Gira Husty

[Location: Shugodom, Merchant Commercial District.]

The alley stank of stale water and fear.

Gira had slipped out of the palace an hour ago, trading the weight of her ceremonial mantle for a plain red cloak. A princess, she had learned long before she ever wore a crown, could not hear the truth of her kingdom from a throne. So she walked the lower districts in the spaces between her duties, a ghost that the official records would never mention.

Tonight, the truth had a sound. A choked sob. A man’s cruel laugh. The wet thud of a fist meeting flesh. She rounded the corner with the silence of a spider descending its thread.

Three of them. Low-level thugs with stolen Bugnarak armor plates strapped over their chests, vultures who’d grown bold in the chaos of the past weeks. They had a merchant pinned against the wall, his wife cowering behind a broken cart, her hand pressed to a split lip. The merchant’s nose was already a ruin of blood.

My people.

The thought was not a queen’s calculation. It was a hot, visceral thing that coiled in her chest like a serpent uncurling. She let the cloak fall. “How fortunate for me,” she said, and her voice slid out in that silken register she reserved for performances, “I was so terribly bored tonight.”

---

The thugs turned. Recognition dawned, not of the woman beneath the cloak, but of the presence. The way she stood, one hip cocked, her smile too wide, her eyes glittering with something that made the largest of the three take an involuntary step back. “The... the Evil Queen,” he stammered.

Gira tilted her head, letting the torchlight catch the sharp line of her jaw, the shadows pooling beneath her eyes. She had learned years ago that fear was a tool, and a woman who smiled too brightly in the dark was a thing that haunted men’s dreams. “I prefer Her Imperial Majesty of Unpredictable Cruelty,” she said, drawing the words out like a blade being unsheathed. “But Mad Princess will do. For now.”

The merchant and his wife had gone still, their terror now a different flavor. They did not know, could not know, that her cruelty was a mask. To them, she was the tyrant who demanded impossible taxes, who laughed at suffering. She saw it in the way the wife pulled her husband closer, as if choosing between one predator and another. The knowledge cut. She buried it. “We didn’t mean no trouble, Your—” the thug began.

“Oh, but you found it.” She took a step forward, and they took two back. “You see, I’ve had a simply dreadful week. My brother keeps sending assassins, so predictable, so boring. And now I find three little insects playing at soldiers in my city.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to break something.”

The largest thug’s bravado crumbled. He bolted first, his companions scrambling after him, their stolen armor clattering against the cobblestones. Within seconds, the alley was empty save for the heavy breathing of the merchant and his wife, and the slow, deliberate exhale Gira allowed herself. Good. They’re safe.

She turned to the couple, and for a moment the mask wavered, a flicker of something softer in her eyes, a hand half-lifted as if to offer comfort. Then she saw the way the merchant’s wife flinched. Right. I am still the villain.

“Go home,” she said, her voice flat now. “And perhaps consider paying your taxes on time. Next time I might not be so merciful.”

She did not wait to see them scramble away. She pulled her cloak back over her shoulders and walked deeper into the shadows, her boots silent on the wet stones. Royal duties.

The thought tasted like ash. What duty was there in sitting on a throne while her people cowered in alleyways? What duty was there in letting them believe she was the monster they feared, just to keep her cover intact? She had nearly reached the district’s boundary wall when she felt it, a presence. Not hostile. Familiar.

She stopped. Her hand moved instinctively to where the Kumonoslayer was hidden beneath her cloak, but she did not draw it. She had learned to trust her instincts, and her instincts said: safe. Known.

Still, she did not turn. She let her shoulders settle into the languid slope of her public persona, let the mask slide back into place with practiced ease. Her voice, when she spoke, was light. Airy. The voice of a princess who had nothing to hide.

“Well, well. Fancy meeting a fellow monarch in such a disreputable part of town.” She finally turned, a too-bright smile curving her lips. “I do hope you weren’t looking for me at the palace. I’m afraid I stepped out for some... fresh air.”

She met their eyes, the seventh monarch. The one ruler besides Jeramie who had not been dragged to a cell by her brother’s machinations. The one person who might actually see through her act.

The smile stayed fixed. The wall stayed up. But beneath her cloak, her fingers were trembling. They can’t know, she told herself, the familiar refrain. If they know, they’re in danger. If they know, they might try to help, and then Racules will—

---

She let out a theatrical sigh, waving a hand as if dismissing the entire situation. “Really, you needn’t look so concerned. Just a bit of... community outreach. Keeping the rabble in line. You understand, I’m sure.” She began walking toward them, her stride casual, unhurried. “Now, shall we return to the palace? I’m sure you had a very important reason for seeking me out, and I would hate to keep you waiting.”

As she drew closer, she let her gaze drift past them, toward the distant lights of the castle. For just a moment, a single, treacherous moment, she let the mask slip. Her eyes were tired. Her jaw was tight with a weariness that had nothing to do with sleeplessness. Then she blinked, and the Mad Princess was back, laughing softly as she swept past. “Come along, then. I believe there’s a council meeting I’m supposed to be spectacularly late for.”

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[Location: Madika, Capital Street.]

The lanterns of Madika swayed like captured stars, their warm glow washing over the cobblestone streets and the laughter of a people finally at peace. Gira Husty stood at the edge of the square, her arms crossed loosely over the chest of a simple indigo tunic, no armor, no crown, no mask. The fabric was a gift from Himeno, something “befitting a queen at rest,” though Gira still felt oddly exposed without the weight of her regalia.

She watched a cluster of children chase each other around a fountain, their shrieks of joy bouncing off the rebuilt stone facades. One of them, a girl with pigtails, tripped and skinned her knee. Before the tears could fully form, Gira was already crouching beside her, a handkerchief pressed gently to the scrape.

“There,” she murmured, her voice soft. “A warrior’s first scar. Wear it proudly.”

The girl sniffled, then beamed. “Thank you, Your Majesty!”

The title made Gira’s lips twitch into something between a smile and a wince. She ruffled the child’s hair and stood, brushing dust from her knees. As the children ran off, her gaze drifted across the square, past the stalls selling spiced pastries, past the musicians tuning their instruments, until it found you.

---

You stood near the central pavilion, speaking with an elderly Madikan artisan. Even from a distance, Gira could see the ease in your posture, the way you leaned in to listen with the same intensity you once brought to battle plans. This was your kingdom, your people, and you moved among them like water finding its level.

She felt a familiar warmth kindle in her chest, the same one that had caught her off guard a hundred times since the war ended. It was not the blazing fury she’d once worn as armor, nor the desperate protectiveness that had driven her to play a tyrant. It was quieter. Gentler. And it terrified her still.

You’re staring, a voice in her head chided. She’d have recognized it as Douga’s if he were there, but he was off haggling for honeyed nuts, leaving her to her own devices. Dangerous.

She forced herself to look away, busying her hands with the edge of her tunic. When she glanced back, you had finished your conversation and were making your way toward her, a wooden cup in each hand.

Gira’s spine straightened instinctively, an old reflex. For a moment, the phantom of the Mad Princess whispered: Sneer. Dismiss. Keep them at arm’s length. But she had spent a year learning to ignore that voice. Instead, she let her shoulders relax—just a fraction.

You stopped before her, offering one of the cups. The liquid inside smelled of honey and something floral, Madika’s famous festival brew. She took it, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest instant. Her grip tightened around the cup, grounding herself.

“You didn’t have to,” she said, the words coming out softer than she intended. She cleared her throat, lifting her chin in a mockery of her old hauteur. “I was perfectly capable of acquiring my own refreshments. I am a queen.”

But her eyes betrayed her. They crinkled at the corners, warm as the lantern light. She took a sip. The sweetness coated her tongue, and she hummed appreciatively despite herself. “It’s good,” she admitted, almost reluctantly. Then, quieter: “Your people are happy.”

It wasn’t a question. She had seen it in every corner of Madika tonight, the easy laughter, the open doors, the way the elderly sat on benches without flinching at every shadow. It was the same fragile, hard-won peace that Shuggodam was learning to breathe into.

She looked at the cup in her hands, watching the liquid ripple with each distant drumbeat. “Sometimes I think...” She paused, the words catching. Sometimes I think we’ll wake up and it will all have been a dream. The war. The victory. This. “Sometimes I think the rebuilding is harder than the fighting.”

The confession hung in the air between you. A year ago, she would have swallowed it down, hidden it behind a cackle and a dismissive wave. But you had seen her at her worst—bloodied and unmasked, screaming at Racules’s throne with tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face. You had not flinched then. She found she did not want to hide from you now.

She raised the cup in a mock toast, a fragile smile playing at her lips. “To peace,” **she said, her voice steady again, though something vulnerable lingered beneath it. “May it be twice as stubborn as we are.”

---

From across the square, the musicians struck up a lively tune. A few couples began to dance, their movements unselfconscious, joyful. Gira watched them for a long moment, then let her gaze return to you.

“You should join them,” she said, nodding toward the dancers. “Your people would like to see their monarch celebrating.” She did not say I would like to see it too. But the words hung in the space between, unspoken but unmistakable.

She took another sip of her drink, hiding her expression behind the rim. The night was warm, the lanterns were bright, and for once, just for once, she let herself simply stand beside a friend, without armor, without performance, without the weight of a crown pressing down on her skull.

It was, she thought, the closest she had ever come to feeling like a queen.