The day they choose is colder than I expected.
A thin, pale light lies over Iris, the kind that makes everything look sharper. The garden's colors are muted, the fountains quieter. Even the birds seem to be watching instead of singing.
Fitting, I suppose.
It feels like the whole kingdom is holding its breath.
"Again," Captain Joren says, pointing to the map spread across the war room table. "Route."
I've seen this map so many times in the last two days that the ink might as well be burned into my retinas: the palace, the side streets, the west gate, the market square, the cracked stone fountain in the center.
"Our carriage exits here," I recite, tapping the small gate near the old stables. "We take the upper lane, not the main road, to avoid bottlenecks. We disembark one street before the square, not directly at the gate, so the crowd doesn't see us appear like conjurers."
"Correct," Joren says. "And the guard formations?"
"Outer ring," Axel answers before I can. He stands on the other side of the table, arms folded, eyes focused. "Plainclothes in the crowd. No formal uniforms. Archers here, here, and here." He taps three rooftops surrounding the market. "Hidden, but with clear lines of sight to the fountain."
"And the mages?" my mother asks.
"Integrated," Joren says. "Two posing as vendors near the fountain, one with the healers near the alley mouth, one on the gatehouse. Enough to raise shields if someone throws something more exciting than a tomato."
"What about inside the palace?" Darius presses. "If this is a distraction—"
"Then we'll handle it," Lucia says coolly. "We are not emptying our own halls every time some child paints a symbol on a wall."
Her gaze flicks to me.
"Continue," she orders.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
"Immediate perimeter," I say. "Two visible guards at the base of the fountain. They're our 'show' protection. Everyone else blends. Street musicians, market-folk, regular watch."
"And the escape routes?" Adam asks from his lazy sprawl by the window. He's not actually lazy. I've learned his lounging is just another way of conserving energy until he needs to move like a blade.
"We don't call them 'escape routes' in front of the nobles," I tell him. "We call them 'alternate exits.' It sounds less like we're expecting to be murdered."
He grins.
"Alternate exits, then?" he prompts.
I trace three thin lines from the fountain.
"Alley to the east," I say. "Narrow, but direct line to the upper streets and the small gate. The west path behind the stalls, winding but covered—good if things turn ugly slowly instead of all at once. And the gatehouse itself. If the worst happens."
"The absolute worst," Joren says flatly, "is that we don't get you back inside at all."
My stomach flips.
Axel's jaw tightens.
"Then don't let that be an option," he says.
Joren inclines his head.
"I'm not in the habit of losing my principals, Your Highness," he says. "I'd prefer not to start now."
Lucia leans back in her chair, steepling her fingers.
"You have all accounted for assassins," she says. "Bombs. Arrows. Knives. Good." Her dark eyes pin me. "What you have not accounted for, Princess, is words."
I meet her gaze.
"I have a mouth," I say evenly. "I plan to use it."
"Do not be clever," she snaps. "They will shout things at you. Ugly things. They will try to make you flinch. To force you to choose loyalty on the spot—Darkstorm or Iris. If you hesitate—"
"Then I'll remember what you told me," I cut in. "That queens move in every direction. I don't need to choose one crown in a square. I need to choose both of them."
Her expression doesn't soften.
But something in her gaze shifts.
"See that you do," she says.
My father clears his throat.
"If this is to be done," he says, "we do it before gossip has more time to twist it. The market is busier by late morning. Less drunk than late afternoon."
"In other words," Adam says, "if they decide to riot, they'll do it on an empty stomach instead of a bottle."
"Charming," my mother mutters.
"We leave in one hour," Darius decides, voice brooking no argument. "Short, sharp. In and out. No wandering. No detours."
His gaze lands on me.
"Understood?" he asks.
"Understood," I lie.
Because we all know there is no such thing as a simple in and out where my life is concerned.
Olivia bursts into my chambers with ten minutes left on the hour, cheeks flushed, curls half-escaped from their pins.
"You're late," I say.
"So are you," she retorts, eyeing me. "You're not even dressed."
"I am dressed," I say, gesturing vaguely at the simple gown laid out on the bed. "I just haven't decided which version of myself I want to throw to the wolves today."
We stare at the options.
On one side: a dark red gown, like the one from the very beginning. Darkstorm colors. Power. Blood.
On the other: a softer, pale gold dress, all Iris sunrise and light.
"This one," Olivia says, stabbing a finger toward the gold.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because they expect Darkstorm to have swallowed you whole by now," she says. "Let them see otherwise."
"Lady Mirelle said the same thing," I mutter, picking up the dress. "That's twice in one day I've agreed with people I don't trust. Perhaps this truly is the end times."
Olivia snorts.
As she laces me into the gown, her fingers tremble slightly.
"You don't have to come," I say quietly.
"I know," she says. "I'm coming anyway."
"You stay in the back," I remind her. "With the crowd. Charm ready. Mouth shut."
"Two out of three," she mutters.
"Olivia," I warn.
She ties the last ribbon and steps in front of me, hands on my shoulders.
"Rome," she says seriously. "If anyone in that market so much as breathes wrong at you, I will hex their grandchildren."
A laugh chokes out of me.
"That's very aggressive," I say.
"I am very aggressive," she replies.
My tiara goes on last.
I consider the Darkstorm crown. Reject it.
The blood-red gems of Iris feel right today—sharp and bright and unwilling to hide.
When we're done, I barely recognize myself again.
Not the overdressed queen from the wedding.
Not the disguised market girl.
Something in between.
Something that might actually be me.
"Ready?" Olivia asks.
"No," I say. "Let's go."
The courtyard outside the side gate is a storm in slow motion.
Guards in simple clothes move with purposeful casualness, adjusting cloaks, checking hidden blades. A handful of carriages stand ready, less ornate than the royal coaches used for ceremony, but solid, well-sprung. The air smells like leather and steel and the faint tang of magic from the charms tucked into belts and sleeves.
Adam is already mounted on a horse near the gate, dark hair tied back, expression grim.
"You're late," he calls as I descend the steps.
"That seems to be a theme today," I say.
He looks me up and down, taking in the gold dress, the Iris tiara, the stubborn set of my jaw.
"You look terrifying," he declares proudly. "Excellent."
"Is that your way of saying you're worried?" I ask.
"It's my way of saying if anyone throws rotten vegetables at you, I will personally make them eat their own boots," he replies.
Comforting.
Axel appears from the other side of the courtyard, already in his chosen outfit: Darkstorm black, but pared down. No heavy embroidery. No cloak. Simple, functional. A prince dressed like a man prepared to move quickly rather than sit for portraits.
He stops when he sees me.
Something like a breath leaves him.
"You chose Iris," he says.
"Iris chose me," I reply, lifting my chin. "Besides, if I faint in public again, I'd rather not do it in your funeral colors."
He huffs a laugh.
Our parents wait near the carriage.
My mother's hand is clenched around a folded handkerchief; my father's jaw is tight. They look like they're trying very hard not to sprint over and wrap me in triple layers of guards.
Lucia stands slightly apart, her gown as dark as ever, expression unreadable. Darius is at her side, a furrow between his brows.
"Last chance to change your minds," my father says as we approach.
"Is it?" I ask.
He sighs.
"No," he admits.
My mother steps forward and cups my face.
"Remember who you are," she murmurs. "When they shout. When they stare. When they try to make you choose. Remember you were a girl before you were a crown. She is allowed to be afraid."
"I am afraid," I say softly.
"Good," she says. "Only fools aren't."
Lucia's gaze flicks between us, something like envy—no, not envy. Loneliness—glimpsed for a heartbeat before it hardens again.
She turns to Axel.
"Do not die," she says briskly. "It would waste an unforgivable amount of training."
He smiles, faint and real.
"Yes, Mother," he says.
"And you," she adds, fixing me with that dark, assessing stare, "do not hand them your throat. Offer them your words. Your eyes. Your presence. But not your throat."
"I thought you liked risks," I say.
"I like risks I have chosen," she replies. "You are not one of them. Yet."
Yet.
I don't know if that's a threat, a warning, or a promise.
Maybe all three.
Darius steps forward and rests a hand briefly on both our shoulders.
"Make it quick," he says. "Make it clear. And when you come back, we will listen to what you heard."
Not if.
When.
I cling to that word like a rope over a chasm.
The carriage we take is plain, painted a deep, respectable brown instead of royal blue or black. From the outside, we are just another noble couple going to inspect something or other. Nothing to see here.
Inside, it feels like a moving box of nerves.
Axel sits opposite me, forearms braced on his knees, fingers loosely linked. Between us, on the bench, lie three things: one of Olivia's metal charms, a folded scrap of parchment with the market layout sketched on it, and a plain dagger.
"Just in case," Adam had said, pressing it into my hand before I climbed in. "For comfort."
The weight of it in my skirt pocket is oddly soothing.
"You're quiet," Axel says as the carriage jolts into motion.
"I'm trying not to vomit," I reply.
He nods, as if that's reasonable.
"Lesson fourteen," he murmurs. "If you're going to be sick, aim away from your political allies."
A startled laugh escapes me.
"Noted," I say.
The palace recedes behind us.
We take side streets at first, the ones I rarely see from a carriage window. Narrower lanes lined with smaller houses, laundry strung between windows, children playing in patches of weak sunlight. People glance up as we pass, eyes flicking over the plain coach, the plain livery.
No fanfare.
No trumpets.
Good.
As we roll closer to the west gate, the sounds thicken.
Vendors calling.
Wheels over cobblestone.
The constant buzz of voices.
Axel glances at the parchment one last time, then folds it and tucks it into his coat.
"Last rehearsal," he says.
"For what?" I ask.
"For not letting them write our words for us," he replies. "What are you going to say?"
I exhale slowly.
"I don't know," I admit. "I thought I'd start with 'hello' and work my way up from there."
"Terrifying," he says. "Spontaneity."
"You?" I counter.
He considers.
"'I am not my mother,'" he says. "Probably not out loud. But that's what they're listening for."
He's right.
They are.
"I'll say my name," I decide suddenly. "First. Before any of the titles.
I am Rome of Iris.
Not 'Princess of Iris.' Not 'future queen of the Unified Realms.' Just…me."
"Then I'll follow," he says. "Axel of Darkstorm. Not 'your prince and future king.' Not 'storm in a silk coat.' Just a man stupid enough to stand next to a spark."
"I thought I was the stupid one," I say.
"Oh, we're both idiots," he replies. "That's what makes this fair."
The carriage slows.
"Almost there," the driver calls softly through the small window.
My heart slams against my ribs.
Axel reaches down and picks up the charm.
"Olivia will kill us if we forget this," he says, dropping it into my palm.
I curl my fingers around the cool metal.
"Lesson fifteen," he says quietly. "If everything goes wrong, you hold onto my hand and snap that thing as hard as you can. Do not be noble. Do not try to save everyone. Save yourself."
"I thought we were supposed to be rulers," I say. "Isn't that the opposite?"
"We can't rule if we're dead," he replies. "And I am selfish enough to want more than one day of this with you."
The words steal my breath.
Before I can find an answer, the carriage rocks to a stop.
Voices swell outside.
We share a long look.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No," I say.
He smiles.
"Perfect," he murmurs. "We match."
The door swings open.
Light pours in.
We step out into it together.