Chapter 70 #2
Because the young man looked as if someone had promoted him directly into legend.
Valerius stood beside her, quiet and watchful.
When Dara glanced at him, his expression was warm in a way that made her feel seen rather than studied.
That was new.
Or perhaps it had been happening for a while, and she had finally stopped pretending she did not notice.
Duncan bowed first to Valerius, then inclined his head to Dara. “Your Highness. My lady.”
“Master Smith,” Dara said.
“The men and women will remember this.”
Dara blinked. “This?”
He looked toward the platform, then the workers, then the refreshment tables. “The speech, the seats, and the meal.” His voice lowered. “People remember when they are seen.”
Dara did not have an immediate answer, so she gave him the truth. “They should have been seen before.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
That silence lasted a moment.
Then Dara lifted her chin. “Well. Now they are.”
Duncan stared at her, then gave one firm nod. “Yes, my lady. They are.”
Cai hovered near Dara’s ear. Careful. That was dangerously sincere.
I am allowed.
Oh?
Occasionally.
He looked delighted.
Dara moved on before she became trapped in meaningful conversation.
The commoners were last.
Not because they mattered least.
Because they were everywhere.
They stood near the food tables, around the fountain, by the edges of the seating, clustered in families and trade groups and neighborhood knots. As Dara approached, a strange ripple moved through them.
Not fear.
Not quite reverence.
Something more tentative.
Hope wearing suspicion’s old clothes.
People bowed awkwardly. Curtsied too deeply. Nudged each other. Whispered.
Dara kept her pace steady.
Valerius remained beside her, which did not help the situation because half the crowd looked ready to melt simply from the combination of royal escort and public attention.
An older woman near the fruit water table dipped into a curtsy. “My lady,” she said. “The speech was… very fine.”
“Thank you.”
“My son works on the drainage crew.”
Dara looked at her more fully. “Then your son has been doing useful work.”
The woman’s face changed quickly, almost painfully—pride, surprise, and something softer all at once.
“He has,” she said. “He comes home tired, but… proud.”
“Good,” Dara said. “Tired work should at least have pride attached to it.”
The woman blinked rapidly.
Dara moved on.
A merchant’s apprentice thanked her for reopening safer cart access near the market.
A baker complained, very politely, that the new inspections were strict but admitted fewer rats had been seen near the grain stores.
A father with two children said the repaired road made it easier for his wife to reach the healer.
Dara listened—not long to each, but enough. She had intended this part to be strategic, and it still was, but it had become something else too, perhaps evidence that the numbers were attached to people.
Proof that the gold she had been so proud of burning had become roads under shoes, drains that worked, food that arrived warm, wages that bought rest, and lamps that made streets less frightening.
That was inconvenient and satisfying at once, and Dara could hold both truths. She was complex like that.
Then the crowd shifted near the fountain.
A small girl stood half-hidden behind a woman’s skirt, clutching something in both hands.
Dara noticed her because the child was staring with the kind of fierce, terrified determination usually seen in people about to do something very brave or very foolish.
Dara paused.
The woman looked down, realized her daughter had stopped moving, and paled.
“Mila,” she whispered. “No—”
The little girl stepped forward anyway.
The object in her hands was a flower crown.
Small.
Uneven.
Clearly handmade.
Woven from tiny white field flowers, pale yellow blossoms, bits of green stem, and one ambitious blue flower that stuck slightly higher than the rest like it had opinions.
It was not elegant, expensive, or symmetrical.
It was, Dara thought, very carefully made.
The square seemed to notice all at once, nearby chatter softening around them.
Valerius went still beside her.
The little girl held out the crown with both hands. “For you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Dara looked from the flower crown to the child.
The woman behind her looked as if she wanted the earth to open and swallow the entire family for violating every known social rule.
Dara’s heart did something strange—small, sharp, and warm. She stepped forward, then lowered herself carefully until she was closer to the child’s height.
A collective breath moved through the crowd.
Dara ignored it.
She accepted the crown with both hands. “Thank you.”
The little girl’s eyes widened.
Dara looked at the flowers again. “You made this?”
The girl nodded quickly.
“It’s very well done.”
The girl’s face lit.
Just like that.
Bright and unguarded.
Dara’s throat tightened. Ridiculous. It was flowers, a crooked little crown made of weeds and courage. And yet.
She placed it gently on her head.
The square went silent.
For half a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then someone gasped. Someone else laughed softly.
The little girl clapped both hands over her mouth, delighted, and the crowd erupted—not polite applause, not formal approval, but cheering. Actual cheering.
Workers first, loud and immediate. Then commoners. Then merchants, because merchants knew a moment when they saw one. Even some of the guards smiled before remembering they were supposed to look severe.
“Lady Lynara!”
“Governess Lynara Voss!”
Then, from somewhere near the fountain, a voice shouted, “Princess Lynara!”
Dara froze. Oh no.
Another voice picked it up.
“Princess Lynara!”
Then another.
A small cluster of children began chanting it because children loved nothing more than socially dangerous repetition.
“Princess Lynara! Princess Lynara!”
Dara’s soul briefly attempted to exit her body.
No, she thought.
Cai floated in front of her, eyes enormous with joy. Oh yes.
No.
They gave you a crown.
It is made of flowers.
Symbolism does not care.
Dara rose slowly, flower crown sitting crookedly atop her carefully arranged hair.
The cheering continued.
Valerius stood beside her.
Composed.
Still.
But his eyes—
Oh, his eyes were warm enough to be a problem.
Dara turned her head very slowly and looked at him. “Do not,” she said under her breath.
His brows lifted slightly. “I said nothing.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I often think.”
“Stop.”
His mouth curved.
Behind him, the nobles looked as if they had been forced to witness a public coronation conducted by commoners and wildflowers.
Which, to be fair, they had.
Dara looked back at the cheering crowd.
At the little girl beaming up at her.
At the workers clapping.
At the commoners smiling like they had just decided something among themselves.
At the nobles trying not to look alarmed.
Something inside Dara split neatly into two reactions.
The first was horror.
Because this was clearly terrible for exile.
The second was satisfaction.
Because the nobles were absolutely suffering.
She chose to focus on the second.
Dara lifted one hand.
The crowd quieted only slightly.
Not enough.
But enough.
“Thank you,” she said, voice carrying just far enough.
The cheering rose again.
Cai clasped his claws beneath his chin. Your evil plan is working beautifully.
Dara stared out at the crowd chanting her almost-title and felt the flower crown settle lightly against her hair. This is not what working means.
It is now.
Valerius leaned slightly closer, his voice low enough for her alone. “It suits you.”
Dara did not look at him. “If you say crown, I will step on your foot.”
“I was going to say flowers.”
She glanced at him.
He looked far too innocent.
Suspicious man.
Dara lifted her chin and began walking again, because standing still while being called princess seemed dangerous.
The little girl returned to her mother, who looked near tears and was absolutely terrified. Dara paused long enough to say, “She has good hands. Encourage that.”
The woman blinked.
Then bowed so deeply Dara almost regretted speaking.
Almost.
As Dara and Valerius moved on, the chant softened into excited conversation.
But the word remained.
Princess.
Princess Lynara.
Dara heard it ripple through the square like a rumor learning to walk.
Cai drifted beside her, practically glowing. People’s princess, he whispered.
Do not.
Beloved reformer.
I will trap you in a teacup.
Flower-crowned civic darling.
Dara’s eye twitched.
Valerius, entirely too aware of her expression, asked, “Is something wrong?”
Dara looked out over the square. The nobles were pale, the commoners delighted, the workers proud, and the merchants already spreading the story with their eyes.
She touched the edge of the flower crown once, then smiled. “No.”
And because she was Dara, because she was ridiculous, because she was still trying very hard to interpret obvious public adoration as criminal progress, she added under her breath, “Everything is going according to plan.”
Cai laughed so hard he nearly fell out of the air.
Valerius only looked at her, warm and amused and quietly, dangerously pleased.
Dara kept walking.
Flower crown on her head.
Crown Prince at her side.
Crowd murmuring her name.
Nobles sweating beneath silk.
Yes. Perfect.
Surely this was what exile looked like.