Masquerading

Prologue: Parchment and Chiffon

THE King was in the war room. Leyva stopped to watch him frown over maps on the table, worry stretching itself over her face as it did his.

"Father?"

He hummed, his attention remaining on the parchments, so very unlike himself. Running her fingers carefully over the vellum laid atop the parchment, she noted fresh marks her father had made. Strategic points and areas needing fortifying. Plans, denoting every move that would be made to defend their home from the expected onslaught of the Loricai.

Loricus, the kingdom to the southeast, had been a former ally and Levya could hardly begin to understand why the relationship had soured. In this time of relative peace, it was difficult to understand the sudden thirst for war.

"Father, we should cancel the festivities."

The skin edging her father's eyes crinkled as he looked up at her. "It's tradition, Leyva! One you deserve to have."

Tradition. A tradition that served to trap her in a life with a man she didn't even know.

"If I know our daughter, and I do, she would rather be in here strategizing war with you, than in the grand hall dancing with suitors." The Queen floated into the room, her skirts making almost no noise.

Most would wonder how her mother moved with such grace, but not Levya; it was a walk she had spent ages perfecting, under the eye of her mother and etiquette tutor. The walk, posture, gentle smile, and all the finer points of being a woman of court.

It was who she was—Princess Leyva Saren Katis of Aradanas—and she would proudly do whatever it took to be the princess, and then queen, her kingdom deserved.

"It's not the suitors I take issue with, Mother. It's the notion that I must choose someone tomorrow. You and father were already in love before, and he would have chosen no one other than you, even under a mask."

The King smiled softly as he regarded her mother, "I would never have chosen another."

Leyva watched her parents share a tender moment she knew she would only dream about for the rest of her life. Her mother leaned down to kiss her father's forehead and run her fingers along rose-tinged hair on his jaw.

But, it was the way her father held her mother that broke her heart; it was a love she knew she'd never have. With eyes that drank in only her face, his lungs filled only with her scent and every fibre of his being wrapped up in their moment.

Leyva's heart mourned the loss of a love she'd never hold; tomorrow she would choose her future king.

"Is this your gown?" her father asked, just noticing the extravagant dress she wore.

"Yes. I wanted to show you before I took it off." Leyva preened, knowing the frivolity of the action would make him happy.

"And now that's been accomplished, we must be off before someone sees her in it!"

Leyva allowed her mother to fuss over making sure corridors were empty the whole way back to her suites, while she was silently seething.

Frustrated. There were no other words to express her emotions; she wanted to scream. Scream at the oncoming war, at the ball taking place, and at expectations that awaited her. She wanted to scream, but she wouldn't. She couldn't. She was infuriatingly calm.

What kind of blessing was that anyway? Calm in the face of troubles? She supposed it served her well all her younger life. The novelty of a child who was not quarrelsome or petulant seemed to win her favour.

But still, she often wished the feyrie had blessed her with something else; charm, beauty, or being fair, all of which made sense for a future ruler. No, she was given the nonsensical gift of calmness in the face of trouble and a mind that would be untouched by magic.