The week slipped by faster than Illaria had expected, and once again she found herself moving relentlessly from one task to another, determined to finish everything before time ran out. Together with Edric, she spent three to four days scrutinizing guard records, approving only those whose loyalty and histories were beyond doubt to serve within the palace grounds.
Edric, meanwhile, had issued strict orders to all army generals to intensify patrols along the border regions. Since the Northern royal family was to remain in the South for an entire week, every cook, maid, and servant who had been in service for less than a year was granted a two-week paid leave. Shadow warriors—those who revealed themselves only in moments of extreme danger—were discreetly stationed near the quarters assigned to the Northern royals. Even the ministers were not exempt from scrutiny; the emperor assigned a new servant to each of them, their true purpose being to observe rather than to serve.
By the end of the week, despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on her shoulders, Illaria could finally say that the preparations were complete.
On the day of the Northerners’ arrival, the deep, rhythmic sound of drums echoed through the city. From a distance, Illaria watched her father, her elder brother, and Robert standing at the foot of the palace stairs, waiting. Behind them stood the ministers of the court and the heads of the four sworn families of the South, flanked by rows of guards in formal formation.
Illaria herself was not among them.
She was a princess—there was no obligation for a young woman like her to stand at the forefront to welcome foreign royalty. Had her mother still been alive, she would have stood beside the emperor as empress and formally received their guests. But now, there was no one at her father’s side.
The thought stirred a quiet ache in Illaria’s chest. Yet, strangely, it also brought her a sense of warmth. In the South, a man was permitted only one wife. There were no concubines, unlike in the North and West. Remarriage was allowed only in cases of divorce or death, and even then, the emperor could take a second wife only if his first had been unable to produce an heir. Her father could have remarried after her mother’s passing, but he had chosen not to.
She remembered asking him why.
He had spoken simply—of how he had loved her mother and still did, and how she had already given him three capable, precious children. He had said that he was content, that their family was already complete.
Illaria did not fully understand love, not in the way poets or bards described it, but she understood this much: the place her mother held in her father’s heart could never be replaced. An irreplaceable bond. And that knowledge, for reasons she could not fully explain, made her feel at peace.
“Focus, Illaria,” she murmured to herself. “You can’t afford to make mistakes now.”
Her gaze sharpened as she looked ahead. The Northern emperor, Elmar Neor, had dismounted his horse, his three sons following suit, and together they began their ascent toward the royal palace.
The emperor was dressed in splendor—a long, vivid purple overcoat flowing behind him, his sword hanging at his side like a symbol of unquestioned authority. His sons were equally striking, their attire refined and regal. Even from a distance, Illaria could tell how different they looked from her own family. With their pale complexions, dark eyes, and brown hair, anyone could identify them at a glance as Northerners.
The gates of the royal palace opened onto a vast ceremonial approach—a path nearly five hundred meters long and fifty meters wide, stretching straight toward the palace doors. Southern soldiers stood in disciplined lines along both sides. Beyond them rose towers and smaller yet magnificent buildings, most of them offices belonging to ministers of the court, placed deliberately close so they could report to the emperor at a moment’s notice. Between these structures grew long, carefully maintained trees, symmetrical flower gardens, and fountain squares, all designed to enhance the palace’s grandeur and serenity.
It was beautiful. And dangerously exposed.
When Edric and Illaria had planned the palace’s security, they had overlooked one crucial weakness—this very path. The trees, buildings, and ornamental structures provided excellent cover for hidden movement. If someone wished to launch a covert attack, this was the ideal place to do it.
Illaria had volunteered to secure the path herself.
Both Edric and her father had opposed the idea at first, but they all knew the truth. She was the most reliable choice. As a daughter, she was not required to formally receive the guests alongside her brothers, so her absence at the palace gates would raise no suspicion. She would only appear later, when summoned inside. In the end, they had no choice but to agree.
Now, Illaria was hidden high within the tallest tree she could find, positioned roughly midway along the ceremonial path. She wore loose green garments, a matching half-mask covering her mouth and nose. Her golden hair was tied back loosely, blending with the leaves and shadows around her. Her fingers were clenched tightly around the hilt of Eleos, her sword, every muscle in her body coiled with readiness.
Below her, the Northern Emperor advanced toward the palace, his three sons walking just behind him. Farther back followed a vast formation of ten thousand Northern soldiers. To any onlooker, it was a magnificent sight. To Illaria, it was a test of vigilance.
“Distance: two hundred and fifty meters,” she calculated silently. “Nothing unusual.”
“Two hundred meters. Still clear.”
“One hundred and fifty meters. Their pace has increased slightly—still within reason.”
“One hundred meters. Everything seems—”
Something moved.
She felt it before she saw it.
Instinct screamed. Illaria twisted aside just in time as something sharp tore through the air where her head had been an instant earlier. She hadn’t even seen what it was—only felt its passing. An instant later, a sharp sting flared across her skin. She was still surprised when her surprise deepened when she realized the killing intent did not fade.
There was a killing intent behind her.
She quickly turned and saw a dagger had attacked her but what surprised her more was this — The dagger after cutting her once had flipped midair, impossibly precise, and was coming for her again.
Her mind raced. The first throw had been aimed at her—but this? This was no ordinary weapon. It was attacking on its own. The second strike came faster but Illaria reacted instantly. She caught the blade barehanded, clamping her left palm around its sharp edge. Blood welled immediately, running down her fingers, but she ignored the pain. The dagger resisted, vibrating violently in her grip as if alive. She poured Auren into her hand, forcing her will into the weapon until, inch by inch, it stilled.
And then—
Another killing intent flared behind her.
She spun around just in time to raise Eleos. Steel clashed against steel with a sharp, ringing cry that echoed down the path. The impact rattled her arms as she leapt from the tree, landing on the ground in a fluid motion, immediately locked in combat.
Her opponent stood before her—tall, poised, cloaked in beautiful robes that still fluttered from the momentum of his strike. Cold black eyes met hers, framed by brown hair.
One of the Northern princes.
They exchanged blows in rapid succession, sword against sword. His movements were precise and merciless, every strike aimed at vital points—throat, heart, core—meant to kill instantly. Illaria matched him step for step, forced entirely onto the defensive. There was no room to speak, no space to question him. Every fraction of a second was consumed by survival.
If it had been anyone else, the fight would already be over. But this prince was her equal. Then a commanding voice cut through the clash of steel.
“Marcus. Don’t kill him yet. Let the Southern Emperor explain.” Elmar Neor’s voice carried effortlessly across the path.
Marcus. So his name was Marcus.
Hearing the emperor speak, Marcus retreated at once.
From the first strike of the dagger to the clash of swords, everything had lasted less than a minute—yet it had been brutal, compressed, and suffocating in its intensity. As soon as Marcus stepped back, Illaria felt multiple presences rush toward her. Her father, her elder brother, and several Southern soldiers ran to her side. Ryan Longsword now stood beside her, his face noticeably pale.
The ministers of the South were frozen in confusion. None of them fully understood what had just happened, but not a single one dared to speak.
Marcus stepped forward again.
“Greetings to the Southern Emperor, Ryan Longsword,” he said coldly. “I wonder if I should greet you and your family in the same manner as the one you prepared for us.”
He drew his sword and pointed it straight at Ryan Longsword.
The moment his blade moved, another Northern prince unsheathed his sword. Then another. In a chain reaction, every Northern soldier raised their weapons. The Southern guards, sensing imminent danger, did the same.
Within two minutes, the atmosphere had transformed from ceremonial welcome to the brink of full-scale bloodshed. Thousands of weapons were aimed at one another, and the slightest spark could ignite a war.
Ryan Longsword raised his hand immediately. “No. This is a misunderstanding.”
Elmar Neor’s voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. “A misunderstanding? Emperor Ryan, we traveled all the way from the North to propose a marriage, and before we even set foot inside your palace, you attempted to execute us by deploying an assassin. And you dare to call this a misunderstanding?”
Ryan stiffened. “No, Emperor Elmar. This person is not an assassin.”
Marcus cut in, his gaze never leaving Ryan.“Forgive my interruption, but I just fought this person. His skills are far beyond those of ordinary guards. In fact, I would say he is exceptionally trained. So tell me—why was such a highly skilled individual, dressed to blend perfectly with the surroundings, wearing a mask, hidden in a tree along our path? How are we to believe he was there for anything other than an assassination attempt? We did not come with our full military force. If our emperor were harmed here, it would have been effortless to take advantage of us.”
Illaria exhaled slowly.
She turned her head toward her father and spoke quietly. “Don’t worry. Let me handle this.”
This chaos existed because of her decision. She would bear the responsibility.
She stepped forward, moving away from her father and brother, toward the Northern Emperor. Calmly, deliberately, she removed the wooden pin from her hair. Her long golden hair spilled free, catching the light as it moved with the wind. Then she reached up, untied her mask, and let it fall to the ground beside her.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Gasps rippled through the Northern ranks.
No one had expected the “assassin” to be a woman. Illaria lowered herself onto one knee and clasped her hands in front of her chest. She bowed briefly, then lifted her head and met Elmar Neor’s gaze directly. Her eyes held no fear. She could not afford even a hint of hesitation.
“Greetings to the Northern Emperor, his sons, and your battalion,” she said clearly. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Illaria Longsword, daughter of Ryan Longsword and Marielle Longsword—Princess of the South.”
Shock spread instantly across the Northern side.
Marcus had not looked away from her since she removed her mask. His expression was unreadable, frozen somewhere between disbelief and something far deeper, but Illaria did not spare him a glance.
Silence fell over the path.
After a few moments, Elmar Neor finally spoke. “I had heard that the Southern princess was skilled in swordsmanship. But I never imagined you were capable of standing against my son in direct combat. I must say… for a woman, your skill is beyond impressive.”
Illaria did not flinch.“Emperor, war does not differentiate between men and women. An enemy is an enemy, regardless of gender. I thank you for your words, but from my perspective, my abilities are nothing extraordinary. Since matters have escalated to this point, I request permission to clarify the situation on behalf of my father.”
Elmar studied her for a long moment. “You have my ears.”
Illaria nodded once. “We are at fault here. I do not blame you or Prince Marcus for your suspicions. However, before I explain further, I ask one thing. Please order your troops to lower their weapons. Dialogue under the shadow of drawn blades serves no one. Our soldiers will do the same.”
Elmar turned slightly and glanced at one of his sons. The prince gave a subtle nod. Elmar raised his hand.
At once, the Northern troops lowered their weapons. The Southern soldiers followed suit. The path fell into a tense but fragile calm, the air still heavy with the possibility of what might come next.
Illaria let out a quiet sigh, relieved that at the very least she had not ignited a war before her father even had the chance to speak properly with the North. One crisis had been averted.
She straightened and addressed the Northern Emperor again.
“Emperor, now that you are visiting our land, I hope you agree that the safety of you and your family is our responsibility. I am aware that you and all your sons have trained at Kelzar and are more than capable of protecting yourselves. However, that alone cannot justify negligence on the part of the Southern Royal Family.
Our kingdoms have not interacted at such close quarters in many years. Any harm that comes to you or your family during this visit would inevitably be interpreted as the South’s failure—or worse, as a deliberate act of betrayal—regardless of the truth. That is why my father gave explicit orders to prioritize your safety above all else. The long path leading to the palace is the most vulnerable stretch, and so I personally took responsibility for guarding it.”
She gestured faintly to her clothes and mask.
“The reason I wore a mask and dressed to blend into the surroundings was precisely because my duty required me to look for threats without revealing my presence. Had I been visible, no enemy would dare strike openly and would instead wait for another opportunity later this week.
“Emperor, even if I had intended to attempt an assassination—which I did not—I could have, at most, harmed only one of you. As you saw for yourself, my skills are not superior to your son’s. What possible benefit would I gain from such an act? And if the South truly sought your lives, why would my father send his own daughter? Would it not make more sense to employ a far more ruthless spiritual user—one trained to take their own life the moment they were exposed?”
She lowered her gaze briefly, then looked back up, steady and unflinching.
“I believe this clarifies our position. I hope you no longer doubt our intentions.”
Elmar Neor studied her for a moment before letting out a low laugh.
“To be honest, Princess, the moment you revealed your identity, I knew you were not there to harm us. Still, an explanation was necessary. It is not every day one witnesses a princess—soon to be married, no less—hiding in a tree like a trained assassin.” His tone softened slightly. “That said, Marcus. You attacked the Southern princess. You owe her an apology.”
Marcus had finally torn his gaze away from Illaria, though he still seemed distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. One of his brothers nudged him discreetly, and only then did he step forward. He inclined his head.
“Princess, I, Marcus Neor, ask for your forgiveness for injuring you.”
Illaria returned the gesture calmly. “There is no need, Prince. Had I been in your place, I would have done the same.”
Ryan Longsword stepped forward, his expression composed once more.
“Since all misunderstandings have been resolved, we should proceed inside. You must all be exhausted after such a long journey. Illaria, go ahead and check whether all arrangements are in order. Edric, Robert—you two ensure the Northern army is properly accommodated. I will accompany Emperor Elmar.”
“Yes, Father.”
Illaria hurried back into the palace, moving swiftly through the corridors, checking chambers, servants, and security placements. Everything appeared to be in order. For an incident that could have spiraled into disaster, the matter had been resolved almost too neatly—or so it felt to her.
Once she finished her checks, she returned to her quarters to await further instructions.
A few hours later, a summons arrived.
Illaria made her way to her father’s chambers, with Dany close behind. When she entered, she saw Edric and Robert already seated at the tea table. Her father stood near the window, arms crossed. One look at his face told her everything.
He was not pleased.
Ryan turned toward her slowly.
“What happened earlier today,” he said, his voice calm but edged with steel, “is not something I appreciate, Illaria. You told me there was no possibility of you being detected from that position. And yet, you ended up fighting Marcus Neor, the third Northern prince.”
Illaria lowered her head slightly. “Father, it was my fault. He was extremely fast. I couldn’t—”
“Excuses,” Ryan cut in, his voice rising. “That is not the point. You were discovered, and worse, you engaged him in combat. What were you thinking? Even if he had noticed you, why did you draw your sword? Why didn’t you surrender immediately and explain?”
Illaria clenched her fists, “Father, I sensed a killing intent from him. I was too focused—”
“Stop,” Ryan cut her off sharply. “Not another word out of your mouth.”
Illaria froze.
“The Northern Emperor had to call back his son,” Ryan continued, his voice stern, “otherwise you would have continued fighting. I do not blame the third prince. He had never seen you before. You had a mask on. He did not know who you were.”
Ryan’s gaze hardened.
“But you?” he said. “You very well knew he was a Northern prince. I clearly said that we cannot hurt them. And yet you ended up fighting him even before they entered our palace.”
Illaria lowered her head.
“All the people at court are talking about it, Illaria,” Ryan went on. “Even if they are slandering you, words and rumours have power. Sometimes what seems like the truth carries more weight than the actual truth. What if someone spreads rumours that we tried to harm them? That we would have killed their Emperor if you had succeeded? That kind of mistrust can destroy years of peace.”
He sighed and paused.
Illaria’s mouth remained tightly sealed. She knew her father was right. Even though the matter had been resolved, the damage had already been done.
After a moment, Ryan spoke again, his voice lower but firmer.
“Edric and Robert,” he said, “from now on, the two of you alone are responsible for everything during the Northern Royal Family’s stay.”
He then turned to Illaria.
“You will stay out of it,” he said. “You will behave like a normal princess until they return.”
“But Father, I really didn’t—” Illaria began.
“No,” Ryan said immediately. “My decision is final. You may refuse the marriage if you wish, but until they leave, you will act like a proper princess.”
His tone softened slightly, but the disappointment was clear.
“I have given you too much freedom,” he said. “You are the Southern Princess at the end of the day, yet nothing about you reflects that. Have you ever even thought about marriage? Other girls your age think of nothing else. This is my fault. I involved you too deeply in state affairs, so deeply that you never even considered your own future.”
“No, Father, I have—” Illaria tried again.
“Oh, you have?” Ryan asked. “Then tell me the name of the prince whose marriage proposal has come.”
Illaria hesitated. After a brief pause, she answered, “Prince Marcus?”
It was the only name she knew. She had been so busy all week that she had not bothered to remember the others. Had they mentioned his name in the beginning — she had forgotten. The prince she had fought earlier had introduced himself as Marcus, so it seemed like a reasonable guess.
Ryan shook his head.
“See?” he said. “You do not even know the name of the prince whose marriage is being discussed, yet you claim you have considered it. What if you say this in the main hall? There will be rumours that you are doting on Prince Marcus while your marriage with Prince Lyn is being negotiated.”
He exhaled slowly.
“That is why you will take this week to seriously think about the proposal. I do not want state matters clouding your judgment.”
“Father,” Edric interjected, “weren’t you thinking war might be their objective? How can my sister marry under such circumstances?”
“That was speculation,” Ryan replied. “Today was the perfect opportunity for them to declare war. We handed them a reason ourselves—an attempted assassination of the Northern Royal Family. Yet they did not act. They did not even demand a full investigation.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“My guard is still up, but I do not believe they intend to harm us. Their objective is something else. And regardless, your sister must marry one day.”
He glanced at Illaria.
“She fought Prince Marcus today. His brothers have also trained. Their strength will be equal to or greater than hers. How am I supposed to find a man capable of standing beside my daughter? Most spiritual users are over twenty-five. Prince Lyn is seventeen—only a year older than Illaria. She should at least consider this marriage.”
“Father,” Illaria said, “I don’t want to marry any Northern man. I—”
“No,” Ryan interrupted, “you do not want to marry any man. If it were possible, you would marry your sword.”
He turned toward the door.
“Call your maid.”
Illaria hesitated, then called for Dany. Dany entered and bowed before the Emperor.
“You have served my daughter well over the years,” Ryan said, “and I trust that you wish to see her married one day. You will help my oblivious daughter this week.”
Dany bowed deeper. “I would feel honoured to help the princess.”
Illaria suddenly had a bad feeling—and the very next moment, it came true.
“For this entire week,” Ryan said coldly, “my daughter will not look like a soldier or an assassin. She will look like a princess. Take away all her men-styled warrior clothes and dress her like a noble lady. Even when she is sleeping, I want her dressed like a lady, not a man.”
Illaria tried to interject, “Father, that is—”
“I’m not talking to you,” Ryan snapped. “The princess is not allowed to leave her room unless I or her elder brother calls for her. She will not roam the palace freely. She will stay in her room. No one is allowed to visit her, and she will not visit anyone.”
He continued without pause, “Also, take away all her weapons, medicine, and warfare books and move them—”
Illaria was now in full protest mode. She had planned to spend this week reading, but her father had just ruined that.
“Father,” she said, “why must you take away my books?”
“Because I don’t want you locked away reading them,” Ryan replied. “I want you to think about your marriage and your future. Now—give me your sword for this week.”
“No,” Illaria said immediately. “I’m not parting with Eleos. I may be a princess, but I am also a warrior. A warrior never gives up her sword.” She felt panic rise in her chest. She could give up almost anything—but not Eleos. It had been with her for as long as she could remember.
Thankfully, Edric stepped in.
“Father,” he said, “let her keep her sword. That way, if anyone dares to attack her, we can at least be assured she won’t be defenceless. Without her sword and weapons, she would be vulnerable.”
Ryan considered it for a few seconds before replying, “Fine. She may keep it. But her maid will ensure she does not train with it all day. If I find out she has been practicing, I will punish the maid.”
He turned away. “Now go back to your room. Edric and Robert, stay here. I need to discuss a few things with you.”
“Yes, Father,” all three replied.
Illaria returned to her room in low spirits. This week was going to be hell. As soon as she sat on her bed, Dany and a few handmaids entered and began removing her books and weapons. A few minutes later, more servants arrived to replace her wardrobe entirely with feminine clothing.
Illaria stared at the dresses in disbelief.
“Oh god,” she thought, “why do all of these have so many layers? How did I even manage to wear things like this when I was a child?” She chose the lightest robe she could find—a light blue one—and the maids helped her put it on. Afterward, Dany combed her hair.
Dany looked quite pleased with the result. Illaria did not. There was no belt to hang her sword from. The clothing restricted her movement. And while she liked keeping her hair open during fights, this felt different—wrong. Four to five hours passed under what felt like house arrest. Illaria was bored out of her mind.
She was standing in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection and trying to think of a way to fix this, when a handmaid entered.
“Princess,” she said, “my lord, Prince Edric, has asked you to come to his chambers when you are free.”
Illaria didn’t know why he had called for her—but she didn’t care. At least she would finally get to step out of her room.