During her brief tenure as a princess, she’d heard Lord Caleth’s name only a handful of times, and always in scathing tones. Her century in the tower had made the reasons for this clear.

The most recent historical records she had seen ended some four centuries prior, and at the time Lord Caleth had overtaken nearly all of the northern kingdoms. In the south, he was referred to as Lord Caleth, because it was the only title he’d ever come by honorably.

He was old enough that the kingdom he hailed from was no more than a footnote in historical records and had not stuck in Eloisa’s mind. There was much debate about the circumstances of his birth, but most scholars agreed that he was the illegitimate son of royalty, as evidenced by his undiluted blood but lack of concrete familial ties. As a young man, he’d risen quickly through the military ranks, becoming a commander, and then a general of the king’s army. After a great victory, he was awarded a house and the title of Lord, a distinction of minor nobility, but nonetheless impressive given his background.

Any reasonable man would have been satisfied to have achieved so much in a world where it was easier to rise through a stone ceiling than through social classes. Lord Caleth was not only unreasonable, but entirely without honor. That very winter, he had organized a rebellion against his king.

In spite of her aversion to the man, Eloisa had always found The Rebellion of Whispers to be a subject of fascination. It was said to have lasted only an hour, beginning with a single whispered command from the lord, which swept through the city with virulent speed. In the weeks preceding the rebellion, Lord Caleth had militarized the city’s human slave population, and as his command touched their ears, they drew their weapons and killed their masters in their sleep. Caleth had ascended the throne before the sun had risen.

His next conquests hadn't been nearly so swift. It had taken him the better part of a century to carve out his piece of the northern continent, and the battles had been numerous and grotesque in their barbarism. He did not fight by conventional means, and was known for using dirty tactics to secure his early victories. Before long, his holdings and his military force had grown so vast that he could bend monarchs to his will with the mere threat of violence.

Blessedly, his warmongering was contained to the frozen north, where his army of frost dragons fought most effectively. Though the southern kings feared the idea of him, particularly in the winter months, there was never any real concern of him encroaching on their verdant territories.

And yet, here he was.

Philomen and Milara were waiting for Eloisa as she exited the corridor and stepped out onto the atrium. In spite of how busy he’d been, it appeared that the king had time to get a fresh powdering on his face, which was now as pale as fresh paper. Had his robes been white rather than gold, Eloisa would have mistaken him for a specter.

He stalked over to her, his smile now nothing more than a twist of his lips. When he put his arm around her, she found it more bearable than the last time, though only because her focus was split.

The sky above them darkened as fliers descended from the canopy of shadowed clouds.

The largest of them, a blue-black behemoth, was the last to descend. The flap of his massive wings was enough to send Eloisa staggering back, and she might have fallen if not for Philomen holding her up.

Magic crackled in the air as he landed, his weight causing the ground to tremble. The force of his power was stifling, and it caused the temperature to plummet, until Eloisa could see her breath crystalizing in front of her.

Standing in the dragon’s shadow, Eloisa had to tilt her head back almost as far as it would go in order to see his many-horned face. Ice crystals swirled around him, shooting into the air with each of his powerful exhalations.

Her brother’s gold and red fliers surrounded the atrium and closed in on the newcomers as they landed. Their presence did nothing to quell Eloisa’s anxiety. If Lord Caleth wanted to, he could have taken in a great breath and pelted her, Philomen, and Milara with shards of ice before any of the guards could interfere.

“Is he not going to phase?” Philomen said through gritted teeth.

Milara had joined them, her hands gripping her husband’s robes.

“Of course he’ll phase,” she whispered. “He can’t expect us to talk to him like this.”

“Arrogant ingrate,” Philomen muttered before stepping forward, pulling Eloisa along with him. Affecting a high, obsequious tone, he shouted, “Dear sovereign, you’re punctual, as always. I hope the journey was not too difficult on you.”

Philomen continued to pepper the dragon with pointless words, while Lord Caleth remained still and silent. His face was cocked so that one molten silver eye stared downwards, its focus not on Philomen, but on Eloisa. She stared back, at once frightened and captivated.

She had only ever seen a frost dragon in a depiction, and the drawings did not do them justice.

Lord Caleth’s scales were not smooth and flat, as a gold dragon’s were. They rose up like shards of chiseled obsidian. He had a long, sinuous neck, at least twice the length of any green or red dragon's, but none would think it a vulnerability. The front of his neck was lined with the same shard-like scales, and along the back was row upon row of thousands of spines that extended all the way up to his face. His head was crowned with two thick horns, either one of which would have been taller than Eloisa.

Magic trickled from his body, as it did with all purebloods. For Caleth, it manifested first in the flakes of frost that fell around him as his presence froze the humid southern air. As the minutes dragged by, the frost began to accumulate on the ground, until it began to look like snowfall.

Lord Caleth had been still for so long that when he finally moved, it had the effect of a statue coming to life. As he lowered his head, foreign words flowed from his cavernous mouth. The whispering language was unfamiliar to Eloisa, and his words sounded like a pagan incantation.

He brought his head so close to her that Eloisa was certain Philomen would shout for his guards, but her brother remained standing with his chin raised and his aura alight with indignation.

After sniffing her, the sovereign pulled his head back only slightly, tilting it to the side so that an armored figure could jump down from its perch.

Eloisa baulked as the person approached them. It appeared to be a woman, pale of skin and dark of hair, clad from her boots to her neck in sleek, black armor.

“And here comes his mouthpiece,” Philomen muttered under his breath.

The woman addressed them in lightly accented Atolian. “King Philomen, Queen Milara. The sovereign sends his regards.”

Philomen said, “The sovereign would not have to send them quite so far, had he decided to phase.”

The armored woman glanced up at Lord Caleth and spoke to him in the same, whispering language he’d used. Even on humanoid lips, the language was no less foreign to Eloisa. There were few breaks in her speech, and each word seemed to roll into the next with little distinction.

Eloisa didn’t realize what was happening until Philomen’s aura flared with panic.

Philomen hastily said, “Not that I am complaining. I am grateful for the opportunity to view the sovereign in all of his majesty. He is a sight to behold.”

The woman continued her translation, not favoring Philomen with her attention until Lord Caleth had given his response.

“King Philomen, I am continually impressed by you,” the woman translated. “One day, you must teach me how you say so little in so many words.”

Philomen let out a hysteric sort of laugh. In spite of the cold, a thin sheen of sweat had formed on his brow.

“Your sense of humor is unparalleled, dear sovereign.”

Philomen looked uncertain as to whether he should address the woman or the dragon looming over them.

When Lord Caleth spoke again, Eloisa hung on each word.

“Vesnachresh sjo?”

His language was not entirely unfamiliar to her. Cal’derache was a bastardization of Ye’derache, a far older language that had been appropriated by the Cal’derache in centuries past. Eloisa had studied Ye’derache, along with many other languages, during her time as a Child. Unfortunately, all of her studies of the language had been on paper, as none of the Sisters had native experience with the tongue.

“Does the girl speak?” the woman translated.

Philomen’s hand, which had been resting on her shoulder, tightened to a grip.

“Why of course she does. I assure you, she’s not mute. She is delighted to make your acquaintance, my sovereign. Allow me to formally introduce you. This is Princess Eloisa the First, the younger of my sisters. Eloisa, don’t be shy.”

With a forceful shove, he pushed her forward. Eloisa staggered a few steps, and then looked up at the dragon, who regarded her expectantly.

Even if she’d had words to give him, Eloisa wouldn’t have been able to force them past the lump in her throat. She could only stare up at him, her mouth agape and her body trembling from the cold.

When the silence stretched thin, Philomen was forced to fill it.

“Eloisa has never been much for flapping her mouth. She is quiet and possesses a docile nature. Both fine qualities to have in a wife, take my word for it.”

When the translator spoke to Lord Caleth, her statement was much too short to have translated Philomen word for word. She also didn’t translate Caleth’s response. The pair turned their attention from Eloisa and Philomen as they began a prolonged conversation in their native tongue.

Philomen wasted no time in summoning Lidia, who approached them with great reluctance.

“What are they saying?” Philomen demanded.

“They are, um, the woman does not feel that your sister is a worthy bride for the sovereign.”

“Who is she to make that decision?” he hissed. “What of the sovereign? What does he think?”

“He seems to be quite taken with her.”

For the first time that day, Philomen’s aura settled into something resembling calm.

“That is good,” he said. “Make certain this wench is conveying my words properly.”

Eloisa wondered what she’d done to inspire any sort of appeal in the sovereign, considering all she’d done was stand before him and quake.

“My dear sovereign, if I may?” Philomen said, stepping forward to interrupt the pair. “Eloisa has traveled far and through the night in order to make your acquaintance. She is fatigued. If you would like to join us for dinner, I assure you she’ll be much more animated once she’s had some rest.”

The woman sighed and again gave the sovereign an abbreviated translation, which prompted a response from him, and another, longer stream of words from the translator.

“What are they saying?” Milara whispered.

Lidia said, “The woman asked if she’s expected to translate everything the king says. The sovereign advised her to do so accordingly, and now she seems to be complaining about the weather.”

“What nonsense is that? I knew she was not translating him properly. I told Philomen the last time that we shouldn’t rely on his woman. One should never trust a translator not in their own employment.”

They were all caught off-guard when Lord Caleth abruptly took flight, the powerful flap of his wings battering the courtyard with frigid air. Not a man or woman among them, the translator included, was able to remain afoot.

Eloisa would have been content to remain on the ground, but was forced to accept Lidia’s hand. As she helped her up, Eloisa saw that Philomen and the translator had both gotten to their feet and were scowling at one another.

“What was that?” Philomen said. “Where is he going? Did you tell him that I invited him to dinner?”

“I’m afraid he had to decline your generous invitation,” the woman said without inflection.

“What about my sister? Will he have her as his wife?”

The woman looked skyward, to where Lord Caleth was already vanishing behind the clouds. Her aura twisted a bloody red with scorn.

“He will have her. But she comes now. Our fliers are prepared to haul her palanquin back to Cal’en Fasha within the hour. You may send your own to bring her belongings.”

“I have no belongings.”

In a state near to shock, Eloisa had spoken so softly that she hadn’t expected anyone to hear her. Instead, the king, queen, and translator all turned to regard her, their auras flashing with varying degrees of incredulity.

“Clearly there is a misunderstanding,” Milara said, laughing as she patted Eloisa’s head. “Of course she has belongings. She has many, many belongings. We will send them all in short order.”

Philomen cut in. “But the timing of this is concerning to me. And we’ve drawn no official contracts. Am I to send my sister off to the north with no assurances?”

The woman’s scowl deepened. “You will get your loan and your auxiliary forces if the sovereign and your sister are wed.”

Milara said, “We’d hoped to have the wedding here, in the capitol. You see, the city is in need of some uplifting, and—”

“Frankly, I do not care,” the woman said. “And neither does the sovereign. However far her journey, I assure you, ours was farther. She can leave with us now, or not at all. We will not be making the journey a second time.”

“And I wouldn’t expect you to,” Philomen said. “Allow me the evening to spend with my dear sister, and then I will send her along myself.”

Their auras were flashing with too many colors for Eloisa to make sense of. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them, but the auras only became more frenetic and unreadable.

With all that had happened, she’d managed to put her time in The Dark Room out of her mind. Now, the punishment would have felt like a reprieve, compared to her impending sentence.

“With all due respect,” the woman said in a tone that said otherwise, “a beggar does not get to choose currency. You are in no position to be making demands, so stop making a fool of yourself.”

Eloisa had been thinking along similar lines, but hearing a stranger, a foreign one no less, speak so harshly to Philomen disturbed her. While the king quivered with red-faced fury, Eloisa spoke up.

“I beg your pardon, but you said if we wed. Do you mean to say that it is not a certainty?”

The woman narrowed her dark eyes in what Eloisa thought was suspicion. She’d spent so much of her life ignoring expressions in favor of auras, that many of the subtleties were lost on her.

“You will wed following courtship, should the sovereign deem you suitable.” She looked to Philomen. “Have you not told her this? And why doesn’t her speech strain my patience? Is she truly your sister?”

Philomen said, “Is your blood so contaminated with human filth that you cannot tell she is my kin?”

The pair traded several insults, all of which were more befitting of children and not adults in positions of power. Eloisa wanted to interject, but each moment that passed with them squabbling felt like a gift. It was another moment she was not on course to meet the sovereign.

Though Philomen failed in securing them the evening together, the woman did agree to allow them time to say their farewells. Her brother took her by the arm and led her away from the atrium, towards the gardens and a fountain in the shape of Jyrn, goddess of mercy. The ceramic pond beneath it was overcome with algae and in dire need of a cleaning.

As soon as he was certain they had their privacy, Philomen began speaking to her, his High Atolian accent dropping in favor of brevity.

“I thought we would have more time. You must listen closely to everything I say. The sovereign is unaware of your background. The fact that you joined The Order of Light is not a matter of public record. We have told him that—look at my eyes and not above my head.”

Eloisa blinked and refocused her attention onto Philomen’s face.

“If you hear nothing else I say, hear this: he cannot know what you are.”

“If he asks me, I cannot lie.”

He made of sound of exasperation. “You will lie if you want to keep your head.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, raising her voice as much out of panic as anger. “I cannot lie, just as I cannot marry. I have taken oaths. I can hold no titles. I can speak only truth. I can never know the touch of a man.”

Philomen seized her by the chin, his hand squeezing her jaw like a vice. “Such arrogance. You are a single woman. Do you think the gods care about your vows? Do you think they value them above my kingdom?”

He leaned in close, so that his hot breath clung to her face. “While you’ve spent your century communing with your goddess, Lusia and I have been down here, struggling to keep our kingdom together. It is well past time you paid your dues.”

His aura had grown fiery once again. No sooner did Eloisa notice it, Philomen released his grip on her chin and delivered a hard slap to the side of her face.

The blow came as a complete shock, and she fell to her knees on the dry grass. While she tried to blink the dark spots from her vision, Philomen continued his rant.

“You never could help yourself, could you? That’s why father had no choice but to send you away,” he said with disdain. “But that is behind you now. You will keep your eyes down while you are in Cal’en Fasha. Lidia will speak for you. She has been trained in what she must say. I have told the sovereign that father favored you. He indulged your passions for astronomy and mathematics, and permitted you to remain unmarried so that you could devote yourself to your studies. If you are asked a direct question, you will smile, give a non-answer, and allow Lidia to respond in your stead. Is that understood?”

Eloisa didn’t respond. She had turned inside of herself, to a place inside her mind where Philomen could not reach her.

I am done with this day, she decided.

Just like that, she was back in the tower. It was noontime, just after lunch, and she was in the study hall waiting for Sister Clarine to arrive. The air smelled like salt, paper, and a bit of must, as it was still two days until grace day when the Children—and Eloisa, per the terms of her punishment—would do the weekly cleaning.

“Where have you been? You weren’t in bed when I woke and you missed morning lessons.”

She turned to see Selia sitting beside her, her mellow green aura twinkling with curiosity.

Eloisa shrugged. “I must have wandered off in my sleep. I had the strangest dream.”

In the row behind her, she could hear Fasima mumbling a prayer, asking the goddess to soften Sister Verity’s heart so that she wouldn’t give them another assessment to write. Selia turned, her countenance stern.

“It is sacrilegious to pray for such frivolities,” she told her. “And if you’re going to pray for anything, pray that the goddess makes you stronger of character.”

Fasima’s aura curled inward, the tips flaring rouge.

“Don’t listen to her,” Eloisa said, rolling her eyes. “I once heard Selia say a prayer for her Lightlace to stop causing a rash on her neck.”

“That was when we were Children,” Selia protested. “But while we are on the subject of frivolous prayers, why don’t you tell her about the time you…”

Selia trailed off as the chamber door opened and Sister Verity ambled in. Her veil was pulled back on her head, and several locks of her graying hair had escaped her pins. She set a stack of papers down onto her desk and then looked around the room through tired, watery eyes.

When her gaze fell on Eloisa, Sister Verity stilled.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” she asked.

A chill ran down Eloisa’s back, like a skittering spider.

Selia whispered, “What is she talking about?”

A flurry of whispered speculations swept through the room as Daughters watched her from the corners of their eyes.

Eloisa shook her head. “I don’t know. I—”

Her hands went to her neck, where she felt a sudden pressure. With her next inhalation, she found that her airway refused to open.

Sister Verity said, “You don’t belong here anymore. Begone with you. Quickly, now.”

Chest constricting, she turned to Selia, but it was Philomen beside her, his eyes bulging with fury. His hands shot out to seize her neck, squeezing it until her face burned and she sputtered for air. Her vision flickered, shifting between her study hall and blackness, and then abruptly she was outside and staggering, falling backwards and into water. Above her, through the murky water, she could see the goddess Jyrn staring down at her through moss-ridden eyes.

Then Lidia was there, her hands going around Eloisa to pull her up. Eloisa took her time in expelling the water from her lungs, even her reflexes lacking the inclination to carry on.

Philomen was several paces away, still seething, but being held back by Milara, whose wrathful aura seemed to be directed at her husband.

“Stupid man!” she said in a whispered shriek. “They are expecting me to emerge from these gardens with her so that they can depart. How am I supposed to explain this? They’ll think she tried to drown herself.”

Lidia directed Eloisa back to the pond, pulling her hands down to the water so that she could clean the blood from beneath her nails. Eloisa looked over her shoulder to see the crimson streaks on her brother’s hands, but she could draw no memory of scratching him.

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” said Philomen. “They’ll realize soon enough that she’s addled. Before you came she was on the ground, carrying on a conversation with herself.”

Milara took his head in her hands. “The girl has had a trying day. Worry not. Lidia will see her through what is to come, and once they are wed it will not matter what the sovereign learns of her.” She ran her hands down Philomen’s neck and then smoothed his shoulders before turning to Lidia. “You will see her through this, won’t you?”

Lidia squeezed Eloisa’s hands as she nodded at the queen. “Cal’derache courtships are well-known for their ephemerality. He’ll be wanting to wed her within the week. Rest assured that I will guide her there without upset.”

While the king and queen exchanged words, Lidia helped Eloisa to stand. Rather than making a vain attempt at fixing her hair, she pulled Eloisa’s veil so that it covered her hair and came down around her shoulders.

Lidia put an arm around her and started back towards the atrium. “Milord, I am sure the fliers will wait another moment. I should go and get some powder for her face.”

Eloisa’s face still stung from where she’d been slapped. It must have been discolored, because both the king and queen waved them on urgently.

No one stopped them at the atrium, and once they were alone in the corridors, Lidia spoke to her in a quiet tone.

“I am sorry this is happening to you, Ma’am. May I offer some advice?”

Eloisa only lifted her shoulders.

“Right now, you are a gambit in a game you cannot begin to understand, but you are not without power. You are beautiful, virtuous, and pure. With the correct aim, these can be powerful assets.”

Lidia paused, waiting for Eloisa to inquire further.

“I am not interested in scheming, or in being part of a game.”

“Respectfully, Ma’am, you are already part of the game. It is only a matter of whether you are a player or a piece to be moved about. At the moment you are very much the latter, but if you use your assets, you stand to elevate your position to unimaginable heights.”

“How do you mean?”

“Handle your courtship with care. Do not be cold or indifferent. You are foreign and do not speak his language, so your mystery will compensate for your lack of charm. Let the sovereign be drawn to you. Make him fall in love with you, and you will no longer be his pawn. His power will become yours to wield, however you see fit. You would not have to wait for a son to take the Suntouched Throne. With Lord Caleth’s armies and treasury at your disposal, you could have dominion over Philomen and all of Atolia.”