The holding room was cold with Stone walls, Iron bars, No windows.
Lysandra sat on the wooden bench, hands folded neatly in her lap, hood lowered. She kept her breathing steady, her posture calm.
Do not act like a princess.
Do not think like one.
The door opened. Serena stepped inside. She dismissed the guards with a gesture, then turned slowly, studying Lysandra in silence. Too much silence.
"You don't look afraid," Serena said at last.
Lysandra lifted her gaze. "Should I be?"
Most people begged by now. Most people cried.
Serena didn't answer immediately. She circled the room instead, boots echoing softly.
"You interrupted a royal operation," Serena said. "Spoke against armed knights. Defended civilians during a time of unrest."
She stopped in front of Lysandra.
"People don't do that unless they're reckless… or hiding something."
Lysandra met her eyes.
"Or unless they know fear spreads faster than poison," she replied.
Serena froze. Just for a fraction of a second.
"…Explain," Serena said.
Lysandra chose her words carefully.
"If you arrest everyone who whispers, you create martyrs. Panic. Lies. The real culprit hides better in chaos."
Serena stared at her. No one had spoken to her like this since—
She cut the thought off.
"You're observant," Serena said slowly. "Educated. And far too composed for a market girl."
Lysandra shrugged lightly.
"My father taught me to think before I speak."
"A merchant?" Serena pressed.
Lysandra hesitated—then nodded. "Something like that."
A lie. But not a careless one.
Serena studied her again. The shape of her face. The steadiness of her gaze. The way she sat straight even on a hard bench.
Annoying. Intriguing. Dangerous.
"I don't believe in coincidences," Serena said. "So here's what will happen."
She turned toward the door.
"You'll be released."
Lysandra's breath caught—but she didn't show it.
"You'll work under my command," Serena continued. "As an aide. A clerk. A servant if you prefer."
She looked back.
"You'll assist me in this investigation. You'll go where I go. Hear what I hear."
"And if I refuse?" Lysandra asked softly.
Serena stepped closer, her shadow swallowing the light.
"Then I arrest you for obstruction."
Their eyes locked.
Lysandra nodded once.
"I'll work."
Serena didn't hide her surprise.
"Good," she said. "Because until I decide otherwise—"
She leaned down slightly, voice low.
"You don't leave my sight."
Later, in the commander's quarters, Lysandra was given simple duties—organizing reports, cleaning ink-stained desks, copying witness statements.
Men glanced at her curiously. Serena watched everything. Too closely.
Lysandra noticed it—the way Serena's eyes followed her hands as she wrote, the way her gaze lingered when Lysandra spoke intelligently to officers.
At one point, Lysandra corrected a timeline mistake in a report.
Serena paused mid-step.
"Say that again," she said.
Lysandra repeated it calmly.
Serena stared at the parchment. "…You're right," she admitted.
The room fell silent. No one corrected the commander. Serena felt something tighten in her chest.
Who are you?
The barracks smelled of iron and smoke. On her knees, Lysandra scrubbed the floor, counting exits, memorizing footsteps—her old instincts refused to die. Nothing about her now resembled a princess except the way she watched.
Serena noticed. Not as suspicion—but as irritation.
"Stop staring," Serena said without turning. She was removing her gloves, leather creaking softly.
"If you're going to clean, then clean."
"I am," Lysandra replied, voice careful. "I just don't like surprises."
That earned a glance. Sharp. Assessing.
Most servants shrink under it. Lysandra doesn't. She lowers her eyes only after Serena has finished looking—half a breath too late.
Serena feels it like a misstep she can't explain.
Over the days, Lysandra is reassigned again and again—errands, records, armor-polishing, even helping dress wounds after patrols. Serena tells herself it's efficiency. The girl is competent. Quiet. Observant. But there's something unsettling about the way Lysandra moves through rooms like she's already been there before.
One evening, Serena returns injured—blood along her ribs, shallow but angry. The healer is delayed. Lysandra steps forward without being told.
"I can bind it," she says.
Serena hesitates. Then nods once.
Lysandra's hands are steady. Too steady.
As the cloth tightens, Serena inhales sharply—and Lysandra freezes, fingers still pressed to her skin.
"I'm sorry," Lysandra says quickly.
Serena should pull away. She doesn't. For one suspended moment, neither moves. Serena becomes aware of how close the girl is. How warm. How her breath stutters, just barely.
"Finish," Serena says, her voice rougher than she intends.
That night, Serena cannot sleep. Not because of the wound. But because she keeps remembering the way Lysandra looked at her—not with fear, not with reverence—but like someone trying not to remember something dangerous.
If you knew who I was… would you still look at me like this?