𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘, 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝖻𝗎𝗆

paper crowns and iron will

Thèrèse. Present time. Somewhere far from the Iron Lion, yet never truly gone from it.

The hall smelled like ink and politics.

Fresh parchment, quills soaked in bureaucracy, and the kind of air that made you sweat from sitting still too long. 

Her dress was stiff at the collar, a royal blue she hadn't picked herself, embroidered with the crest of a post-war alliance she helped build from the bones of the old world. Around her waist, a belt — sleek, fitted — held two slender daggers no one commented on anymore.

Not because they didn't notice.

But because they knew better than to ask.

"Ambassador Thèrèse," someone called. "We need your signature."

She signed and nodded.

But later, when the talks ended and the delegates left and silence crept in again, Thèrèse stood at the wide window of her quarters and watched the ocean roll beneath the moonlight. 

Somewhere across that same sea was her real home. Not the politics. Not the speeches. The people.

Bea.

Her little sister in every way that mattered.

She hadn't seen her in weeks, not since the last relay of letters. Bea wrote often, but briefly now. There were talks of nursery paint and fishing nets and Nico planting lemon trees for some reason.

And yet...

Thèrèse still saw her in flashes.

Bea in boots too big for her, clutching a bow, swearing she didn't cry. Bea sitting in the rain after Prim's funeral, too quiet.

Bea dancing in a crumbling castle hall with Nico, laughing like she'd forgotten the world ever hurt her.

Thèrèse blinked back something warm. Then colder, stronger, she forced it down. It didn't serve the work.

Not here.

Still, her hand drifted to the small locket beneath her dress — a hidden photo of the four of them: her, Bea, Nancy, Vicky. Torn edges. Smudged smiles. Taken back when they didn't know who'd survive.

"You'd be proud of her," she whispered.

Not just to herself. But to the ghosts. To mother. To Primrose. To Vincent. To the dozens of lives that threaded this future into shape.

Her eyes hardened again.

Tomorrow, she'd return to the chamber and sign another treaty. Wear another gown. Smile again like it didn't ache sometimes.

But tonight, she stepped out onto the terrace with her daggers at her hip, wind catching the silk of her sleeves.

Tonight, she remembered she was raised by rebels and that Bea still danced because of it.