Chapter 3: The Mask of the Fool

The morning light in Oakhaven did not break; it bruised.

It filtered through the heavy smog outside the narrow window of the North Tower, casting a sickly, gray pallor over the stone floor. Saoirse woke with a gasp, her hand flying to her throat, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

For a split second, she smelled pine needles and rain. Then the reality hit her—damp stone, stale wine, and the metallic tang of industry.

I am not home.

She sat up on the cot, pulling the scratchy wool blanket to her chin. The room was freezing. The fireplace was a gaping black maw, cold as the grave.

Across the room, the four-poster bed was empty. The heavy velvet curtains were thrown back, the sheets rumpled but cold.

Saoirse stiffened. Where is he?

A rhythmic swish-crack sound came from the far corner, behind a high-backed leather chair.

She crept off the cot, the stone floor biting into her bare feet. She peered around the chair.

Prince Tristan was there. He had stripped off his velvet coat and fine linen shirt, leaving his torso bare to the biting chill of the room. He moved through the forms of a sword dance, but he wasn't using the slender rapier from the day before. He was wielding a heavy, dull training saber.

Saoirse froze, her breath catching.

The "soft" prince was a lie written in flesh. His back was a map of scars—thin, white lines that crisscrossed his pale skin, old lash marks, and jagged punctures that spoke of violence, not luxury. His muscles were lean but roped with tension, shifting like cables under his skin as he moved.

He wasn't dancing. He was killing invisible enemies. Swish. A parry. Crack. A riposte that snapped the air. His face was a mask of terrifying focus, sweat glistening on his collarbone despite the cold.

He spun, the blade stopping an inch from Saoirse’s nose.

She didn't flinch. She was too shocked by the look in his eyes—blue fire, burning with a hatred that mirrored her own.

For a heartbeat, the mask was down. She saw the Viper.

Then, he blinked. The rage vanished, replaced instantly by a lazy, heavy-lidded boredom. He lowered the sword and ran a hand through his damp black hair.

"You sneak like a cat, little mouse," he drawled, his chest heaving slightly. "It’s a bad habit. Startling a man with a sword usually ends in fewer limbs."

Saoirse stared at the scar running down his left bicep. She pointed to it, then to her own mouth, feigning a question.

Tristan glanced at the scar. "A lesson from my brother Liam. I was ten. He thought I needed to learn how to take a hit." He shrugged, tossing the training saber onto the bed. "I learned to dodge instead. Much more effective."

He walked over to the washbasin, splashing freezing water over his face and chest. The water ran down the grooves of his spine.

"Coffee," he ordered, his voice muffled by the towel. "There’s a pot by the fire. It’s likely cold. Heat it up. And find my boots. We have an audience with the court, and I can't look like a beggar. That’s your job now."

Saoirse’s hands curled into fists. Servant.

She walked to the fireplace. There was a copper pot on the cold grate. A small pile of kindling sat nearby.

She knelt, arranging the wood with stiff, angry movements. She struck the flint, sparking a small flame. As the fire took, she stared into the orange heart of it.

I could burn this whole tower down, she thought. I could call the fire from this hearth and wrap it around his throat.

She looked back at Tristan. He was pulling on a fresh shirt, his back to her.

"Don't even think about it," he said, not turning around.

Saoirse froze.

"I can hear your teeth grinding from here," he said, buttoning his cuffs. "You’re angry. Good. Anger keeps you warm. But if you try to burn me, or this tower, the Imperial Guards will have you drawn and quartered before you can snap your fingers. And then your secrets die with you."

Saoirse lowered her head, blowing gently on the flames. He was right. She needed access. She needed information. And this arrogant, scarred prince was her only ticket out of this room.

She heated the coffee—a thick, sludge-like brew that smelled of burnt beans. When she poured it into a porcelain cup, she "accidentally" let the grounds spill over the rim. She slammed the cup down on the desk with a little too much force, sloshing the black liquid onto his papers.

Tristan turned, eyeing the mess. He looked at the coffee, then at her.

Saoirse widened her eyes, feigning innocence. She gave a small, clumsy curtsy.

Tristan’s lip twitched. A smile? No, a grimace.

"Charming," he muttered. "Clumsy and incompetent. You’re playing the role perfectly."

He picked up the cup, ignoring the spill, and took a sip. He didn't wince at the bitterness.

"Get dressed," he said, gesturing to a pile of clothes on the floor. "I had the steward send up something less… offensive. You look like a potato sack."

Saoirse grabbed the clothes and retreated behind the changing screen. The garments were a step up from the scullery tunic, but barely. A gray wool dress, stiff and shapeless, and a white apron. A servant’s uniform.

As she changed, she felt the weight of her disguise. The dye in her hair made her scalp itch. The dirt she had rubbed into her skin made her feel grimy. She was the Princess of the Silver Branch, and she was putting on the livery of her destroyers.

When she emerged, Tristan was sitting on the edge of the desk, polishing a silver hairpin with a cloth.

He stopped when he saw her. His gaze raked over her, critical and cold.

"Better," he decided. "You look sufficiently invisible."

He held up the hairpin. It was long, delicate, and tipped with a sharp point.

"Come here," he commanded.

Saoirse hesitated.

"I said, come here."

She walked toward him, stopping arm's length away.

"Closer."

She stepped between his knees. The scent of him—clove soap and the underlying metallic tang of his sword oil—filled her nose. He was taller than her even while sitting.

"Your hair is a disaster," he murmured. "If you’re going to be my personal servant, you can't look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge. It reflects poorly on me."

He reached out. Saoirse flinched, her hand instinctively going to the dagger she didn't have.

Tristan paused, his hand hovering near her face. "Easy, mouse. I’m not Liam."

He gathered her messy, chopped-off hair, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of her nape. His touch was shockingly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence she knew he was capable of. He twisted the strands up, exposing her neck.

"This is a viper’s nest," he whispered, his voice dropping so low it was a vibration against her skin. "Everyone here has fangs. My father eats souls. Liam breaks bones. Rowan… Rowan collects secrets."

He slid the hairpin into the knot of hair. He didn't pull his hand away. His fingers lingered on her neck, resting over her pulse.

"This pin," he said, his eyes locking onto hers, "is silver-steel. It’s sharp enough to punch through leather armor. Sharp enough to pierce a windpipe."

Saoirse’s breath hitched. She stared at him, confused. Why are you telling me this?

"Use it," Tristan whispered. "If anyone tries to touch you. If anyone corners you. Use it."

He leaned in, his blue eyes darkening.

"Use it on anyone. Even me."

The tension in the room spiked, thick and suffocating. It wasn't the tension of enemies. It was something else—recognition. He was arming her. He was giving the mouse a tooth.

Saoirse stared at him, her heart pounding. For a second, she wanted to ask why. But she couldn't speak. So she just nodded, a microscopic movement.

Tristan pulled back instantly, the moment shattering. He hopped off the desk, his face settling back into the mask of the bored, arrogant prince.

"Right then," he clapped his hands. "Let’s go face the wolves. Try not to trip over your own feet."

The corridors of the Palace of Oakhaven were a sensory assault.

Unlike the silent, airy halls of Aethelgard, these hallways hummed. Pipes ran along the vaulted ceilings, hissing steam. The walls were black obsidian, veined with gold that seemed to pulse with a sick light.

Tristan walked with a rolling, careless stride, one hand resting on the hilt of his rapier. Saoirse followed two steps behind, head down, hands clasped in her apron.

She kept her eyes on his boots, but her ears were straining.

"Look, it’s the Stray."

"Smells like cheap wine."

"Did you hear? He brought a mute girl back. Probably the only woman who can stand his whining."

The whispers followed them like a wake. Courtiers in structured silk and velvet turned to sneer as Tristan passed. They were beautiful, sharp-featured people who looked like predatory birds.

Tristan didn't seem to notice. He hummed a bawdy tavern song under his breath, occasionally stopping to adjust his cravat in a reflective surface.

He plays the fool well, Saoirse thought, disgust curling in her stomach. He lets them mock him. He has no pride.

But then she saw it.

A young squire, laughing with a group of friends, "accidentally" bumped into Tristan, sending the Prince stumbling.

"Watch it, Highness," the squire laughed, not bothering to apologize.

Tristan stumbled, flailing his arms comically. "My apologies! My feet are still drunk from the victory celebrations!"

The group roared with laughter.

But Saoirse, watching from behind, saw Tristan’s right hand twitch toward his hip. His fingers drummed a rhythmic code against his thigh. One, two, three.

He wasn't clumsy. He had used the stumble to check the squire’s belt pouch. And as Tristan straightened up, grinning like an idiot, Saoirse saw the glint of a stolen signet ring vanish into his sleeve.

He hadn't been bumped. He had been casing them.

Saoirse’s evaluation of him shifted. He isn't weak. He is dangerous because they think he is weak.

They reached the heavy double doors of the Strategy Room. Two guards in steam-powered armor crossed their halberds.

"Prince Tristan," one grunted. "The War Council is in session. Only essential personnel."

"I am a Prince of the blood," Tristan said, puffing out his chest. "I am essential."

"The Crown Prince said 'no useless interruptions'," the guard replied, smirking.

Tristan deflated, letting his shoulders slump. "Ah. Well. Liam always was a stickler. I suppose I’ll just go... inspect the wine cellar."

He turned to leave, grabbing Saoirse’s arm. But as they turned, the doors swung open.

Rowan, the Second Prince, stood there.

He was blinding. His armor was polished gold, his hair a halo of blond perfection. He was everything Tristan was not: commanding, respected, radiant.

"Let him in," Rowan said, his voice smooth as silk. "Father is asking about the Northern supply lines. Tristan was in charge of the wagons, wasn't he?"

"I… I was," Tristan stammered, shrinking back. "But I lost the manifest. It must have fallen into the mud."

Rowan smiled. It was a reptile’s smile. "Come inside, brother. Bring your pet."

He looked at Saoirse.

Saoirse felt the blood drain from her face. Rowan’s gaze was dissecting. He didn't look at her dress; he looked at her posture.

Tristan’s grip on her arm tightened. Painfully. Warning.

"Come along, Seir," Tristan muttered. "Don't drool on the carpet."

They entered the room.

It was a cavernous space dominated by a massive table. A holographic map of the continent shimmered in the center—magic stolen from her people, twisted into technology.

King Alaric sat at the head. Liam stood by the map, moving tokens that represented armies.

"The Dragon Kingdom is crushed," Liam was saying, slamming a fist onto the table. "But the rebels in the Iron Mountains are gathering. We need the new energy source to power the Dreadnoughts."

"The prisoner," the King rasped. His voice sounded like dry leaves sliding over stone. "Have we begun extraction?"

Saoirse’s heart stopped. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Helena.

Liam laughed, a sound like grinding rocks. "The Inquisitors took her to the Lower Cells an hour ago. They’re starting with the flaying knives. We need to see how fast her scales regenerate. We’ll drain her dry by dawn."

Saoirse’s vision tunneled.

Flaying knives. They were peeling the skin from Helena’s bones. They were bleeding her like livestock.

A wave of pure, white-hot rage crashed over Saoirse. It wasn't a choice; it was a reflex. The magic in her blood, connected to the suffering of her kin, lashed out.

The temperature in the room plummeted. The shadows in the corners lengthened, stretching toward the table like claws. The holographic map flickered violently, the blue light turning a sickly, radioactive violet.

Tristan froze. He felt it—the static charge radiating off the girl beside him.

He glanced at her. Her hands were clenched so tight her knuckles were white. Her eyes were fixed on the map, burning with a hatred that was palpable.

You fool, Tristan thought, panic spiking in his chest. You’re going to get us both killed.

He didn't know why she cared. A Dragon loyalist? A spy with a conscience? It didn't matter. If Rowan saw that violet light, the game was over.

Tristan stepped in front of her, blocking her from the King’s view.

"Flaying?" Tristan asked loudly, his voice cracking. "Sounds messy. I hope you aren't planning to invite her to dinner afterward. I lose my appetite when there’s blood on the table."

"Shut up, you coward," Liam snapped.

"I’m just saying!" Tristan threw his hands up, knocking over a goblet of wine on the side table. "Red wine looks too much like blood! Can we get some white?"

The distraction worked—barely. The King looked at Tristan with utter contempt. The flickering map stabilized as Saoirse’s concentration broke, the sudden noise snapping her out of the trance. The violet hue faded back to blue.

"You are a stain on this family," the King muttered. "Why did I let you in here?"

"Rowan invited me!" Tristan pointed an accusing finger at his brother.

Rowan didn't look at the King. He looked at Tristan. And then, he looked past Tristan, directly at Saoirse.

His eyes narrowed. He walked slowly toward them.

"You are trembling, girl," Rowan said softly to Saoirse.

Saoirse looked down, clutching her apron. She was trembling with the effort to not incinerate the room.

Rowan reached out and lifted a lock of her muddy brown hair.

"Strange," Rowan mused. "The air feels... charged around you. Like a storm coming."

Tristan’s heart hammered against his ribs. Rowan was too smart. He was sensing the residue of the magic.

Tristan let out a loud, wet sneeze.

He sprayed saliva right onto Rowan’s golden breastplate.

Rowan recoiled in disgust, releasing Saoirse’s hair as if he’d been burned. "You filthy animal!"

"Dust!" Tristan wheezed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "It’s so dusty in here! Don't you ever clean?"

"Get out!" Liam roared. "Get out before I kill you myself!"

"Going! Going!" Tristan grabbed Saoirse and practically ran for the door. "Terrible ventilation! I’ll write a complaint!"

They scrambled into the hallway, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them.

Tristan didn't stop. He dragged her down the corridor, around a corner, and into a deserted alcove.

He slammed her against the wall.

This time, there was no humor in his face. He was pale, his eyes wide with adrenaline.

"Are you insane?" he hissed, his voice shaking. "You almost blew the map! I saw it turn purple! I felt the temperature drop!"

Saoirse glared at him, her chest heaving. She felt exposed, raw.

"You have magic," Tristan whispered, the realization solidifying. "Real magic. Not the scrapings my father steals."

He leaned in, pinning her wrists to the stone. "Who are you? A mage? A priestess?"

Saoirse didn't answer. She couldn't.

Tristan shook his head, looking at her with a mixture of awe and fury. "You have a bleeding heart for the enemy, is that it? You heard them talk about the prisoner and you lost control."

He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Listen to me," he snarled. "I don't care if you sympathize with the dragons. I don't care if you worship them. But if you embrace that fire in front of my father again, you won't just die. They will hook you up to a machine next to that prisoner and drain you until you are a husk."

Saoirse looked at the slime on his sleeve where he had faked the sneeze. He had humiliated himself—spat on his own brother—to break Rowan’s focus. To save her.

She stopped struggling. She looked at him. Really looked at him.

He didn't know who she was. He thought she was just a sympathizer, a random variable with power. But he had protected her anyway.

She reached up and touched the hairpin in her hair.

The Lower Cells, she thought. That’s where she is.

She nodded at Tristan. I understand.

Tristan exhaled, slumping against the opposite wall. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the snot from his sleeve, looking disgusted.

"I hate this family," he muttered. "And I really need a drink."

He looked at her, and a wry, crooked smile touched his lips.

"You owe me a new shirt, mouse. And a bottle of wine."

Saoirse didn't smile back. But she didn't glare, either. She stepped away from the wall and smoothed her apron.

She pointed down the hall, then made a drinking motion.

Tristan huffed a laugh. "Yes. To the wine cellar. Lead the way, servant. Try not to blow anything up on the way there."

As she walked past him, Saoirse felt the ghost of a touch on her arm. She glanced back. Tristan was watching her back, his hand hovering near his sword, his eyes calculating.

He still didn't trust her. He still thought she was a spy.

But they were walking into the dark together. And for the first time since the fall of her kingdom, Saoirse didn't feel entirely alone.

She felt… armed.

She touched the pin again.

Sharp enough to kill.

"Yes," she thought. "It will be."