Chapter 4: Taming the Monster

Lyra’s chambers were the sort of place that could give someone cavities just by existing. Gilded mirrors, silk drapes the color of sunrise, furniture so ornate it looked like it had been stolen from a particularly overcompensating noble. And of course, a bed so large I could’ve hosted a small diplomatic summit on it.

“Stand still,” Lyra said, tugging at the hem of a pale lavender gown against my body.

“I am standing still,” I muttered. “My soul is just trying to crawl out of my skin to escape whatever this… frilly horror is.”

“It’s silk imported from the southern isles,” she said, looking mildly offended.

“Yes. And it’s also an outfit that screams, ‘Please rescue me, I’m lost in a bakery.’”

The princess’s mouth curved in a half-smile. “You’re impossible.” She snapped her fingers, and one of her maids whisked the dress away. “Next.”

The next one was worse—soft pink, with ruffles. Actual ruffles.

“No,” I said instantly.

“You didn’t even try it on.”

“I didn’t need to. It’s the sort of dress that would make strangers toss me flowers and call me ‘milady’ before trying to marry me off to their son.”

Lyra sighed but her eyes were bright with amusement. “You are determined to be difficult.”

“No,” I said, “I am determined to keep my dignity.”

While another maid scrambled for yet another option, Lyra perched on the edge of the bed, studying me like she was cataloging a rare specimen. “You know,” she said, “you’re lucky I convinced Father to stop the exorcisms.”

“‘Lucky’ isn’t the word I’d use,” I said. “More like ‘finally receiving the bare minimum of human decency.’”

That earned me a soft laugh. “Fair enough. But you are curious, aren’t you? About why all this happened?”

I crossed my arms. “Curious is one word. Confused, annoyed, possibly plotting mild revenge—those are also words.”

She leaned forward. “I’ll tell you everything. But you answer my questions too. Honestly.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I get the feeling your questions aren’t going to be the sort I can just nod politely at.”

“Perhaps not,” she said, clearly enjoying herself. “But I’ll start with this—you were brought here because of that ring.” She pointed to my hand.

I glanced down at it, the dull silver band with its faint, restless runes. “You’re going to tell me it’s cursed, aren’t you?”

“Not cursed,” Lyra said. “Claimed. That ring belongs to the undead.”

That caught me off guard, though I didn’t let it show. “Oh, sure. And here I was hoping it belonged to a secret society of bakers.”

“I’m serious. A living person couldn’t wear it—if you tried, it would simply fall away, or burn the skin. It bonds only to the dead.”

Dead.

I kept my face carefully blank, but inside my mind, the thought slotted neatly into place like a puzzle piece I’d been ignoring. Technically, I have died once. I’m probably the most undead undead to ever undead. But let’s keep that little nugget to myself for now.

“So let me guess,” I said, “your friendly neighborhood scholar sees the ring, decides I’m some kind of high-tier corpse monster, and suddenly it’s bring-out-the-holy-light time?”

Lyra’s lips twitched. “That’s exactly it. Scholar Vey is… influential. And undead are not simply feared—they’re the most dangerous beings in our world. Even the weakest can slaughter whole villages. The strongest are intelligent, patient… and nearly impossible to kill. They stay in the Shadow Continent, thank the gods, but if one appears here, we assume the worst.”

I let out a low whistle. “Sounds fun. Remind me never to vacation there.”

She gave me a pointed look. “So. Where did you get it?”

I debated lying—just to see if she could tell—but I settled for a half-truth. “Ten years ago, a hooded man gave it to me. Tall, smug, cloak that practically screamed ‘I’m mysterious, ask me about my tragic backstory.’ Haven’t seen him since… until he magically showed up in the carriage on the way here.”

Lyra tilted her head. “And?”

“And,” I said, “I still have no idea what he is, or why he picked me. I’m not a mage, never had the gift, and believe me—I tried. But when I was a kid, this ring reacted to me. Saved my life, actually—killed a monster I couldn’t have handled otherwise. And… yesterday, when I was angry at that cloacked man, something inside me just… exploded. Magic, but not from the ring.”

“Interesting,” Lyra murmured.

“I don’t know why I can wear it,” I said. Which was only half a lie.

She gave me a long, searching look. Smart girl—she knew I was keeping something back. But she let it go. For now.

Another dress appeared, black this time. Elegant, long, just the right balance of dangerous and beautiful. I ran my fingers over the fabric. “Finally,” I said. “Something that says ‘I might kill you, but you’d enjoy it.’”

Lyra laughed outright. “That suits you.”

Once the maids bustled out, she stood, her tone turning more serious. “Stay here. In the court. Let me and my people study this connection you have to the undead. It could be vital—knowing how you wear that ring might lead to breaking the stalemate we’ve had for millennia. You’ll have access to the palace libraries, to our best mages and scholars. But you’ll be under watch. I can’t protect you completely.”

I pretended to think about it, though the answer was obvious. If the palace had records, spells, histories—maybe they had something about the man in the hood. Or why I’d ended up here in this body.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll play your game.”

Her smile was both triumphant and dangerous. “Good. I think you and I are going to have… an interesting time.”

Oh, wonderful, I thought. A curious princess, a ring for the undead, and an entire court that still probably wants to set me on fire. What could possibly go wrong?

The black dress I’d chosen draped perfectly—dangerous enough to make people nervous, elegant enough to make them wonder if they should bow. Lyra seemed quietly pleased with the result, though she masked it with her usual air of command.

“Come,” she said. “We’ll speak to my father first.”

I expected a maid or two to lead us through the corridors. What I didn’t expect was the line of steel-plated muscle waiting outside her chambers.

A dozen knights stood shoulder to shoulder, swords half-drawn, eyes fixed on me like I might start foaming at the mouth and devouring the princess right there.

“Lower your weapons,” Lyra said, voice firm enough to cut through steel.

One knight, braver—or stupider—than the rest, stepped forward. “Your Highness, the monster could attack at any moment. We must remain vigilant. You should not be so—”

“I will decide whether I should be ‘so’ or not, you insufferable oaf,” she cut in, her tone sharpening to a blade’s edge. “Do not presume to instruct me on my own safety. Escort us and do your job in silence… unless you’re particularly fond of the idea of losing your tongue.”

The knight paled, snapped his mouth shut, and stepped back into formation.

“Y–Yes, Princess.”

I let out a low whistle again. “And here I thought you were all sunshine and sugar.”

Lyra gave me a sidelong glance. “Only with people who could end my life if I spoke out of turn.”

I smirked. “So you’re saying I’m special?”

“I’m saying,” she replied, looping her arm through mine as we started down a flight of broad stone stairs, “that anyone who wishes for my respect must earn it. The knights of the Holy Order have yet to do so. They are, to put it delicately, brainless brutes who’ve caused more trouble for this kingdom than they’ve solved.”

“You say ‘delicately’,” I said, “but I’ve heard more tactful insults from a drunk shouting at a goat.”

Her lips curved, but her voice stayed even. “Truth rarely needs to be polite.” Said the princess winking an eye at me.

I gave her a slow look. Okay that was a bit cool or cute, or both, I admit it. 

“So why keep them around? Surely someone of your… verbal talents could have run them out of the palace by now.”

Her expression flickered—irritation, then resignation. “It’s not so simple. The Holy Order hasn’t always had this much influence here. Decades ago, after the war with the kingdom of Dravencourt—”

“Dravencourt?” I said. “Sounds like a place where all the taverns smell like mold and everyone secretly hates their neighbors.”

“Not inaccurate,” she said dryly. “But they were powerful, and more importantly, devout. The Holy Order was their cornerstone—military, spiritual, political. When we lost ground, the only way to secure peace was to agree to adopt the Order here. It seemed harmless at the time. A gesture of unity, nothing more.”

“And let me guess,” I said, “it turned out to be about as harmless as handing your country over to a nest of venomous snakes.”

She gave me a sharp smile. “Precisely. Over the years, their influence spread like rot. Now their word carries more weight than the king’s.”

“Your father’s the king, right?” I asked.

“Yes. A king in name, a marionette in practice. His strings are pulled by the Order. If they say the sun rises in the west, he’ll nod and have a scribe write a proclamation.”

“Sounds delightful,” I said. “And here I thought my life was messy.”

Lyra tilted her head, studying me. “I imagine your life was… unconventional even before you set foot in my court.”

“That’s one word for it,” I muttered. Another word would be ‘short.’ Twice, technically.

“But,” she continued, her tone softening as if shaking off the heaviness of politics, “we have time for such discussions later. For now, just keep in mind—half the people you see in these halls would gladly see you gone, the other half would like to dissect you, and the rest are simply too polite to admit it.”

I smirked. “And here I was wondering if I’d make any friends.”

“Friends,” she said, almost scoffing, “are rare in places like this. But allies? Those can be made… with care.”

We reached the bottom of the staircase, the heavy air of the court pressing in with every step. The knights flanked us silently now—whether out of discipline or sheer terror of Lyra, I wasn’t sure.

I glanced sideways at her. “You know, for someone who scolds me about being dangerous, you have a remarkable talent for being far scarier than I am.”

Lyra’s grip on my arm was firm but not unkind as we descended the winding stone staircase. The knights followed at a respectful distance, though I could still feel their suspicion like a draft at my back.

“So…” I began, my tone deliberately light, “you make a hobby out of insulting the Holy Order to their faces. Doesn’t it ever cross your mind that they might… I don’t know… remove you from existence?”

“They could try,” she replied without hesitation.

“Comforting,” I said dryly. “Nothing says ‘I have a healthy survival instinct’ quite like poking the people who could have you burned alive before their morning prayers.”

Lyra’s lips curved slightly. “They know I have influence—and my own kind of power. I also have allies. Enough to make them hesitate. To them, I’m nothing more than a vain princess playing at politics. Harmless, if occasionally inconvenient. Worth watching, but not worth the trouble of eliminating unless I force their hand.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

She shrugged. “It’s a role that suits me. Being underestimated can be a useful shield.”

“You’re a dangerous woman,” I murmured.

“That,” she said with an almost amused glint in her eye, “is why I’m still breathing.”

We reached the towering doors of the throne room, carved with scenes of saints smiting demons. A liveried page straightened, lifted his chin, and announced in a clear voice that echoed off the high ceiling:

“Her Highness, Princess Lyra… accompanied by her guest, Lady Rissa.”

The great doors swung open.

The chamber inside was vast and cold, the air thick with incense. At the far end, the king sat at the head of a long table. On one side of the table sat three men in spotless white episcopal robes, dripping with gold embroidery. Holy Order big shots, I guessed. On the other, three men—two young and handsome, dressed in silks, and one older man whose lined face and scholarly robes I recognized instantly.

Vey. The weasel responsible for my less-than-warm welcome to this kingdom.

The room seemed to hold its breath the moment we stepped inside. Murmurs rippled through the guards and servants.

“It’s the monster…”

“The undead walks among us…”

“Kill it before it—”

I met Vey’s eyes. Color drained from his face as if I’d pulled the blood out with my stare. He made a pitiful squeak and dropped his gaze instantly.

One of the white-robed men slammed his ringed fist against the table. “What is the meaning of this, Princess?”

“Calm yourself, Father Selvric,” the king said, though there was no warmth in his tone. “Let her speak. It appears she has tamed the creature—at least enough to bring it here without incident.”

Tamed? I bit back a laugh. You pompous old—

Lyra’s grip tightened on my arm in silent warning, and before I could deliver the retort that was clawing its way up my throat, she stepped forward.

“She is not here as a prisoner, nor as a threat,” Lyra said evenly. “This is Rissa. She possesses a unique ability—she can bear artifacts of the undead without harm. Something no knight, priest, or scholar has ever accomplished. Even she does not know why. This alone warrants study. If we can understand her, perhaps we can better understand the enemy.”

One of the priests snorted. “Or perhaps she is one of them, disguised in human form.”

I offered him a sweet smile. “If I were one of them, you’d already be decorating the wall behind you. But please, continue with your theories—they’re adorable.”

A murmur of unease rippled down the table.

“Precisely my point,” Lyra continued smoothly. “She’s dangerous, yes—but so is ignorance. And right now, we have far more of the latter.”

“She is dangerous simply by existing,” another priest said sharply.

I leaned forward just enough for the candlelight to glint off my eyes. “So are fire, storms, and the plague. Yet here you are—still breathing.”

One of the priests actually made the sign of the warding cross. Vey hadn’t moved since I’d entered, his shoulders hunched as though he hoped the table might swallow him.

The king’s gaze sharpened. “You speak boldly, girl.”

"Truth rarely needs to be polite." I said leaning back to Lyra and winking an aye to her.

She blushed a little. He-he, I will tease her for that later, I thought.

The debate dragged on—questions, accusations, Lyra parrying each with calm precision while I laced in the occasional morbid quip just to see who flinched the hardest. Eventually the king leaned back, fingers steepled, and said, “We will vote.”

The three priests voted against me, their piety sharpened into disdain. The king voted in my favor. The two richly dressed men to his left followed suit.

All eyes turned to Vey.

I caught his gaze and let my smile spread—slow, cold, and deliberate. I didn’t need words; the threat was clear.

His voice shook. “…Yes.”

“Then it is settled,” Lyra said, her voice carrying a note of triumph. “Rissa will remain in the court. Effective immediately, she will be part of my personal retinue. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The king gave a single, measured nod, but his eyes never left me.

As the doors of the throne room closed behind us, Lyra exhaled softly. “That was closer than I’d like.”

“You mean the vote or me resisting the urge to bite someone?” I asked.

“Both,” she admitted. “But you handled yourself well—though half the room now thinks you’ll slit their throats in their sleep.”

“That’s not entirely untrue,” I said with a grin.

Her lips twitched, but she kept her voice low. “Just be aware—someone in there will try to undo this decision. And sooner rather than later.”

We walked down the corridor, the echo of our footsteps sharp against the silence. Lyra’s grip on my arm eased, but she glanced over her shoulder more than once.

I was about to tease her for being jumpy when we turned the corner but I felt something.

Three figures in the corridor. Waiting.