Her first awareness was the scent of flowers—distinctive and somehow familiar, yet with so little of her consciousness stirred, she couldn't identify the bloom. Something felt off-kilter; while her sense of smell functioned perfectly, the rest of her senses appeared to have abandoned their posts.

  (Perhaps I'm lying in bed, she thought, carefully assembling her scattered thoughts. Or trapped in a dream. I must wake up, quickly. I despise dreaming, loathe that sensation of being controlled. Wake up. Open your eyes. Wake—)

  Her eyelids parted to reveal a broad stone vault overhead, weathered by countless seasons into tired antiquity. She was indeed lying in a bed—a remarkably comfortable one—with an exquisite fox-fur blanket draped across her body. Turning her head, she caught the sun's dying embers bathing a balcony crowded with potted plants; the light trembled delicately across orchids just beginning to unfurl.

  (Ah, orchids, she thought with a wry smile. Those distinctive broad petals—unique to Ellytra.)

  A subtle sound drew her attention to the other side, to her left. A knight without helmet, possessing fine-boned features, dozed in a nearby chair. (A woman, she realized. A female knight—and quite beautiful.) She studied the sleeper's face: pale brown strands falling across her cheek, her head gently bobbing like a fishing float on calm water. A short, soft laugh escaped her lips, and the sleeping knight murmured something in reply.

  Irene noticed the woman's hand resting near her thigh and moved to lift it away. The Monster Slayer's touch was deliberate and feather-light, fearing she might disturb Blancheless Liwendell's slumber. As skin met skin, an unexpected spark seemed to jump between them; Irene shivered involuntarily while the other woman continued sleeping peacefully. (Deeply asleep, indeed.) She hesitated, concerned that moving the hand might rouse her. Then a question rose unbidden: (Why am I afraid of waking her?)

  She found no satisfactory answer. She could have simply removed the hand and asked about their location—about all the circumstances she didn't yet comprehend. Yet she didn't. Some part of her wished not to disturb the knight's rest, to continue studying that serene face, even to maintain that brief physical connection.

  (Seven hells, she thought with dismay.) She clenched her teeth. (Have I gone so long without a man that I'm starting to...?) She cut the thought off with a vicious mental shake. (Don't be a fool, Irene. You've never even had a man... What about the slayers at the fortress? No. That wasn't the same. That doesn't count.)

  The piercing pain that had earlier gripped her lower abdomen had subsided, replaced by a persistent heaviness. Apart from Blancheless, the room stood empty of people, its furnishings sparse to the point of austerity. Finally having both time and strength, Irene surveyed her surroundings: a moderately sized wooden bed, an almost insultingly small bedside table, Blancheless's chair, a chandelier bereft of candles, and facing the bed, an ancient wardrobe—atop which lay several withered hyacinths arranged horizontally. Each element bore the unmistakable mark of long neglect—or perhaps hasty preparation with no attention to detail.

  With little else to do, her gaze returned to the armored woman beside her. She traced the lines of the knight's profile, from the fall of her hair to the curve of her jaw. (Beautiful, she admitted to herself. And yet... there's a familiarity to her... Something about her feels like coming home.)

  "I didn't expect you two would become so well-acquainted so quickly."

  Irene had been so absorbed in her contemplation that she'd failed to notice the door opening. A woman of balanced proportions entered, dressed in a flowing silver-white gown with an emerald pendant gracing her throat. Irene found herself transfixed by the visitor's silver hair—lustrous as a Faman Elf's tresses, capturing the sunset's glow with ethereal brilliance. Looking closer, she noticed the delicate coronet resting upon the woman's brow. Recognition dawned immediately. Irene's lips parted, but produced no coherent sound. (The stories did not do her justice. She is far more beautiful, more regal, than they ever said.)

  "Have you taken a liking to each other?" Claire Grace gestured toward Irene and Blancheless with an elegant finger. "At first, I thought the two of you looked alike. Like sisters, perhaps. But now," she let out a quiet, knowing laugh, "you look more like a pair of lovers."

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  "Your... Your Majesty..." Irene had intended to speak quietly to avoid disturbing the knight, but her words emerged as barely more than shaped breath and fragmented syllables.

  "Feel free to remove her hand, my lady. She won't awaken, I assure you." The queen's smile was knowing. "Nothing short of a thunderstorm could rouse this one from deep slumber."

  The Monster Slayer complied, gently placing Blancheless's left hand beside the bed. "Let her rest properly. The poor girl has scarcely slept since yesterday," the queen added, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur.

  "Of course, Your Majesty," Irene responded, rising from the bed to perform a court curtsy—only to feel a sharp twinge pierce her lower abdomen.

  "Please, no formalities, my lady. Your condition remains fragile." Despite this admonition, Irene completed the gesture regardless.

  "..." The queen fell silent momentarily; her expression grew suddenly serious. "Would you mind repeating that curtsy?"

  (Gods, I've made a mistake. I've done the curtsy wrong...) Irene's heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic rhythm of fear and shame. (After all these years without practice.) She swallowed nervously, gathered her skirts with practiced hands, and executed the most flawless curtsy her memory could summon. (Wait—!) She nearly exclaimed aloud. (When did I change into a dress?!)

  The queen studied her intently as Irene maintained the position; the Monster Slayer met her penetrating gaze steadily. "Your Majesty..." Irene ventured cautiously. "Have I committed some error in my curtsy?"

  "...No." Claire's head moved almost imperceptibly. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with it—in fact, it is executed with remarkable precision." Irene released a careful breath. "But that very perfection constitutes the problem."

  Irene failed to comprehend the queen's meaning and found herself without response. She maintained her grip on the skirt, attempting to project innocence. "Common women kneel before their sovereign. The curtsy is reserved exclusively for noblewomen—or ladies serving at court."

  She waited expectantly for the Monster Slayer's explanation. "I have spent time in royal residences," Irene eventually offered, uncertain of her ability to deceive convincingly. "I've performed services for various lords."

  "Have you indeed?" The queen appeared distinctly unconvinced. "In which realm did these lords require your services?"

  "Ellytra," Irene answered without hesitation. This was partially truthful; she had recently retrieved a count's missing son in that kingdom.

  "I see." The queen nodded with a satisfied smile. "Then deception clearly does not suit your nature." The tentative smile that had begun forming on Irene's face vanished instantly.

  "The way you do it—the fists clenched as you lift your skirts, the shallow bend of the knees, the way you hold the position for a moment longer. That is, without a doubt, the court curtsy of the Kingdom of Duviliel. To be entirely precise, it represents Cynthia's traditional curtsy—the formal greeting observed before Cynthia and Duviliel separated. Contemporary Cynthian court practice remains nearly identical, except the position is held for a briefer duration."

  Irene maintained her silence.

  "You offer no explanation?" The queen elevated her chin slightly, regarding Irene with regal assessment. "No account of how a Monster Slayer comes to possess a noblewoman's courtly manners—and executes them with such flawless precision? I daresay most of our current noble daughters would struggle to match your performance."

  The silence stretched between them.

  "Finding no plausible excuse, you choose silence as your refuge?" Irene acknowledged this with a simple nod.

  Claire Grace attempted to conceal her amusement behind her hand, but a laugh escaped nonetheless. Blancheless responded with a soft, sleep-laden murmur. "You truly are remarkably similar."

  Irene glanced up with curiosity. "In what manner?"

  "You Monster Slayers—as alike as siblings. Rigid, expressionless, reluctant to speak freely." Her lips curved into a genuine smile. "When I was a girl, my father hired a slayer to clear out some harpy nests on Kulen Mountain. During his residence at court, I bombarded him with questions spanning every conceivable subject—from celestial bodies to geological formations. There were numerous matters beyond his knowledge, yet pride or perhaps shyness prevented him from admitting his ignorance. He would simply remain silent, without even the courtesy of acknowledgment. When I finally asked if he was silent because he simply didn't know the answers, he gave a single, solemn nod. Exactly as you just did."

  Irene felt warmth creeping up her neck.

  "Nevertheless," the queen continued, "I perceive something else in your character—a fundamental sincerity that I value above most qualities. You need not maintain such formality in my presence."