The next day, Irene had barely slept a few hours.
She opened her eyes as the first light slipped through the curtains.
Her body was exhausted, but her mind was frighteningly alert.
The maids dressed her as usual, then she walked quietly toward the royal library.
She met no one along the way—only the fleeting glances of servants too timid to meet her eyes, yet still whispering behind closed doors.
Inside the library, she found the tutor already seated, sifting through his usual papers.
"Good morning, my lady," he said, rising to greet her respectfully.
She nodded and sat. The lesson began.
An hour passed—recitations, questions, subtle remarks, and a review of the lineage of Valerian kings, their temperaments, their history… all the formalities one might need for an official meeting.
Then, the tutor suddenly closed the book and looked directly at her.
"Today… the envoy from the Kingdom of Valerian will arrive in the afternoon."
She lifted her gaze toward him but said nothing.
He continued calmly:
"There will be an official reception after Asr in the royal hall. His Majesty has requested your presence."
Her expression did not change.
Even her eyes remained the same—no surprise, no objection, no approval.
He spoke more gently:
"You will wear a dignified, elegant dress… no flashy adornments. You will be seated directly across from the envoy. Your task is to greet him with a few words I'll teach you now."
He handed her a folded note.
"You will say:
'It is an honor to meet you, envoy of the Kingdom of Valerian. You are a guest of Iscard—the kingdom of glory and dignity.'"
She nodded once—no more.
He inhaled deeply, then warned with caution:
"He will likely ask you a direct question in front of everyone."
He paused, then added:
"He may say something like: Why was Princess Irene unknown until now? Where have you been all this time?"
He met her gaze.
"You will answer:
'His Majesty respected my wish to stay out of the public eye. He never excluded me, but treated me the same as my brothers—with kindness, respect, and much affection.'"
She remained silent, her stare unwavering, though something deep within her quivered.
Soft lies…
Rolling off the tongues of the sane.
Pretty enough to deceive history,
Ugly enough to stab her chest.
But she said nothing.
She only nodded again.
Irene left the library in silence.
No one in the halls knew what had just been said…
No one noticed the weight clinging to her steps.
She walked slowly, clutching the small note between her fingers, folded like a farewell letter.
Once inside her chamber, she quietly shut the door behind her…
Then stood still for a moment, staring into the void.
She walked to her vanity and sat.
Unfolded the paper.
The greeting—elegantly penned—was memorized well.
No need to read it twice.
Yet she did.
Once.
Twice.
And again…
As if trying to believe those words truly came from her.
The Kingdom of glory and dignity?
Where was that dignity when she was confined to the secluded wing?
When the walls remained silent to her first tears inside the palace?
When the maids ignored her, whispering her name like a stain on the royal robe?
It all flashed through her mind… but her face stayed still.
She rose, walked to the wardrobe, and opened it gently.
She knew what she would choose.
Her hand reached out for a dark gray silk dress, long-sleeved, delicately embroidered.
A dress that did not call attention—but would not be forgotten.
She laid it on the bed, then sat on the floor… hugging her knees.
No time to cry.
No time for fear.
The moment she waited for had come—but not as victory.
Rather… a silken chain tightening around her throat in the name of "alliance."
---
As the sun neared the horizon, she stood and quietly dressed.
She tied her hair up, letting a single strand fall gently behind her ear, and chose a simple silver earring.
She looked into the mirror.
No makeup.
No perfume.
No added lie atop the lie imposed.
A soft knock on the door broke the silence.
"My lady… it's time."
She answered in a low voice, "Very well."
Then turned to the note on the table…
Folded it slowly… and tucked it into her dress pocket.
If she had no voice, let her have memory.
If she had no rights, let her be witness.
And she walked out.
---
A few minutes of formalities passed between Irene and the envoy, while the great royal hall slowly came alive.
Candles were lit, the floor gleamed like a mirror, and rows of seats were aligned along the walls.
At the center, the throne—raised slightly above—stood beneath the banner of Iscard.
King Arkson entered first.
With cold, commanding steps, as if the floor itself prepared for his presence.
He sat upon the throne in silence.
None dared speak before his eyes acknowledged them.
To his right: the royal minister.
To his left: an elder advisor.
Behind them: nobles, royal guards, the crown prince—each chosen with care.
Then, the massive doors opened wide.
The envoy of Valerian stepped in.
A man in his late forties, neatly groomed beard, features marked with dignity and a hint of gentleness.
Two younger men followed, wearing cloaks bearing the golden Valerian emblem.
The envoy bowed.
"I bring greetings from the Kingdom of Valerian, and warm congratulations from His Majesty King Christophe de Valerian, on the ongoing peace, with hopes for a lasting alliance between our two kingdoms."
King Arkson nodded calmly and replied with few, cold words—as always.
The formal exchange began—elegant, rehearsed, meant to be said, not felt.
Then suddenly… the king raised his hand.
"Summon her."
A servant moved toward the side door… and opened it.
Irene entered.
---
Even the air shifted as she crossed the threshold.
Her steps were light, yet heavy with years of absence.
The gray silk of her dress glided softly across the polished floor.
Her neck was long and poised, her eyes serene—demanding nothing.
Despite her modest appearance, her beauty was undeniable.
She approached the appointed spot, then lowered herself into the greeting stance her tutor had taught her:
One knee to the floor, hand over her heart, head bowed.
No Iscard princess had ever greeted an envoy like this.
The envoy noticed.
His brows furrowed for a brief second, then a genuine smile formed on his face.
"What a noble beginning… I did not expect such humility, my lady, especially from a royal house."
Irene slowly raised her head and stood.
Then, in a measured tone, not too loud nor too soft, she said:
"It is an honor to meet you, envoy of the Kingdom of Valerian. You are a guest of Iscard—the kingdom of glory and dignity."
The envoy nodded, impressed, and she was motioned to sit directly across from him.
Her walk remained steady, expression unchanged.
She sat.
Silence for a few seconds.
Then the conversation began.
Pleasantries were exchanged.
The envoy spoke diplomatically of strengthening the alliance and the honor of royal marriage between both houses.
Everything was going as planned—until he asked:
"Forgive my directness… but one thing puzzles me.
Why was Princess Irene unknown to noble circles until now? Her name only recently came to light."
She turned to him calmly, looked straight into his eyes…
And answered with the words she had memorized:
"His Majesty respected my wish to remain away from the public eye.
He never excluded me, but treated me the same as my brothers—with kindness, respect, and much affection."
The envoy smiled again, then turned to the king.
"That honors you, Your Majesty. It's rare for royal children to receive such… warmth."
Polite words were exchanged among the nobles,
As if the meeting were being transcribed, line by line, into an official scroll—void of truth, rich in precision.
Then the minister stood and opened a black leather file.
With a deep, resonant voice, he declared:
"On behalf of both royal houses, and in accordance with the alliance treaty, we now present the official question before all gathered here."
He looked to the envoy, then to the king, then across the hall.
"Does Princess Irene, and all members of this council, approve the proposed marriage between the Kingdom of Iscard and the Kingdom of Valerian?"
A brief silence…
Then the united response:
"Yes."
All eyes turned to Irene.
She stood.
Her gaze fixed on the document before her.
Her hand steady.
She spoke softly:
"I approve."
She stepped forward.
Took the pen.
And signed.
A single black line… written at a steep price.
She closed the document, returned the pen without a glance to anyone.
The envoy nodded, pleased.
"I am honored to deliver this joyful news to His Majesty King Christophe.
The engagement will be officially announced upon internal approval, and the wedding will proceed a month from now, as agreed."
He turned toward the king, ready to conclude,
But—
Arkson's voice cut through the hall:
"There will be no wedding celebration."
All motion froze.
Even the minister stopped turning the next page.
The Valerian men exchanged uneasy glances.
The envoy asked slowly:
"Pardon…?"
Arkson stared him down and replied:
"Since childhood, Irene disliked public appearances.
She avoided parties, gatherings, ceremonies… and requested that her wedding not be a public affair."
Irene said nothing.
But her eyes widened slightly—inside her, words froze.
Arkson continued:
"At her request, there will be no grand royal wedding.
The marriage will take place in a small chapel in Valerian, with both families present.
No spectacle."
A murmur rose among the nobles—surprise, discomfort.
Then the envoy turned to Irene:
"Is this… truly your wish?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Yes. It is what I want."
She said it quickly, in a soft voice.
There was no room for doubt now.
He nodded slowly, visibly puzzled.
"It is… unusual.
But we will respect your wishes.
I will relay the request formally and await the council's confirmation.
Once we receive it, the engagement will be announced, and the wedding will proceed in a month."
He bowed respectfully… and left with his companions.
---
The king left the hall without looking back.
He departed as he always arrived—without farewell, without comment.
And he left Irene behind.
Standing alone among empty chairs,
Her signature still warm upon the page.
The hall… was silent now.