Okay. Pause. I'm breaking the wall here because if I don't, someone's going to start asking questions, and I refuse to be held responsible for royal genealogy.
Here's the thing.
All royals are related.
All of them.
Every crown, every barony, every "Most Serene Whatever of Somewhere Damp." One big, looping, incest-adjacent clusterfuck. At least according to the Dragon, who has watched dynasties rise, fall, intermarry, pretend not to notice, then do it again with better hats.
So yeah. Don't look at me like that.
I don't even want to think about who—or what—Loma is marrying. There are so many royals floating around that statistically it sort of… works out? Like soup. If you stir it long enough and keep throwing things in, eventually it's edible again.
And when the blood gets a bit too… familiar?
That's where the concubines come in. The slave wives. The captains of the guard. The stable boys. The "trusted companions." The "oh she just tripped and now she's pregnant" situations.
Fresh blood. Quietly. Conveniently.
This is why royals aren't all dribbling idiots. Not because they're special. Because they cheat. Genetically. Religiously. Enthusiastically.
So no. Loma isn't some unique scandal.
She's just participating in the system from the wrong end of it.
Anyway.
Where was I?
Oh right.
Saving a princess by lying to everyone who ever loved her.
Normal stuff.
And since we're already ankle-deep in inconvenient truths, let's keep wading.
Who kicked Loma out of Tanagra?
Her own half-sister. Higara. Same daddy, different mothers. Very royal of them.
Loma's mother? Buried under the rose garden. Literally. Lovely spot. Smells great in spring. Everyone sighs about her memory and moves on.
Higara's mother? Concubine. Still breathing. Still influential. Still whispering in the right ears and pouring wine for the right men. Funny how that works.
And King Keldor. Their dear father.
Well.
You should ask the Pox Girl what happened to him.
No really. Ask her. If she's still got all her teeth and feels like reminiscing.
So when Loma ran—when she fell off the map, off the rolls, off the hymns—who do you think was there?
Her aunt from Kishkh? Please. Fat chance. Royals love you right up until loving you costs them anything.
It wasn't banners. It wasn't blood. It wasn't family.
It was me.
Some gutter rat with a knife, a mouth, and enough bad ideas to keep her alive.
So yeah. When I say I helped her survive, when I say I taught her things, when I say I stood between her and the world chewing her up—
I'm not boasting.
I'm just correcting the record.
Now don't look at me like that. I didn't make the world like this.
I just learned how to walk through it without bleeding out.
And also, so what if Loma's been earning coin on her back. Or on her knees. Or on all fours, for that matter.
So what.
Did anyone hand her a prophecy? Did a glowing sword pop out of a rock the moment she hit the road? Did fate send a choir and a conveniently dead tyrant?
Nope.
She worked inns. Drafty ones. Loud ones. Ones that smelled like old ale and worse promises. She did what worked, because that's what survival looks like when you don't get miracles issued at birth.
Everyone loves a fallen princess story as long as the fall is tasteful. As long as she starves beautifully. As long as she waits for rescue with clean hands and a clean conscience.
But nobody offered her a sword in a stone she could pull. Nobody offered her a horse. Nobody offered her justice.
So she took coin.
And yeah, it wasn't poetic. It wasn't sung about. It didn't come with banners. It came with rooms that didn't lock properly and men who thought kindness was optional.
And you know what?
She's still here.
Breathing. Thinking. Scheming. Still royal enough to scare old women and still sharp enough to know when the world is lying to her.
So spare me the purity hymns and the offended gasps.
If the gods wanted Loma to be a symbol, they should've protected her like one.
They didn't.
I did.
She's still a princess.
As much as she ever was. As much as any of them are once you scrape off the embroidery and the lies.
Blood doesn't evaporate because you slept hungry. A title doesn't rot because you had to survive with your body instead of a banner. If anything, she's more real now. Less ornament. More spine.
So there you go.
Judge all you want. Clutch your pearls. Write your sermons. Whisper about "fallen women" like gravity only works on girls.
She didn't fall.
She was pushed.
And she got back up without a court, without a crown, without a single blessed miracle—just grit, coin, and a very bad teacher.
That still counts.
Actually?
It counts more.
The Dragon clears his throat. Which is never a good sign. That's the sound he makes right before history gets weaponized.
"For the record," he says mildly, "Loma's mother was Ilma. Of the Upper Steppe."
I pause. Slowly turn my head.
"…That Ilma?"
"The barely tamed warrior queen," he continues. "Horse-born. Blade-happy. Ruled by intimidation, charisma, and a very efficient kill rate."
Loma groans into her cloak. "Please don't."
"Oh, there is a fall from grace," the Dragon goes on. "At least where swordsmanship is concerned."
I snort. "Harsh."
"Accurate," he corrects. "Ilma could split a man from collarbone to navel without smudging her war paint."
Loma mutters, "I was not raised on the steppe."
"No," I say sweetly. "You were raised on cushions. Then cages. Then inns. Different curriculum."
The Dragon nods. "Granted, Queen Ilma did have her indulgences."
I glance at him. "Oh?"
"A band of forty loyal companions," he says. "Very loyal. Very… close. Rotated frequently."
Loma buries her face. "Gods."
I grin. "See? Runs in the family."
"She still knew which end of the sword to hold," the Dragon adds.
I shrug. "And Loma knows which end of a situation pays."
That earns me a look.
I lean back, unapologetic. "Different battlefields."
Loma peeks out from her cloak, cheeks pink, eyes tired but steady. "My mother conquered with steel," she says quietly. "I conquered with… other means."
"Still conquest," I say at once.
The Dragon exhales smoke, thoughtful. "Ilma would have despised the court. And admired the pragmatism."
I smile. "High praise."
Loma huffs despite herself. "I'd still lose a duel."
"Yes," the Dragon says. "Quickly."
"But you'd survive the aftermath," I cut in. "Which is more than most heroes manage."
I reach over and squeeze Loma's ankle. Grounding. Real.
"So yeah," I say lightly. "Maybe there's a fall from grace if you're measuring by swords."
I grin.
"But by staying alive? By adapting? By not letting the world decide what breaks you?"
She's exactly her mother's daughter.
Just fighting a different war.