(4) THE FIRST VERSE: THE SMELL OF TANGERINE AND TREACHERY

The soft, rhythmic thump beneath Zaria’s cheek was strangely soothing. The texture was familiar—not a cushion, but a thick, smooth tunic. She sighed contentedly, burrowing deeper into the surprising warmth, until a distant memory—the metallic scent of sweat and leather—jolted her eyes open.
She was nestled, deeply and comfortably, in the arms of Ivor, who stood perfectly still, his muscles coiled like springs. The “fluffy toy” was his chest.
Visual depth hit her first: they were in the middle of the sprawling main courtyard. Around them, two dozen soldiers, trained to be impassive, stood frozen in various states of drilling, their faces the very definition of suppressed amusement. The sunlight glinted sharply off their polished breastplates, illuminating the sheer absurdity of the moment.
Zaria’s face erupted in a violent crimson blush that traveled instantly to the tips of her ears. Mortification. She snatched her face away, but in a reflex of sheer, panicked embarrassment, she immediately tucked her head back down against his collarbone, trying to melt into the dark fabric of his tunic.
Ivor’s body, initially rigid, relaxed. A low, resonant chuckle vibrated through her skull.
“These actions,” Ivor’s voice was a warm, mocking rumble, “do not suit the future Ruler of Miravale, little Miss.” His hands, large and scarred from training, carefully tightened around her waist, not to hold her, but to keep her from tumbling.
Zaria made a muffled, distressed sound, refusing to lift her head.
“Training dismissed for the day,” Ivor announced, his voice carrying the effortless authority of a commander. “All of you, report to the armory.”
The sound of boots and equipment slowly faded, the soldiers scattering with professional swiftness, though Zaria could practically feel their suppressed snickers echoing in the vast stone courtyard.
When the silence was absolute, Zaria launched herself out of his arms, smoothing down the non-existent wrinkles on her skirt and straightening her spine. She aimed for a look of cool indifference, but her cheeks were still radiating heat.
“I was merely testing your reflexes,” she announced in a tone she hoped sounded regal.
Ivor simply smirked, leaning against the stone battlement. His dark eyes, usually sharp and serious, held a spark of deep amusement that made her want to kick him.
“Little miss, by the way,” he said, pushing off the wall, “where are you going?”
“I told you,” Zaria snapped, turning to face him, “stop calling me that. Just call me Zaria, okay? You act so ridiculously formal.” She took a deep breath, gesturing vaguely towards the castle walls. “I am going to the city. For some fresh air. Don't even think about sending the troops after me. And especially, don't tell the Duke and Duchess.”
“The city? Alone?” Ivor raised one perfect eyebrow, a silent challenge.
“Yes, alone. I’m not a hostage, Ivor. See you tonight.” Without waiting for a response, she spun around and sprinted toward the side gate.
Ivor watched her go, then slowly turned his gaze up four stories to the open window of her bedroom, where a hastily secured rope still swayed faintly in the breeze. A genuine, almost paternal smile crossed his lips. “This girl is so weird for sure.”
The Taste of Home...The city of Miravale embraced Zaria like a lost friend. The energy was infectious—the shouts of merchants, the clatter of carts, the rich, mixed aromas of spices and fresh bread. It was all vibrant, bustling, and wonderfully real. The sight filled the void in Annie's heart left by her previous life's monotony.
She followed the comforting scent of caramelized sugar and cinnamon until she reached her true destination: The Tangerine Kiss Bakery.
The small shop was bright, warm, and perpetually scented with citrus. The owner, an elderly woman with flour dusting her apron and a face lined with kindness, looked up from behind the counter.
“Oh, my heavens! Zaria Miravale! Is that really you, my little angel?”
Zaria’s carefully constructed regal composure crumbled. She rushed forward. “Grandmother Miri! I missed you and this shop so much! Osborne doesn't have a thing like your tangerine cake.”
Grandmother Miri knew exactly who Zaria was—the daughter of the late King’s brother—but she had been fiercely loyal to the family for decades and kept the knowledge of Zaria's royal lineage a secret, understanding the need for security.
Zaria settled at a small, slightly rickety wooden table near the window. The cake arrived—a thick slice of moist tangerine layer cake topped with a delicate citrus glaze—and she savored the first bite. It tasted like childhood.
She watched a pair of young boys at the next table bickering over a crumb, their faces smeared with frosting. The sight was a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. It brought back memories of herself and her cousins, Mathius and Ivor, arguing over who got the biggest slice right here in this very spot.
I was the pathetic one. The thought hit her with surprising clarity. After her parents' death, Annie/Zaria had let her grief become a wall, pushing away the people who loved her—Mathius, Ivor, even her kind Duke and Duchess. She had been distant, brooding, and self-pitying.
A resolute warmth spread through her chest. No more. She was Zaria now, and she was going to love them, cherish them, and be present for them.
A Crack in the ShieldRefreshed and resolved, Zaria stepped back into the lively square. The energy was still high, but something was shifting. Down the main thoroughfare, a large crowd had gathered, an agitated knot of people surrounding a single, slumped figure.
Zaria approached a woman on the outskirts, her face pale with shock.
“Excuse me, what happened here?” Zaria asked quietly.
The woman wrung her hands. “It’s Merchant Eltan. He was coming out of the Redhill Forest road—just bringing in supplies, when… a monster attacked him! Some kind of foul beast, teeth and claws. He barely escaped with his life.”
Zaria froze, the taste of tangerine suddenly turning to ash in her mouth.
A monster?
Her mind instantly flashed to the core geography of Miravale. That’s impossible. Miravale wasn't just a kingdom; it was a sanctuary. The entire realm was protected by a powerful, ancient invisible shield—a magical barrier designed to repel all evil creatures, dark magic, and monsters, keeping the kingdom pristine. Nothing "foul" could cross the boundary, especially not from the relatively safe Redhill region.
If a monster had attacked a merchant inside the protected zone… it meant the shield was either failing, or worse, had been deliberately broken.
The carefree city atmosphere vanished. A cold, determined dread settled in Zaria’s gut. This was not a plot point she had written. This was a direct, existential threat to her new home.
Ignoring the panicked pleas of the crowd, Zaria hitched up her skirt and ran. She ran toward the edge of the town, toward the whispering, shadowed entrance of the Redhill Forest, desperate to see for herself the breach in the impossible security.