Back in Brunkia’s days, Duke Prine was a salt-and-iron trader, a leaf riding the market’s wind.

When the Elven King stirred the uprising, he turned with the gale and funneled coin to the rebels like a flood.

So after Ariex founded the realm, Prine rose like a kite in a fresh gust, from common merchant to a duke with land.

He knew he’d fattened on war’s chaff, so he stayed low, a stone sleeping under water.

Smuggling arms in private felt to him like plain trade, a blade hidden in his sleeve.

He knew it was a crime, a dark seed in the field.

But the rebels laid down money like a river in spate, gold beating like rain on a tin roof.

Make, ship, haul, scrub the tracks—done in one breath like before.

The plan felt airtight, a drum with no leak.

So when his new bride said their war-profit might be exposed, Prine brushed it off like dust on silk.

He held his wine steady, listened to Aniael’s tale, and lounged on leather, head swaying like a reed.

“Who spotted it? Who could?” His voice was a pebble skimming a pond.

“Even the workers below, even the handlers meeting the rebels, don’t know what we moved.

In the end, proof is the anchor; without it, they drift.”

Aniael’s face set like a stormcloud, beauty veiled by shadow.

“Do you even know who came today?” Her words flew like a hawk at noon.

Prine paused, as if weighing stones, then swirled his half cup of red wine like blood in glass.

“Princess Sia? Oh… now Acting Regent Xia.

I heard she seized a batch at North Garrison.

What can she do with those busted barrels?

Princess Korol’s got skill; she’s already sweeping the armory.

But it’ll be smoke; she won’t find a single scrap.”

“Then why would Her Highness appear here, like a phoenix at a barn wedding?”

Seeing his lazy calm, Aniael took two quick steps and shoved his arm.

The gentle mask snapped into fangs.

“Quit swaying! You make my eyes itch.”

Prine’s arm jerked; wine shivered and nearly bled onto his white suit.

“Who did you say came? Say it again, like a bell struck twice.”

“Her Highness. She sat right beside me a moment ago; I saw it with these eyes.”

She tapped her eyes, twin mirrors under light.

Prine almost hurled the glass to the floor, heart knocking like a drum.

He was a money-maker at heart; the thought of his crime exposed sent panic fluttering like trapped sparrows.

Cold sweat beaded on his brow like dew.

Then a snag tugged at him, and he pressed Aniael.

“Wait. You’ve never seen Her Highness’s face.

How are you sure it was her, not a shadow in silk?”

She hadn’t, in truth; she only had Qicao’s one-sided whisper, so doubt pooled like rainwater.

Prine brooded a moment, then set the wine on the side table like a cooling ember.

“No. The real princess should be at the armory now.

Even with proof, she couldn’t get here this fast.

Whether this one’s real or not, I’ll know at a glance, like a falcon over a field.”

Aniael pressed on.

“Then go look yourself. If it’s her, trouble swells like thunderheads.”

Prine walked with oil-slick confidence, tossing promises to his future wife like coins.

“This morning I got word: Princess Korol led a team to the southern depot.

She won’t find a thing there.

Strange, leaving so many suspects untouched just to attend a nobody’s wedding?

If she really came, I’ll eat that rosewood chair on the spot.

I don’t buy that she’s all-seeing.”

Soon they reached the backstage door.

They peered through the cracked seam, eyes landing on Lingcai seated at center like a moon on a dark pond.

Prine had seen Kelor a few times, but barely remembered.

Lingcai matched her height and wore the same draped gold hair, twin stalks of wheat in lamplight.

So Prine took her for the true princess at once, a mirror-double on a throne.

Thud.

His calves turned to jelly; he folded to the floor like wet paper.

“I… I think I get it…” His voice dimmed like a lantern.

You know squat, an empty gourd rattling.

Aniael yanked his collar and hauled him up like a caught fish.

“So is it real or not? Speak!”

Prine went pale as flour and stammered, not daring another glance.

“S-she… the chair… can I grind it and eat it in installments?”

Aniael slapped him, palm like a cracking banner in wind.

“We’re this deep; a hundred chairs won’t save you.

Think! Smuggling arms, wrecking public order—how many heads do you have to spare?

Otherwise we confess now and at least keep one life.”

She didn’t spare his pride with that slap; Prine didn’t even dare groan, a mutt cowed by thunder.

He was plainly a henpecked soul, luck limp like a soggy kite.

Prine steadied himself, then slapped his thigh like a gavel.

“She has no proof! None!

If she did, she’d march in with irons already.

Why pretend to attend a wedding?”

Aniael blinked, thought it through, and the logic settled like ash.

She lowered her head and pondered a moment, thoughts pooling like ink.

“Then… what do we do?”

Prine lifted a hand and let out a cold snort, a guilty smile flickering like candlefire.

“No rush. Let’s play with her a bit.

If we flinch, she’ll sniff out the crack like a fox.”

He paused, then pasted on a wheedling look.

“Why don’t you go test the waters first?”

Aniael didn’t bother with courtesy; she seized his ear like a clamp.

“Ow!… Madam, please… let go…”

Prine yelped like a stray cat and didn’t dare strike back.

“Got bold, did you? Since when do you order me?”

Her grip tightened, voice slicing word by word.

“When I told you not to take this job, you didn’t listen.

Now the higher-ups want your head, and you fold like wet paper?”

She let go then, shoving the duke aside like a sack, and stoked her sulk like banked coals.

Prine felt his spine chill, sweat beading like frost.

He pressed his palms together, praying to his own wife.

“One stray thought… one stray thought…

Their money was too much; I couldn’t resist…

But I didn’t spend a cent! Not a cent! Not. A. Single. Cent!”

The way he swore, he looked like a corrupt clerk hauled in, face gray as old parchment.

“Not spending a cent makes it not arms smuggling? Not a crime?”

Aniael rolled her eyes like marbles clacking.

Prine trembled, fear in his fingers as he rubbed his ear like a bruised peach.

“Madam, you know my folk were farmers.

Getting here wasn’t easy—poverty sticks like mud.

Please, today’s hurdle depends on you.

We only did business; we never killed for gain or broke Heaven’s heart.

If we hide it this once, even if a god descends, we won’t be punished.”

“Enough, I know. I’ll try.

It’s not the first mess I clean for you; next time, I’ll break your legs like dry twigs.”

Aniael waved a hand, impatient as wind.

Anger heat made her careful makeup blur like ink in rain.

“You’re amazing, Madam. The best. I love you to death.”

He gushed, honey like syrup from his tongue.

Prine laid on praise, arms opening for a hug like a begging dog.

But his warm face met a cold wall, steam against ice.

The duchess, fierce as a temple guardian, snapped him a backhand like lightning.

“Scram!”