Queen Diana gestured towards a plush settee near the bushes of fine smelling roses. "Come here, my child," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Come and sit with me."
Lilliana, feeling small and terribly out of her depth, did as she was told, perching nervously on the edge of the fine silk cushion. She couldn't help but let her eyes dart around the surroundings. Unlike the cold, imposing splendor of the rest of the palace she had seen, this space was intimate and personal.
Birds chirping happily on the trees, fresh water flowing freely from the fountain, and rows of beautiful roses planted with love and care. But the garden was empty of people. There were no ladies-in-waiting, no advisors, not even a guard standing by the entrance. She wondered why the Queen had summoned her here, all alone.
Queen Diana, noticing the young princess's subtle, searching glances, offered a soft smile. "I wanted us to speak privately, just the two of us, so I excused everyone from my garden for the hour. I find that difficult conversations are often best had without an audience."
Lilliana flushed, flustered at having been so easily read. "Oh! I'm so very sorry, Your Majesty… I… I didn't mean to be nosy, it's just that I…"
The Queen cut her short with a calm, reassuring gesture as she reached for her delicate porcelain cup of tea. "It's quite alright, my dear. Do not apologize. You are very simple to read from your expressions. In a court filled with expertly worn masks, it is a rather refreshing quality." She took a slow, thoughtful sip, then placed the teacup back in its saucer with a faint clink.
Her smile faded, replaced by a more serious, somber expression.
"About the events at your welcome banquet," the Queen began, her gaze direct. "I wish to formally apologize for the… inconvenience, and for the truly shocking scene that was displayed before you. It was not the welcome I had envisioned for the future Queen of Eldoria. It was brutal, and I am certain, deeply frightening for you."
"I…" Lilliana started, unsure what to say.
"You see, Princess," Queen Diana continued, her voice now low and heavy, "my son, Dominic, has been a target since he was a small boy. After his father, my beloved husband , was assassinated, the attempts on Dominic's life became relentless. Different assassins' guilds; different poisons, disguised in his favorite foods; hired blades masquerading as servants or even as guards. The attacks never stopped."
The Queen's eyes took on a distant, painful look. "He was introduced to what this cruel world could do to a child far, far too early. He had to learn how to fight before he had properly learned how to read maps of his own kingdom. He had to learn how to protect himself, how to see a potential threat in every new face, in every dark corner. Over the years, he grew weary. Weary of people, weary of trusting anyone outside a very small, fiercely protected circle. To survive, he built walls of ice around his heart, and he learned to wield cruelty as both a shield and a weapon."
Lilliana listened intently, her own fear from the night before now mingling with a newfound, unfamiliar feeling – a sliver of pity for the cold, terrifying man she was betrothed to. The image of a small boy, forced to become a killer to avoid being killed, was a profoundly sad one.
"I am not telling you all of this to excuse his coldness towards you, my dear," the Queen said, her voice softening again. "Nor to justify the brutal display you witnessed. But I am telling you this to help you, perhaps, to understand it. You will be his wife soon. His Queen. The mother of his heirs. And while I know this was not a union of your choosing, I would love for you to be the one to see past the walls he built, to understand the wounded boy he still is beneath the warrior prince, and to get to know him better. He needs a partner, a true ally, not just a consort.
Lilliana, her throat tight with a swirl of conflicting emotions, could only nod mutely.
The Queen seemed to sense she had said enough on that somber topic. Her tone shifted to one of more practical matters. "Now, on a lighter note, there is much to be done. After tomorrow's morning mass, the royal seamstresses will come to your chambers. They will need to take your measurements. The coronation is in less than one hundred days, and your wedding gown, of course, must be a masterpiece worthy of Eldoria's new Queen. We have much to prepare."
The sudden reminder of the impending wedding, the reason she was in this formidable kingdom in the first place, made Lilliana's stomach clench. She managed to produce a smile, though she was sure it was a nervous, forced-looking thing.
———————————-
Night fell over the Eldorian palace like a heavy shroud, muffling the sounds of the bustling capital and covering the palace in deep shadows. Viviana had used the remaining hours of the afternoon not in rest, as Lilliana had urged, but in careful planning.
Feigning a search for a 'lost' earring of Lilliana's, she had wandered the designated corridors of the West Wing, her mind absorbing every detail. She noted the timing of the guard rotations, the patterns of the servant traffic, and the locations of the few dark corners and alcoves that the flickering torchlight failed to fully reach.
Her most crucial piece of intelligence had come from a brief, "accidental" conversation with a young, chatty laundry maid she had encountered near the service stairs. With a few innocent questions about the sheer volume of work in the palace and a sympathetic ear, Viviana had learned exactly what she needed to know: a large covered laundry wagon always departed the palace through the secondary service gate at the sounding of the third bell of the night, laden with the day's soiled linens for the main laundry house in the city. The gate was less heavily manned than the grand main entrances, and the wagon's departure was a routine, nightly occurrence, barely noticed by the guards. It was her ticket out.
Now, in the deep silence of her own chamber, with Lilliana soundly asleep next door, Viviana transformed. She laid out her mission attire on the bed. Snug-fitting black breeches that allowed for silent movement, a dark grey tunic of a thick, non-reflective material, and soft-soled leather boots that would make no sound on stone or rooftop. She bound her chest tightly with long strips of linen, flattening her breasts and silhouette to make herself less obviously female in the dark.
From her hidden travel kit, she retrieved her weapons. The twin daggers, their blades gleaming darkly in the moonlight filtering through her window, were strapped securely to her outer thighs, their hilts easily accessible. A thin, strong garrote wire was coiled into a small pouch on her belt, alongside a set of slender, intricate lockpicks and a tiny glass vial of a potent toxin. Finally, she pulled the simple black cloth mask over the lower half of her face, leaving only her eyes visible. In the mirror, Lady Viviana was gone. In her place was the Raven.
Clang…
Clang…
Clang…
The deep, resonant chime of the third bell tolled, echoing through the silent palace. It was her cue.
She moved through the darkened corridors flitting from one patch of darkness to the next. She knew the route she had carefully planned, a path that avoided the known patrol routes of the few night watchmen. Her soft boots made no sound on the cold stone floors.
She reached the service courtyard, a large, open space smelling of hay and soap. It was mostly deserted. She concealed herself behind a stack of empty rain barrels, her breathing slow and even, her eyes scanning the area.
Soon, the laundry wagon was being loaded by two tired-looking stable hands, who grumbled as they heaved massive wicker baskets of soiled palace linen into the back.
Viviana waited for her moment. As the two men turned their backs to fetch the final basket, she darted. She didn't climb into the wagon – that was too risky in the event of even a cursory search. Instead, she slid underneath the heavy vehicle, her body agile. She expertly positioned herself on the sturdy undercarriage, finding secure handholds and footholds among the thick wooden axles and support beams. It was an uncomfortable, dirty perch, smelling of grease and road dust, but it offered complete concealment from any glance.
The servants finished their work, slamming the wagon's rear gate shut. The driver climbed aboard, grumbled at his horses, and with a sharp crack of the whip, the heavy wagon rumbled to life. It lumbered across the courtyard towards the secondary service gate. The two guards on duty, looking bored and sleepy, gave it a cursory, uninterested glance, waved the driver on, and pulled the heavy iron gate open just enough for the wagon to pass.
It rolled out into the darkened city streets with Viviana clinging tightly to the rumbling undercarriage.