Her steps were slow and measured, yet the weight in her chest was impossible to hide.

At the ornate garden gate stood King Arxen, waiting.

He glanced at her briefly, then said with dry sarcasm:

"This simple dress... You're lucky you inherited your mother's face."

She said nothing.

No reaction.

But something inside her... froze.

When he extended his hand, he took hers for the sake of tradition - like holding a doll.

He did it for the image... for the onlookers. Not for her.

And in the next moment... the garden's back gate opened.

Light rushed in.

But it wasn't just light that flooded her.

It was a feeling.

Time paused.

Her breath quickened - though she showed nothing.

She stepped forward.

Then again.

She descended the marble steps slowly.

Her father's arm still gripped her, but she wasn't seeking support.

Her eyes stayed forward.

Everyone in the garden turned.

Heads shifted at once - as if a secret cue had been given.

Eyes like arrows.

Breaths held.

Whispers began:

- "Is that... her?"

- "Such a plain dress."

- "She doesn't belong here..."

- "But her face... it's just like..."

- "Her mother. She looks like that woman..."

She reached the garden path, walking with the king toward the open carriage.

She did not glance in any direction.

As if she saw no one.

They made their way to the royal procession:

Five carriages: two at the front for the guards, two at the back for the knights,

and in the center - hers alone.

Surrounded by dozens of marching soldiers. Some bore flags, others had swords strapped to their chests like the silence before a battle.

She stepped into the carriage slowly, hands still clutching her dress.

She did not look back.

The king paused, then signaled with his hand.

The carriage moved.

---

It passed through the royal street, where people of all classes had gathered.

Crowds lined both sides, behind iron barricades, all eyes on the center carriage - on the girl sitting silently in its heart.

Men, women, children, merchants, farmers, laborers, old soldiers...

All waiting for the procession to pass.

Whispers grew louder:

- "Is that her?"

- "The daughter of that treacherous spy?"

- "Yes, the woman who seduced the king."

- "They say she was just a maid... yet she made him weak."

- "The maid who disgraced the royal family."

- "But look at her... pure beauty."

- "A beauty witch... but born of shame."

- "Even her face... reminds me of that woman..."

- "They made her a princess? Is that justice?"

- "Beauty can't wash away blood."

People are merciless.

Eyes have no pity.

And tongues... are knives.

Each sentence hurled toward the carriage like a stone.

And Irene?

She sat still.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't bend.

But the weight in her chest grew.

The silence around her thickened - like an invisible armor.

She passed through them...

As if walking over burning coals.

As if slicing through time.

---

The carriage reached the main road leading to the ceremonial square.

The ground was paved, flags fluttered, soldiers cleared the way, and people surged toward the barricades, desperate to glimpse the "mysterious royal daughter."

Then - a voice ripped through the air, coarse and full of rage:

"How can a whore sit in this sacred place?!"

Time froze.

Soldiers halted, scanning for the source.

People gasped.

A man in the crowd, veins bulging with fury, shouted again:

"Why all this fuss for a traitor's daughter?!"

"For her?! A woman's deceit? A spy's spawn?!"

"The blood of disgrace... the blood of the devil!"

The crowd rippled - some shocked, some smirking, some murmuring.

A woman near the barrier sneered:

- "Even her face reminds me of those dark nights..."

- "Beautiful? Yes. But beauty doesn't purify betrayal."

- "She'll repeat her mother's sins."

Someone hurled a piece of hard bread - it missed, but it sparked chaos.

Soldiers pushed forward.

One shouted: "Step back immediately!"

The man yelled again:

"She's no princess! She's a whore's child!"

"The daughter of sin has no place on the throne!"

And that...

Was the moment Irene felt the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She didn't flinch.

Didn't respond.

But inside the carriage... her hand gripped the seat slowly,

Her breath steady.

Her gaze unwavering - like a statue carved from stone.

From afar, the king did not move.

The soldiers quickly closed ranks.

One commander ordered the man silenced - he was shoved back hard.

But tension crackled through the air.

Suspicion.

Judgment.

Fear.

All clung to the carriage as it continued... not with celebration,

But under the weight of screams - under eyes that didn't see a princess...

But a stain resurrected.

---

After all the chaos,

Irene felt a suffocating tightness in her chest...

Dizziness. Nausea.

As if the air had turned to iron.

She wanted to vomit - but held herself.

She closed her eyes for a moment...

And whispered inwardly:

"They don't know... they don't know..."

"Stay calm... It will pass."

Half the journey was done -

But for Irene, it felt like hours.

Finally, the procession reached the grand palace courtyard - and the show ended.

The people began filing inside, heading toward the royal banquet hall - a place Irene had never set foot in before.

Everything was grand...

Tall walls, massive crystal chandeliers, deep red carpets, soft classical music from a live orchestra off to the side.

Amid the whispers and stares, Irene entered through the main doors, escorted by King Arxen.

His hand gripped hers again, the other holding a golden chalice.

He raised it calmly as they walked together toward the center of the hall.

A heavy silence blanketed the room.

Then the king spoke, his voice sure and commanding:

"Allow me to introduce... my daughter."

"My daughter whom I lost 11 years ago - and today... I reclaim her."

Whispers fell like rain.

But the king continued - voice firm, rehearsed, somber:

"When she was lost, she had done nothing wrong...

And today, she returns as a grown woman, raised with virtue,

And worthy of being seen as my rightful daughter."

Gasps rippled through the room.

Then - the king did the unthinkable.

He lowered the cup slightly and said:

"I made a mistake... yes, I wronged my country 19 years ago."

"When I took a maid - who was, in truth, a spy - as my mistress."

"And I did not take responsibility for that mistake then."

"But I've atoned - by raising this innocent girl... who bears no guilt."

"And today, I ask you... to forgive me."

The hall reeled.

Some guests gasped audibly.

The king had never apologized publicly... to anyone.

But the truth was - he wasn't apologizing for them.

He was doing it... to silence dissent from representatives of the neighboring kingdom -

Those who fiercely opposed marrying their prince to a girl of illegitimate birth - worse, a spy's daughter.

The king... knew exactly what he was doing.

And he wasn't stopping there.

From a corner of the room, the eyes of Valerian representatives remained fixed on Irene.

One leaned in and whispered to his companion:

- "An open confession?"

The other replied, unmoved:

- "He's playing it smart... trying to neutralize objections before they begin."

As for Irene...

She stood in the center.

Light on her.

But she felt suspended in emptiness -

Everything moved around her, yet no one truly saw her.

Their eyes only saw what she represented - not who she was.

Despite the shallow applause following the king's confession,

Irene stood motionless.

Her face calm, shoulders straight, chin raised.

But inside...

Boiling.

She could hear her blood pounding through her veins -

A burning, choking, hateful pulse.

Her father's words echoed like velvet-wrapped blades:

"I raised her with virtue..."

A lie.

He never raised her.

He was never there.

All he did - was choose, today, to use her.

Her face, her blood, her silence...

To appease those who opposed her presence.

And inside her, a cold vow whispered:

"You'll regret this moment, Arxen... You'll carry it to your grave."

She didn't move.

But one glance from her could turn a guard to stone.

Then...

A royal servant bowed lightly.

The king took her hand once more, leading her toward the banquet tables.

The hall had been rearranged.

He led her to the end, where two long tables stood parallel.

Irene took her silver seat beside the king, under the gaze of dozens of nobles, foreign dignitaries, and every member of the royal family: her nine half-siblings - married and unmarried - their spouses, and the king's three wives.

All in their assigned seats, watching her in a silence dripping with unspoken judgment.

---

The chief steward announced in a deep voice, bowing slightly at the hall's head:

"Let the royal dinner begin."

Servants moved swiftly and elegantly, distributing plates and cups, pouring soup, and arranging the golden dishes with meticulous care.

The room hushed - the only sounds were silver utensils and the aroma of luxurious meals.

Then - a voice broke the quiet.

One of the king's wives.

She spoke loud enough for all at the table to hear:

"How you've grown, Irene... I truly didn't expect you to emerge so... composed."

A few hands froze.

She added with a slight smile:

"Did you all know? She chose everything about this event - even the dishes."

"Royal taste... proof of noble upbringing."

Irene blinked slowly.

Didn't respond.

But something cold ran through her veins.

It wasn't praise... It was performance.

Indeed, the other wives joined in one by one - like actresses on cue:

"She's always been different."

"Perhaps she simply stayed hidden - but she's royalty, through and through."

"How lucky we are to have such a girl in the family."

Soft words - but calculated to the last breath.

Irene understood.

She understood everything.

The king ordered them.

This wasn't just a presentation...

It was a carefully orchestrated persuasion.

Directed at whom?

At those across the hall - the foreign dignitaries.

Who opposed, in secret, the idea of marrying their prince to an illegitimate girl...

A maid's daughter... a spy's child.

But the king left them no room to object.

Even her siblings - silent at the table - looked unsettled.

They hadn't been told Irene would marry!

The decision was sudden - and shocking.

Some looked to their mothers.

Others leaned toward their spouses, whispering.

The entire atmosphere felt less like a celebration... and more like a living political map unfolding with precision.

Every move, every smile, every compliment, every bite of food...

Was part of the scene King Arxen had crafted meticulously.

And he didn't plan to fail.

---