His jaw clenched tightly. “Or… a woman.” The words felt bitter in his mouth—heavy, reluctant, forced out through sheer necessity.

  “And if I’m going to survive this,” he added, voice hardening with resolve rather than acceptance, “I expect honesty. No more vague answers. No more half-truths.”

  Alena nodded again, slower this time, thoughtful. Cadog said nothing, but his gaze held steady.

  “We’ll assist you,” Cadog said at last. His voice was steady, but its earlier commanding edge had softened somewhat. “I can’t guide you in… certain things,” he added with an acknowledging glance, clearly uncomfortable. “But in matters of state, of history, of power—ask, and I'll answer plainly.” For the first time, he appeared almost sympathetic—not warm, but understanding.

  Alena exhaled slowly, the tension easing slightly from her posture. “We have twelve days until Leordaegh—the day Rosalia is scheduled to return to Kelmist.” She shook her head softly. “It’s barely enough, but we can cover the basics.”

  She paused carefully before continuing, voice firm yet cautious. “From now on, it's critical we only use names matching our roles—aloud, and especially when others might hear.”

  Her eyes flicked briefly to Cadog, who offered the slightest nod of agreement. “You are Rosalia Kelmist. I am Elowen Emhin, and he is Sorin Colmin. To everyone else, that's who we are. If you hesitate—even once—it could unravel everything.”

  Her gaze then turned appraising, faint amusement creeping in. “Though, your blessing is already helping. I expected you to stumble in those shoes, or sit like Sorin.” She didn’t glance at him, but the corner of her mouth twitched briefly.

  “Instead, you walk gracefully. Sit like you belong.”

  Her expression sobered quickly. “It’s not the body,” she added softly. “It’s the blessing. The same thing that made you a weapon. It’s reshaping instinct. Guiding movement. Making this easier.”

  Cadog recited softly, his tone steady, almost reverent, as if quoting an ancient truth. “The blood always remembers your first blessing, whether you accept it or not.”