The War Room

Archer’s Journal

Day 2,412. She carries a broadsword concealed under a ceremonial ballgown. Most nobles would call it madness; I call it brilliant.

Adalia is an enigma—a princess who bristles at velvet and looks at a royal court as if it were a battleground waiting to break out. As our fathers retreat to the war council to discuss the rising rebel threat, I find myself far less concerned with the politics of our alliance and far more consumed by the woman who refuses to yield to it.

Outside the private chamber, Archer leaned against the stone wall, waiting patiently while Adalia adjusted her concealed weapon.

When she stepped back into the corridor, her sword was bound tightly against her ribs—tighter even than her corset. Archer was staring absentmindedly down the hall, lost in thought.

“She is remarkable,” Archer muttered under his breath, unaware he had spoken aloud.

Adalia paused, raising an eyebrow. “Who is?”

Archer turned, his expression instantly smoothing into a composed, neutral mask. “You are. Shall we rejoin the court?”

Adalia blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt shift in his tone. He had delivered the compliment with absolute honesty, yet his demeanor remained completely guarded. Picking up her heavy skirts, she followed him back into the grand reception hall.

Inside, the family dynamics were already taking shape. Novia had managed to corner Prince Randi near the tall glass windows, engaged in hushed, animated banter, while the younger children played together on the embroidered carpets.

Before Adalia could cross the room, King Lionell and King Gabrielle exchanged a grave look. With a brief gesture, they signaled for Archer, Doran, and General Conan to follow them toward the inner sanctuary. The war council was convening.

While the queens gathered near the nursery cribs, Adalia kept her eyes fixed on the retreating backs of the six men. She had no interest in cooing over infants; her mind belonged on the map tables.

Slipping away under the pretense of taking a stroll near the high terrace windows, Adalia quietly trailed the delegation down the quiet corridor and pressed her back against the cracked oak door of the strategy room.

“We must strike first,” General Conan’s deep voice bellowed from inside. “An immediate offensive force will crush their momentum before they reach the border!”

“No,” King Gabrielle countered calmly. “A premature strike will only unite the fractured rebel factions against us.”

“I agree with King Gabrielle,” Lionell chimed in.

“Why not pursue a diplomatic avenue first?” Archer’s clear voice cut through the debate. “We send a vanguard to scout their forward encampments, determine their true numbers, and act accordingly.”

Adalia raised her eyebrows in quiet approval. Tactical patience. The prince possessed sharp military instincts.

“Don’t linger at the threshold, Adalia,” her father’s voice suddenly called out from inside. “Come in properly.”

Adalia flushed, pushing the heavy oak door open. Lionell and Doran looked up in surprise, while her father merely shook his head, his eyes remaining fixed on the border maps spread across the central table.

“We need to secure the forest pass,” Gabrielle continued, drawing a heavy charcoal line across the terrain map. “The rebels won't risk a direct assault through the open plains.”

“I’ll command the forward line,” Conan offered.

“I’ll take the secondary flank,” Adalia said immediately, stepping up to the table and pulling her dark hair back into a tight knot.

“No,” Gabrielle said firmly.

“Father—”

“Your Highness,” Adalia corrected herself instantly, squaring her shoulders. “I am fully trained, and my combat record matches any officer in this room.”

“Which is precisely why you will take command of the interior palace guards,” Gabrielle replied smoothly. “Randi will command the secondary platoon outside the walls. Conan and I will take the front.”

King Lionell let out a dry chuckle, looking at Adalia with an amused smile. “Unlike your daughter, Gabrielle, my Novia isn't quite so eager to strap on full plate armor.”

Gabrielle reached out, playfully loosening the knot in Adalia’s hair so it fell naturally over her shoulders. “A trait I contend with daily.”

Before Adalia could argue further, the heavy doors burst open. A bloodied Northern scout stumbled into the room, gripping the hilt of a notched sword.

“Your Majesties!” the scout panted, his voice tight with panic. “The perimeter has been breached! Rebel vanguard units have bypassed the outer watchtowers—they are inside the palace grounds!”