CHAPTER 477: THE DAUGHTER OF A PRINCESS

While nobles bargained and envoys postured in the gilded Hall of Commerce, the palace training fields throbbed with a different kind of tension. Steel clashed, boots struck dust, and the scent of sweat hung heavy in the evening air.

Netser Rimim had long since completed the punishment drills set by Captain Cobar, yet his arms still trembled as though the weight of that man’s commands had lodged in his bones. His body moved through the motions of training—thrust, parry, strike, recover—but his mind was elsewhere.

Her face.

Every push-up, every strike of the practice sword blurred into memory. He remembered the last night he saw her, years ago, standing on the balcony of her father’s estate, the moonlight catching the silver thread in her gown.

She had spoken softly, words carried more by the night wind than by courage: "I will not be traded like cattle. Not even for a crown." And then, before dawn, she was gone.

She vanished into thin air.

He had been there that night, meant only to accompany his father in discussions of salt trade with Duke Kassius. He had watched her grow over the years, glimpsed her in gardens, caught her at practice grounds, heard her laughter echo in drawing rooms.

Then one day, on another of their visits, came the whisper that she was to be married off to the third prince of Westalis as his fourth wife, a man who collected women like trinkets.

But she was stubborn. She told her father that it was okay, even if it was an arranged marriage, but she did not want to share her husband with another, and so she chose to disappear.

The kingdom had scoured roads, ports, nunnery—any place she might have fled. But no one found her. Rumors grew, as rumors always did: she had been abducted by mercenaries; she had drowned in the sea; she had joined a hidden order beyond the mountains. With time, even her family stopped speaking her name aloud.

But Netser had not forgotten. He couldn’t. She had been more than a partner’s daughter, more than noble blood. She had been fire—rebellious, defiant and untamed—and he had admired her for that.

And now... he had seen her again. Or had he? Was he mistaken?

He remembered the trailing edge of her skirt, the faint turn of her head, the shape of her eyes beneath the cap. It was her. It had to be. Yet when he searched the western training grounds later that morning, there was no trace. The women in palazzo skirts were nowhere to be found. The palace guards swore no visitors had passed their gates.

Cobar noticed his distraction and barked his name once more, forcing him back into the rhythm of drills. Netser obeyed, but his heart was not in it. His strikes came late, his parries too shallow, earning him a cuff across the shoulder.

"You fight like a man half-asleep," Cobar snapped. "Wake up, or you’ll be dead before you taste battle."

"Yes, sir," Netser said, though his thoughts were far from steel and sweat.

Was it really her? What is she doing in Northem?

As the sun sank lower, Netser could not shake the unease that gnawed at him. If she had returned, it was not by chance. A woman who defied her father and eluded the kingdom’s finest trackers for four years would not resurface without reason.

...

The envoys of Westalis spilled from the Chamber of Commerce, their polished boots echoing against marble as they made their way toward the palace gates. The weight of defeat clung to them—contracts sealed, pride diminished. Most walked in silence, their minds already on the comforts of wine and strategy at their inn.

But the youngest of them—Rolan—stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze snagged on a small procession of women crossing the courtyard, baskets of linens and herbs balanced in their arms as they made for the infirmary to the southwest. One figure among them made his heart stutter.

"Rolan?" The silver-bearded envoy barked after him, irritation cutting through the quiet. "Where are you going?"

"Father!" Rolan called back, already breaking into a jog. His voice cracked with urgency. "I—I think I saw Duke Kassius’ daughter!"

He rounded the corner where the women had disappeared—only to slam into something immovable, a wall of chest and he almost lost his balance.

The collision knocked the air from his lungs, nearly sending him sprawling. He staggered back a step, clutching his shoulder, before lifting his eyes to the man he had struck.

Recognition struck like lightning.

"You..." Rolan’s breath caught, disbelieving. "You. What are you doing here?"

The man’s brow furrowed, then his expression hardened as recognition flared. Netser Rimim.

"What is it to you?" Netser’s voice was low, disdain curling around each word.

Rolan froze, a chill crawling his spine. His voice faltered as he whispered, "But—weren’t your family... exterminated?"

Netser’s jaw clenched, and his eyes burned with a hatred that seemed to sear through the air itself. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over the younger envoy.

"And thanks to your uncle for that," he spat. "When you return, send him a message. Tell him I survived. Tell him I will make certain he and every one of his cronies pay for each life they stole from mine."

Rolan’s legs trembled beneath him. He could feel it—the suffocating weight of vengeance in Netser’s gaze. For an instant, he thought the man might strike him where he stood.

Desperate, he stammered, "Netser, my family—my family had nothing to do with it! You and my elder brother—you were best friends."

For the first time, something flickered in Netser’s eyes. Pain, almost too fleeting to catch. He remembered. He remembered the bond, the laughter, the trust that once was. And then the betrayal when he needed that friend most.

"Yes," Netser said, his voice dripping with bitter irony. "A good friend. Who vanished when I needed him the most." His eyes went cold again, his tone flat as a blade. "Send him my regards. Tell him he owes me nothing. And I owe him nothing."

The words cut deeper than any curse. Rolan’s breath caught. He understood. That was more than anger—it was severance.

"I... I’m just glad you’re alive, Netser," Rolan murmured, his voice unsteady. "And I’m certain my brother will be as well."

But his gaze betrayed him, sliding past Netser toward the corridor where the women had gone. Hope sparked in his chest.

"By the way," he added carefully, "since you’re here... you must have seen Lady Shaya—"