For a long, breathless moment, no one moved.
The slap still echoed in the marble solarium, and Lady Alessa Cersenia stood frozen, her manicured hand trembling where it clutched her cheek. A red print bloomed across her skin like shame given form.
The other noble girls had fallen silent, fans forgotten mid-gossip, eyes wide and unsure whether to breathe or curtsy harder.
But the girl standing in front of Virelle—tall, poised, and cloaked in gray silk—remained composed as stone. Her black hair shimmered under the skylight, and her violet eyes held the heat of a thousand sharpened daggers.
She turned, slowly, and looked at Virelle.
"When was this dress made?" the princess asked, voice low but pointed.
Virelle blinked, still processing the whirlwind of events.
Her fingers gently smoothed the fabric of her gown, blue as twilight and embroidered with silver thread—her one possession untouched by Mirane's claws.
"It was made…" she began slowly, then steadied her voice. "Almost three years ago. After my mother passed away. Her seamstress made it for me. It was… a birthday gift."
A beat.
A breath.
And then the princess laughed.
Not mockingly—but sharply. Loudly. With the confidence of someone who laughed only when it meant something.
"Three years ago?" she repeated. "And yet Lady Alessa is parading around in a copy made three months ago, swearing it's an original."
Gasps burst from the seated girls like dandelions exploding in a windstorm.
"Surely not—"
"She wouldn't—"
"I saw her at House Durent's spring preview in that—she said it was the designer's newest—"
The princess tilted her head toward Alessa, smirking like a cat admiring a particularly stupid mouse.
"I must say, Lady Alessa," she said, voice now loud enough for everyone to hear, "I've seen many try to emulate noble elegance. But to plagiarize a mourning dress from a grieving girl? That's a new low."
Alessa's mouth opened.
No sound came out.
The princess stepped closer, her boots clicking ominously across the floor.
"You insult her for wearing what belongs to her. For carrying her mother's memory. While you—" she gestured to Alessa's copycat dress, "—wear a shadow of something you don't deserve to look at, let alone wear."
"But I—"
"You what?" the princess cut in. "You accidentally duplicated a dead woman's memorial gown? You innocently staged a spectacle? You mistakenly called her desperate in front of witnesses?"
Alessa shrank back.
"I'll give you one thing," the princess continued coolly. "Your talent for humiliation is only rivaled by your lack of originality."
Laughter burst out this time—not from her, but from a girl two seats away who clapped a hand over her mouth.
Another covered her smile with her fan.
The tide had shifted.
Alessa turned redder than the jam on the tea table.
"I didn't know it was hers!" she hissed. "It's just a dress!"
The princess leaned down, just slightly, her tone turning cold as winter.
"And you are just a spoiled girl who mistook a diamond for a stone. You tried to break someone out of envy, and now you're broken yourself."
She turned back to Virelle without waiting for a reply.
Held out her hand.
"Come," she said. "This house reeks of cheap silk and cheaper company."
Virelle blinked.
Hesitated.
And then—placed her hand into the princess's.
The warmth shocked her. The firm grasp. The strength.
It had been so long since anyone had taken her hand without suspicion, malice, or manipulation.
"Where are we going?" Virelle whispered as she was led away, every eye in the solarium following them like puppets missing their strings.
The princess didn't look back.
"I came to Cersenia for my vacation," she said. "But I've decided this duchy isn't worthy of it."
At the door, she snapped her fingers, and two maids and a footman scrambled to follow.
"Have my luggage redirected," she commanded. "We're going to the Duchy of Elerian."
The servants stammered, "But—but Your Highness, your room—your security—"
"I will be traveling in her carriage," she said, nodding to Virelle's ride waiting by the gates. "If I find a single crease in my evening coat, I will assume sabotage and respond accordingly."
The staff paled.
And obeyed.
Outside, the carriage was modest but clean, waiting by the silver-and-iron gates of the estate. The horses stirred as the door opened.
Virelle stood frozen.
"You're… riding with me?"
"Of course," the princess said, gracefully lifting her skirt as she stepped up into the carriage. "You didn't think I'd leave you here after that performance, did you?"
Virelle flushed slightly. "I just… didn't expect…"
"To be defended?" the princess asked, one brow arching as she settled into the velvet seat.
Virelle hesitated. Then nodded.
The princess sighed—just once—and looked away through the carriage window.
"Then you have poor expectations of people."
The door closed behind them.
The wheels creaked.
And the carriage rolled forward.
Inside, Virelle stared at the girl across from her.
She was radiant in a sharp way—like moonlight off obsidian. Her posture perfect, her expression unreadable.
But her hand was still warm from holding Virelle's.
Lia, emerging carefully from her hiding bag on the floor, climbed into Virelle's lap. She blinked up at the princess.
The princess blinked back.
"You have a cat," she said.
"Yes," Virelle murmured. "She's… mine."
The girl nodded once, as if that explained everything.
She folded her gloved hands in her lap.
Then looked Virelle straight in the eye.
"I suppose we should start again."