Chapter Text
A loud thump echoed through the empty arena as an armored body hit the dirt, followed by a groan.
On the ground, in a crumpled heap, Ser Ashton Greymoore held his head in his hands. The impact had thrown his helmet off, and his chest piece and pauldrons were skewed from the force of the blow.
“Do you have another round in you, Ser?” The clopping of horse hooves drew near. Ashton looked up through his fingers at the woman addressing him.
She had removed her helmet, revealing silky purple hair that flowed in the wind—a mark of House Temult. Her roguish violet eyes locked with his as a smug smile spread across her face. Her blue and gold Pale Guard armor gleamed in the sunlight.
“I know when to cut my losses, Ser Imogen,” Ashton groaned, sitting up and adjusting his blue and gold armor.
Imogen hummed in acknowledgment. “I’m a bit sore myself. A break would do us good.”
She skillfully twirled her lance, sticking it into the ground before dismounting her horse. Gently patting the horse’s neck, she said, “Good girl, Flora.”
Imogen extended her hand to Ashton, who gratefully accepted and rose to his feet. He brushed off the grass clinging to his armor. As he did so, his horse quietly trotted over, bumping its snout against Ashton’s shoulder. He laughed and patted the horse’s snout.
“I’m okay, FCG,” Ashton reassured, rubbing the horse’s head. “It was just a hard fall.”
“Ser Ashton, Ser Imogen!” A familiar voice called out in the training arena from about fifty meters away. Both knights turned to see Lady Fearne Calloway approaching with a basket. Her long teal and pink dress fluttered behind her in the breeze, and her intricate braided bun showcased her horns. Seeing her outside the castle was unusual, given her role as one of the Ladies-in-Waiting to the foreboding Lady Laudna de Rolo.
Imogen knew little about Lady Laudna, aside from the persistent rumors and gossip around the court. Many called her the “Ghost Princess” due to her ghastly appearance. They said her skin was pale white, her eyes as black as the night sky, and that only a thread of skin held her neck to her body. The courtiers never had anything nice to say about the young woman. Imogen had never encountered the Queen’s ward herself; Laudna seldom left her chambers, and Imogen’s duties as a Pale Guard often stationed her outside the castle or near her mother’s rooms.
Her friendship with Fearne offered Imogen little clarity regarding the swirling rumors. Fearne was fiercely protective of her Lady, and while Imogen’s curiosity burned, she resisted the temptation to probe Fearne’s mind for answers. Her mother had always cautioned her to use this ability sparingly, as it was a closely guarded Temult family secret. Many women of House Temult possessed the power to read minds and communicate telepathically, making them invaluable players in the court’s intricate games. But the gift came at a cost. The scars Imogen concealed with gloves were a testament to the toll it took. The few times she had ventured into others’ minds, the aftermath left her bedridden with debilitating migraines. Digging into Fearne’s thoughts felt intrusive and unnecessary, a breach of trust that Imogen couldn’t justify.
As Fearne approached, Imogen could sense something was wrong. The smile on Fearne’s lips seemed strained, and her thoughts were strong enough to breach Imogen’s mental barriers.
Laudna…
I need to get back…
Hurt…
Delilah…
Imogen winced and raised her hand to rub her temple. The snippets of Fearne’s thoughts hurt. She could feel the concern and despair wreaking havoc inside Fearne’s mind. However, the young woman was putting on the front that everything was okay.
“I thought you both might be hungry after such rigorous activities,” Fearne said, winking at Ashton. A red tint colored their cheeks. Imogen knelt to help Lady Fearne spread a thick wool blanket and lay out plates of cheese, an array of fruits, loaves of bread, and a platter of meats. Imogen was stunned; it was far too fancy a lunch for a pair of common knights.
“Fearne, this is much too kind,” Imogen popped a grape into her mouth. “We would’ve been fine with the fruits and cheese.”
Ashton scoffed and shook their head. “Speak for yourself, Ser.” They began shoveling meats, fruits, and cheese into their mouth. Imogen shot him a look and slapped the back of his head hard enough to make him choke and spit out his food.
“Where is your etiquette? Gluttony does not serve you well, Ser Ashton,” Imogen scolded, then turned to Fearne. “Would you like anything, my lady?”
“Oh no, thank you. I already ate with Lady Laudna. She was the one who thought it kind to send down food for you both,” Fearne said, giving Imogen a smile that seemed more akin to a grimace. Fearne’s thoughts broke through Imogen’s mental walls once more.
Laudna…
Poor sweet girl…
Imogen winced again but brought a piece of bread with smoked meat and cheese to her mouth and took a bite. The meat was perfectly tender, and the cheese was pleasantly creamy. She chewed for a moment, considering her following words.
“Lady Laudna organized this meal for us?” Imogen inquired, her eyebrows furrowing. “I did not know the lady knew of us.”
Fearne smiled genuinely this time. “Our Lady de Rolo is quite the fan of jousting.” Imogen felt her cheeks redden slightly as she rubbed the back of her neck in embarrassment.
“Well, I hope she enjoyed watching me get my ass handed to me by Ser Imogen,” Ashton grumbled, continuing to shovel food into their mouth. Fearne patted their armored shoulder in sympathy.
“She did; I’m quite sure of that.”
***
After finishing her meal with Fearne and Ashton, Imogen was summoned to stand guard at the castle gates. Clad in her Pale Guard armor, she stood tall beside Ser Bertrand Bell—a veteran knight well past retirement age but still steadfast in his duties.
Imogen's eyes swept across the grounds before her. Whitestone was as drab as it had been when she arrived four years ago, and nothing had changed. The grey skies cast a dull light over the courtyard, accentuating the lifeless pallor of the plants. The black and purple banners of the Briarwoods fluttered high above, the only splash of color in an otherwise bleak landscape.
"Pleasant day, wouldn’t you say, Ser Imogen?" Ser Bertrand Bell's voice echoed across the empty courtyard, tinged with a forced cheerfulness. Imogen shrugged, her gaze fixed ahead.
“I have yet to see any blue sky here, Ser.”
Bertrand hummed, feigning aloofness as he shifted his weight, causing his armor to clank awkwardly. Imogen could almost feel his itch to break the silence that had settled between them. The quiet stretched on for several more minutes, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Sleep did not come easy last night for us, Pale Guard, did it?" Bertrand finally ventured, his tone casual but probing.
Imogen frowned, puzzled. She usually was not one for court gossip, but the castle's atmosphere seemed tense the whole day. This may be her way of getting an answer as to why. "How do you mean?"
Bertrand glanced at her with a look of disbelief. "You didn’t hear the commotion? Lady Laudna’s chambers are near the barracks. I could’ve sworn I saw every Pale Guard member at her door at some point during the night."
Imogen shot him a careful look. "I sleep in my mother’s chambers at the opposite end of the castle, Ser."
Ser Bertrand eyed her with growing curiosity. Imogen quickly looked away and continued. "What happened in Lady de Rolo’s chambers?"
Bertrand seemed still curious about Imogen’s comment about her mother, but his penchant for gossip overpowered any questions he had.
“Her Grace has been very tight-lipped about the whole affair, of course,” Bertrand said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. He gave Imogen a look she couldn’t quite decipher. “But whatever happened left poor Lady Laudna deeply unsettled. She could barely speak to any of us Pale Guard afterward. Though, that’s hardly surprising. The girl is not much of a conversationalist. Still, if I had witnessed the death of my personal guard, I’d be shaken too.”
Imogen’s frown deepened at Bertrand’s casual dismissal of Lady Laudna’s formal title and the flippant tone with which he spoke of such a traumatic event. A wave of unease washed over her. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve yet to meet Lady Laudna. Her personal guard was killed?”
Bertrand chuckled, a sound that grated against Imogen’s nerves. “Sometimes I forget not all Pale Guard have been here as long as I have. Yes, one of them was killed. She still has another, though—perfectly healthy. They take shifts guarding her and others from our ranks who rotate in.”
Suddenly, Lady Fearne’s unsettled state that morning made more sense. A deep sense of unease settled in the pit of Imogen’s stomach. She wondered if someone had tried to assassinate the young Lady. She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. She didn’t know Lady Laudna personally, but whatever had happened, the young woman didn’t deserve it.
***
That evening, Imogen dined with her mother, Lady Liliana Temult, in her chambers—a routine Imogen always looked forward to. Her mother’s time was precious, often consumed by her duties as the Master of Whispers for Queen Delilah Briarwood. Most of Liliana’s day was spent gathering secrets from informants scattered throughout the castle, across Whitestone, and, furthermore, in Exandria. She attended the Queen’s small council meetings when not weaving webs of information. Imogen had long since learned not to pry into her mother’s work; Liliana was notoriously guarded. The only topic she seemed eager to discuss with Imogen was Imogen herself.
By the time she reached her mother’s room an hour before, Imogen had shed her armor, slipping into the comfort of tan trousers and a dark grey tunic. Her boots rested easily on her feet, and her violet hair was tied back in a high ponytail, with a few loose strands framing her face.
“How was your day, my little storm?” Liliana asked, her voice carrying the warmth that softened the sharpness in her gaze. Imogen looked up into her mother’s familiar violet eyes.
Imogen had always thought her mother was beautiful. Her purple hair, a shade darker than Imogen’s own, was worn in an elegant braid—a style favored by ladies of her station. Liliana’s features were sharp but never harsh, softened by a light dusting of freckles across her nose. She was always dressed in intricate Temult blue and gold gowns.
Imogen tapped her utensils against her plate thoughtfully. “It was a bit unusual, Mother. Ser Greymore and I spent much of the morning practicing jousting, and then Lady de Rolo sent us lunch through Lady Calloway.” Liliana’s eyebrows arched in surprise.
“Lady Laudna de Rolo sent you lunch?” Liliana echoed, her voice laced with unease. “Have you spoken with the Lady?”
Imogen shook her head. “No, which is why I found it so peculiar. It was a pleasant lunch, too.”
Liliana scrutinized Imogen’s face, searching for any hint of deception. Finding none, she seemed to relax, though only slightly. “Imogen, as kind as that gesture was, I must ask you to keep your distance from Lady de Rolo.” Imogen furrowed her brows in confusion, surprised by her mother’s sudden caution toward the young Lady.
A loud knock on the chamber doors abruptly interrupted their conversation. Liliana, clearly unsettled, stood and moved to the door, revealing two Pale Guards. Imogen recognized them as members of the Queen’s personal guard.
“Is Ser Imogen Storm present? Her Grace requests her presence in the throne room,” the taller of the two guards announced, his voice measured and authoritative. The smaller guard shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Liliana’s dissecting gaze.
“It is very late–is this not a matter that could be dealt with in the morning?”
“Apologies, Lady Temult, but Her Grace insisted this matter be addressed immediately,” the taller guard responded, his tone firm but respectful.
Liliana’s eyes narrowed further as she turned to Imogen, still seated at the table. Imogen rose and walked towards the door, feeling strangely vulnerable without her armor when addressing knights of higher station.
“Good evening, Sers,” Imogen greeted, her voice steady despite her unease. “You called for me?”
“Ser Imogen, would you kindly follow us to the throne room?” the taller guard requested. Imogen nodded, glancing at her mother before stepping through the doorway to follow the guards.
Be careful, my little storm. Liliana's voice projected into Imogen's mind: do not become a piece on Delilah’s chessboard. Imogen met her mother’s eyes, giving her a slight nod—though her mother’s cryptic warning left her more confused than reassured.
The walk to the throne room felt long and heavy with silence. Imogen lowered her head, avoiding eye contact with the Pale Guards, lords, and ladies meandering through the halls. She knew that court gossip would relish the sight of a young knight in her tunic and breeches walking toward the throne room flanked by the Queen’s knights.
As the heavy wooden doors to the throne room creaked open, Imogen was greeted by the grand, intricately decorated chamber. With its cold stone floors and seating lining the sides, the long room was illuminated by flickering candles that cast dancing shadows along the walls. Marquesian pillars stood sentinel, supporting the high ceiling.
A woman lounged on the throne at the room's far end, elevated on a platform about thirty steps above the floor. Her elbow rested lazily on the armrest, her chin cradled in her palm, while her fingers tapped impatiently against the opposite armrest. Her hair was swept back into a tight bun, and her flowing purple dress, adorned with intricate floral patterns and silk ribbons, draped elegantly around her. Her piercing gaze locked onto Imogen with unsettling intensity. This was Her Grace, Queen Delilah Briarwood.
Beside the Queen stood a young woman, her head bowed, avoiding the scrutiny of Imogen and the Pale Guards. Her black hair fell over her face like a veil, starkly contrasted by a white streak. Her frail frame suggested fragility, with arms so thin that Imogen could see her elbows protruding. Her dress matched the Queen’s, a deep shade of purple, but chains adorned her waist, accentuating her slender silhouette. The neckline reached her chin, obscuring her neck from view.
As Imogen approached within twenty feet of the throne, she bent the knee, lowering her head just enough to show the appropriate respect to the Queen—no more, no less. Looking up, she found Queen Delilah watching her with an amused smirk.
“Ser Imogen… Storm, is it?” Delilah’s voice echoed through the chamber. “Judging by your hair, I would have assumed you were a Temult.”
Imogen gritted her teeth. “I am a bastard, Your Grace. Lady Liliana Temult is my mother.”
Delilah sighed, a touch of mock disappointment in her tone. “A shame. However, you Marquesians do have quite peculiar customs.” Imogen clenched her fingers into fists inside her pockets, refusing to give Delilah the satisfaction of seeing her tense. “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Delilah gestured to the young woman beside her. “This is my ward, Lady Laudna de Rolo. Head up, dear.” At the Queen’s command, Lady Laudna straightened, though her dark hair still veiled her face. Through the strands, Imogen caught a glimpse of her deep, shadowed eyes, fixed intently on her. “She requires a new personal guard. She named you as a candidate.”
Imogen blinked, caught off guard. She glanced at Lady de Rolo, who seemed to shy away from Imogen’s curious stare. Delilah arched an eyebrow, observing the interaction between the two young women.
“So, what say you, Ser Imogen Storm?” Delilah’s voice was smooth, almost coaxing. “As my ward’s personal guard, you would ensure her safety daily. You would earn more coin, and your rank among the Pale Guard would rise. However, you would also be deeply involved in all matters concerning Lady Laudna.” Delilah’s gaze bore into Imogen, predatory and calculating.
Ser Imogen Storm accepted her place on the intricate chessboard of Castle Whitestone’s court politics with a slow, deliberate nod.