Chapter 5: Booze and Boom

The doors of the throne room swung shut behind us with a low groan, the echoes of the council still lingering in my ears like an unpleasant aftertaste. We stepped into a long corridor of pale stone and soaring arches, sunlight spilling through high windows to paint gold along the floor.

Our little procession moved forward — Lyra at my side, a pair of armored knights behind us, two more ahead, and a scattering of silent servants gliding along the edges. The rhythmic clink of armor and the whisper of skirts were all part of the expected noise.

Except… there was more.

I slowed my stride half a step, listening. Beneath the cadence of boots and silk, I caught an extra set of light, quick steps. Three sets, actually. They didn’t belong to any of the servants; too eager, too inconsistent in their pacing.

I leaned toward Lyra, keeping my voice low. “We’ve got tails.”

She didn’t look at me. “Do we?”

“I count three. Small, quick. Either the shortest assassins in history, or spies who need to work on their stealth.”

Her lips curved, just barely. “Mm. Sounds terrifying.”

“Don’t ‘mm’ me. You said I’d have enemies in this palace. Forgive me for thinking some of them might be stupid enough to follow me in broad daylight.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it stupidity,” she murmured, eyes forward. “Merely… dedication.”

That did nothing to soothe me. I flexed my hands at my sides — not much of a defense without a weapon, but I’d make do.

The steps grew closer.

Then, from behind a column, three shapes darted out.

I tensed, ready for gods-know-what, when the smallest one squealed, “Lyyyyraaa!” and hurled herself at the princess.

The other two followed, skirts flying, ribbons bouncing.

They collided with Lyra in a blur of pastel and giggles. One wrapped her arms around Lyra’s waist, another clung to her arm, the third practically climbing her side.

I stared. “…Ah yes. The assassins are lethal this year.”

Lyra bent down, laughing as she gathered them all into a warm embrace. She looked… softer, brighter. Almost unrecognizable from the viper-tongued noblewoman who’d faced down the king and his council moments ago.

“You knew,” I said flatly.

“Perhaps.”

“And you let me think we were about to be stabbed in the spine.”

Her smile widened. “You were so entertaining.”

The smallest girl — dark hair, sharp eyes — peeked at me with curiosity. The tallest, a brown-haired whirlwind, was already tugging at Lyra’s sleeve to demand something I couldn’t hear. The third, a golden-haired doll of a child, simply pressed her cheek to Lyra’s arm with serene devotion.

“Come,” Lyra said, smoothing their hair in turn. “Let’s take tea in the garden before you declare war on my ladies-in-waiting.”

The gardens of the inner court were all order and beauty — hedges trimmed to geometric precision, fountains spilling crystal arcs into marble basins, roses and lilies mingling in carefully arranged color. Beneath a pergola heavy with flowering vines, a table had been set for tea: porcelain cups, polished silver, and pastries so perfect they might have been painted.

Two guards stood at the edge of the gravel path; Lyra’s maids lingered a polite distance away. Only the princess, her three young shadows, and I took seats at the round table.

“They’re harmless,” Lyra said as she finished her cup of tea. “In fact, they’re mine. They’ve been with me nearly all their lives, and they’ve followed me everywhere ever since they could run.”

I arched a brow. “Well, they run like assassins.”

The dark-haired one sat up straighter at that.

“This,” Lyra continued, gesturing to her, “is Serine. She learned her letters before she could ride, and she’s read more than some scholars I know. She has an insatiable curiosity, especially about the strange and unexplained… so expect her to interrogate you at some point.”

Serine tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle. “You were in the throne room today. Everyone seemed afraid of you.”

“Maybe I’m just naturally terrifying,” I said, sipping my tea.

She didn’t smile. “Or maybe they don’t understand you.”

I raised an eyebrow at Lyra. “She’s sharper than half your court.”

Lyra’s lips twitched. “Moving on—” She nodded to the golden-haired child still holding her arm. “Alenya. Gentle, kind, and far more patient than I deserve. She is the model of grace and courtesy, and the only one here who actually behaves like a proper lady.”

Alenya gave me a polite little smile, then focused entirely on refilling Lyra’s cup with the steadiness of a seasoned hostess.

“And lastly,” Lyra said, turning to the brown-haired girl, “Myrrin. Climbs trees better than my guards, paints better than my court artists, and can stitch a torn gown before the music stops at a ball. She also talks too much.”

“I do not,” Myrrin said immediately. “I just have a lot to say. And I’m not afraid of you, by the way.”

“Oh, good,” I said, leaning on the table. “One fearless child in the palace. That’ll come in handy when the undead invade.”

Myrrin grinned. “Do they invade often?”

“Not nearly enough to keep things interesting.”

Lyra sighed, though her eyes were amused. “This is what I endure daily. I suppose it’s only fair that you share the burden now.”

I sipped my tea, gaze flicking between the three of them. “A scholar, a little saint, and a tree-climbing seamstress. Quite the squad you’ve got, princess.”

“They’re formidable in their own way,” Lyra said with a smirk.

I gave her a sideways glance. “I can see that. Though I’ll keep sleeping with one eye open.”

Alenya finally spoke, her voice soft. “We’d never hurt someone Lyra cares about.”

That made me pause. “Well,” I said slowly, “I guess that’s… almost comforting.”

Myrrin snorted into her tea. Serine kept studying me like she was cataloguing every word. Lyra just smiled, the picture of innocence — which, of course, meant she was up to something.

By the time the last crumbs of cake were gone and the tea pot sat empty, the sun was melting behind the western wall of the gardens. The girls were gathered away by Lyra’s maids with soft words and promises they’d see her again tomorrow.

I made my way back through the winding halls under the watchful eyes of too many guards. Lyra peeled off to attend to whatever noble obligations she used to keep from chewing her own arm off in boredom, and I was finally shown to my chambers — high ceiling, tall windows, far too much embroidered fabric for any practical use.

Two guards planted themselves outside my door like statues carved from iron and discipline. Or so I thought.

Hours later, in the dead quiet of the night, they changed shifts.

The clang, clink, rattle of plate armor echoed up and down the corridor like someone had decided the best place to practice their percussion skills was outside my room. I lay in bed, staring at the canopy, counting every obnoxious step.

“Bless you,” I muttered into the darkness, “for making sure no assassins murder me in my sleep. Truly, the racket alone would scare them to death. My gratitude knows no bounds.”

I rolled over and shut my eyes, trying to drown it out. My mind wouldn’t quiet.

The day had been… full. Too full. One royal audience, one panic-stricken scholar pissing himself, a princess who could outmaneuver a snake, and three miniature shadows who’d decided to evaluate my worth like I was some strange animal in their menagerie.

And somehow, instead of wanting to run, I found myself leaning into it. There was something about the sheer absurdity of it all that itched at the edges of my curiosity. The politics, the danger, the history buried in these walls… and somewhere tangled in it, answers about me.

If this was my second chance at existence, then I’d wring every drop from it — even if that meant suffering midnight armor concerts outside my door.

With that final thought, and a muttered curse for the next guard who stomped past, I let the palace swallow me into sleep.

---

The weeks blurred together in a strange mixture of boredom, stubbornness, and reluctant comfort.

Every morning began the same way: with a “preventive” exorcism. Preventive, like I was a leaking roof or an infected wound. The clerics always showed up in their holy whites, faces tight with grim determination, as if this time—this time—they’d finally “purge the darkness” from me. Each flash of divine light felt like being stared at by the sun itself.

I hated it. Deeply. I told them as much every time.

If there was one thing I missed most from my previous life—besides the blessed absence of these religious buffoons—it was a decent pair of sunglasses. I’d have looked incredible in them, too. Could’ve lounged through the entire ritual smirking at the holy order like the walking blasphemy they thought I was.

Maybe Lyra had rubbed off on me, or maybe I’d simply reached my limit, but I found myself truly disliking these sheep. The way they tried, every single day, to “purify” me, like I had nothing better to do than split them in half and relieve myself over their corpses. I filed that one away as a threat for future use. A girl needs her hobbies.

By midmorning, I was off to my reading and writing lessons. Back home in the village, education was more rumor than reality, but I’d managed to scrape together enough skill to get by. Still, my understanding—especially with what carried over from my previous life—was far beyond what these smug instructors expected from a “peasant girl.” I enjoyed the moment their smiles froze, their eyes widened, and they realized I could run circles around their teaching.

Afternoons were for tea with Lyra and her trio of shadows—unless, of course, some court sage or magician (anyone but that pompous ass Scholar Vey) happened to be free. In those cases, I hunted them down with questions until they either caved to curiosity or fled in terror. The brave ones stuck around, and with them, I built an uneasy camaraderie. Enough to trade knowledge. Enough to learn.

By evening, I was prowling one of the palace’s many libraries. I wanted answers. About the world, about myself. Something inside me—not magic exactly, but close—was there, waiting. And I meant to drag it into the light. The ring the hooded man had given me had once felt important. Now I knew it was just a trinket, no more potent than a wizard’s staff for a child’s puppet play. Still, it was my trinket, my first possession in this life. I kept it.

Every night before bed, Lyra stopped by my chamber. Always with a question or three, always with that patient look like she could see right through me. I teased her constantly, tried to trick her. Impossible. She earned the nickname “Princess Snake” for her trouble. She loved it. Which, of course, irritated me further.

It was in the library, during one of my evening raids, that Serine started showing up. At first, the girl barely acknowledged me, burying herself in thick books and scribbling in her tidy hand. But her curiosity—so much like mine—got the better of her.

“Why are you reading that one?” she asked one night, peeking over the edge of her book.

“Because,” I said, “I want to know why people in this kingdom keep getting lost in their own forests. Seems like an avoidable problem.”

She tilted her head. “Is it because you want to go exploring?”

“Maybe,” I said, surprised at how gentle my voice came out.

Serine grinned, and the next night she came back with a map.

Inwardly, I cursed myself. Careful, Rissa. The venom in your veins will kill you if you keep talking to this one. Too sweet. Too bright-eyed. You can’t be sarcastic with her without feeling like you’ve kicked a puppy. She’s dangerously close to pulling a Lyra on you. And yet, I couldn’t help it. I wanted to be… a decent example for her. Gods help me.

Years passed like that. My bond with Lyra grew stronger. I learned more than most court scholars, and the exorcisms never worked. Serine became like a little sister, and I wore the role reluctantly, but well.

I still worked at my “field practice” whenever I could—meaning I marched down to the training grounds, glared at the straw dummies meant for the archers, and tried to blow them apart with magic I was sure had to be there somewhere. Myrrin was often there, shooting arrows with deadly precision or galloping past on horseback like she owned the field. I didn’t understand riding or archery, but it was obvious she could outshoot and outmaneuver half the palace guard. We spoke occasionally, but she wasn’t much for anything that didn’t interest her. And apparently, I was not interesting.

It was the winter of my sixth year in the palace, the very year I turned twenty-three. I was deeply buried in one of the many dusty tomes in the grand library, the kind of place where time seemed to freeze, and the only sounds were the rustle of pages and the occasional cough of a distracted scholar.

Then, without warning, a soft, warm hand—too small to belong to anyone threatening—landed gently on my shoulder, breaking my concentration.

I sighed, already knowing who it was. “Serine...” I said with a tone heavy with fake disappointment. “You know I’d much rather have—”

Before I could finish, she cut me off, voice all serious and solemn, like a tiny, very bossy nun. “No, Rissa. You know it’s forbidden to drink alcohol in the grand library. And don’t think the rest of the palace is any better. There are plenty of sacred places where you can’t smuggle in a single bottle—no matter if it’s a barrel of beer, wine, or mead.”

I blinked, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t be such a killjoy. It’s not like I’m throwing raucous parties here. I just like to... enhance the ambiance.”

Serine gave me a look that clearly said try me. “Enhance the ambiance, sure. With your usual ‘I’ll get drunk and try to read a spellbook’ routine.”

I smirked, trying to inject as much sarcasm as possible without hurting her feelings. “Well, what can I say? The library walls aren’t exactly the most exciting company. Besides, I’ve got to enjoy something in this place besides dusty scrolls and endless lectures.”

She handed me a delicate cup of tea with a conspiratorial smile. “Well, here’s some responsible enjoyment. But remember: no sneaking bottles in here.”

I took the cup but couldn’t help teasing her. “Since when did you become the palace’s fun police?”

Serine shrugged, eyes shining with mock authority. “Since I decided to be the responsible older sister you clearly refuse to be.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Says the kid who barely tops my waist and acts like she’s been running the palace for decades.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice to a mock whisper filled with suspicion. “Speaking of your ‘responsible’ fun, that stable boy you hang out with after your “magic shooting failed archery practice”—isn’t he the one smuggling in your secret stash?”

Caught completely off guard, I flushed. “You mean Jerrick? The gangly mule of a man who manages to get me ale behind the stables? Yeah, guilty as charged.”

Serine smirked triumphantly. “I knew it. You’re turning into quite the little drunkard.”

I pretended to be scandalized. “A drunkard?! I prefer the term connoisseur of fine spirits.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine spirits or not, I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble.”

I sighed dramatically, setting the cup down with exaggerated care. “You’re impossible. But I guess I’d rather have you as my nagging little sister than... well, no one at all.”

Serine beamed, proud of herself. “See? I’m not just here to ruin your fun—I’m here to keep you out of a tavern drunken life.”

I smiled, warmth spreading through me—not from the tea, but from the bond we shared. “Fine. I promise to keep the barrel smuggling to a minimum."

That night, I dragged myself to my chambers far later than I expected. I’d spent longer than I’d planned buried in books, but that wasn’t unusual. When that happened, Lyra never complained—she’d simply be sitting on my bed, waiting like clockwork. Six years and she hadn’t missed a single night. Her very presence was an unspoken, empirical statement: No matter what, I’ll be here.

I opened the door with my usual half-apology already forming.

“Sorry, Lyra, I know I’m late for our nightly—Serine distracted me in the—”

I looked up mid-sentence. The room was empty.

That was… odd. Not impossible—there were plenty of palace matters that could require her attention—but odd. Still, there was no need to panic. I stepped back out into the hall where one of the guards was posted.

“Do you know where the princess is?” I asked.

The tin-can-for-brains gave me a look that made it clear his helmet wasn’t just for protection—it was keeping the draft out of an empty skull. He had no idea.

So I went back inside and waited. And waited. And waited.

Eventually, I gave up hope she’d show. It wasn’t like I needed her to, but the interruption of our perfectly stable routine left an itch under my skin. So, naturally, I decided to treat it the way I treated all my life’s problems—alcohol.

Out the window I went, scaling down to the courtyard like a delinquent teenager, making my way to the stables. There, hidden away in the hayloft, was my real comfort: a barrel of the best beer Jerrick had smuggled in for me. Jerrick—the lanky, sunburned stable boy with more hay than brains in his head. He’d been utterly smitten after a couple of stolen kisses, and I’d shamelessly exploited that to get the good stuff.

I didn’t bother with cups or decorum. I popped the lid with a satisfying crack and dunked my head in like some kind of feral animal. Within minutes, I was several leagues past tipsy.

I could have just passed out right there in the hay, but the room was already spinning, and I had no desire to wake up reeking and pathetic. So, I decided to take a walk and “air out.”

I wandered until I found myself in the archery field. The training dummies stood in their usual mocking formation, a neat row of targets I had never managed to so much as singe with magic in all my time here.

“Stupid dummies,” I muttered through a hiccup. “Why don’t you all just explode for once in your miserable—” I flung my arms out dramatically, nearly losing my balance. “—lifeless existence?!”

The words hit something deep and raw in me. In a flash, I was back in my last moments of my old life—being killed, utterly powerless to stop it. The same frustration boiled up, hot and blinding.

And then… it happened.

All nineteen dummies imploded with a sound so guttural, so deep, it could have woken the kingdom next door. Hay exploded into the night air, bits of it drifting lazily in the torchlight.

I stood there, stunned, my mouth hanging open. I’d done it. I’d actually done it.

And then came the shouting. Distant voices, the clatter of armor, and the unmistakable rhythm of guards running straight toward me.

“Perfect,” I thought. “Absolutely perfect. First time in six years I manage this, and I’m drunk enough to pickle an ox.”

That was the last thought I had before the ground tilted sharply, and I passed out in the middle of the training yard, surrounded by what was left of my victims.