I was wiping the sweat from my brow, still sore from falling off the horse, when the palace gates stirred with movement. My heart skipped. A royal envoy? Another noble? Or worse—a scandal brewing?
Then I saw him.
Celio.
That fox-faced man walked with the confidence of someone untouchable, dressed in a modest travel coat that still couldn't hide the arrogance beneath it. He bowed before me—not out of respect, but to make a show.
"Lady Diana," he said smoothly, "I was sent by your late father's associates to check on your health. After all, with your sudden rise in the palace, concerns about your well-being reached us swiftly."
How convenient. And yet, no one questioned him at the gates. I always underestimated how he slithered through circles like a phantom—charming, pretending, deceiving.
I narrowed my eyes. "I appreciate the concern. But I'm surprised my father had such... dedicated friends."
Celio smiled, unfazed. "I never do anything halfway."
He turned and gestured toward the three individuals behind him.
"This," he said, motioning to a man in a crisp charcoal coat, "is Mr. Leono Garves, your new Financial Advisor. I trust your recent winnings, land rights, and promised stipends will require sophisticated management."
Leono stepped forward and gave a courteous bow. "My lady, I'll ensure your wealth grows in silence and security. Every coin, every deal, every favor—accounted for and traced to your favor."
"I'll believe that when I see numbers," I said coolly.
Next, Celio waved toward a woman in travel boots and an official tunic stamped with the seal of land governance.
"And this is Marien Sael, your appointed Territorial Overseer for the Island of Cion. Her role is to cultivate and transform the island under your name—economically and politically."
Marien gave me a firm nod. "The soil's fertile but neglected. With your backing, we can make it a cornerstone trade hub or a stronghold. Depends on your ambitions."
I was silent for a moment. I'd never owned land before. Now I was being spoken to like a ruler in the making.
Then came the last man, cloaked and quiet, carrying a small satchel filled with scrolls.
"And lastly, Verian Dott, our Forgery Specialist—or, to use the polite term, Legal Document Consultant. He's here to ensure all your titles, histories, and statuses are indistinguishable from truth. After this, no one will doubt that you were born Diana, heir to nobility."
Verian offered no bow, only a nod. "When I'm done, your past won't matter. You'll be who the documents say you are."
I stared at Celio. "How much does this cost?"
He smirked. "Don't insult me. Consider it an investment... in the Queen you're meant to become."
I didn't respond. My trust in him was thinner than a strand of hair, especially after what he did to Xyra—wanting her hand like a prize, as if age or consent didn't matter. I would never forgive that.
But even I couldn't deny it.
He just handed me a kingdom's worth of power, tied up in names, land, and paperwork.
And the game had officially shifted again—this time, in my favor.
Celio might think he controlled the board—but he'd just handed me the queen's piece.
I offered a composed smile and folded my arms behind me, chin slightly raised. "Thank you all for your introductions. I'll be contacting each of you once I finalize the structure of my plan. But for now…" —I turned to the quietest among them— "…my priority lies with Mr. Verian Dott."
Verian stepped forward, silent as a shadow, his fingers laced over the leather satchel slung across his chest.
"I need you to forge an identity," I began, voice low and steady. "Not just any. It must be flawless—clean, traceable, believable. Enough to convince a king."
He didn't flinch. "What are the specifications, my lady?"
"I am to dine with the King," I said carefully, "and I don't know how far he's willing to dig into who I am. So I need everything—from birth papers to property deeds—documents that will say I am Diana Swan, daughter of a late blacksteel magnate. That I was born and raised in the district once known as the Heart of Steel, near the southern borders of the kingdom."
Verian nodded slightly, eyes gleaming with quiet calculation.
"The Heart of Steel," I continued, "was a community built around the old forge mines—abandoned now, but still remembered for its influence during the reign of King Harriet. The people there were once esteemed metalworkers, part of the merchant-noble class. My story will be that my father, Eros Swan, passed away years ago, leaving behind only me. A surviving heiress hidden away under the guardianship of an old friend."
"And that friend would be… Celio?" Verian asked, as if connecting threads on a loom.
"Yes. He presented himself at court in that role. It must all align. I want the records to say I was educated privately, isolated after my father's death to avoid inheritance politics."
Verian remained silent for a few moments. Then: "Very well. I will need access to the old mining records, the census documents from the Harriet Era, and the official seal of the Heart's Forge Guild. I assume I'll be given access?"
"You'll have it," I said, eyes narrowing slightly. "Just make sure the documents can withstand scrutiny—especially if they pass through the King's ministers."
He nodded. "You'll have your new birth by the end of the week."
I gave him a small nod of approval, then turned my back slightly, facing the horizon.
The Heart of Steel.
It sounded poetic, didn't it? Fitting for a girl whose real name was forged in fire—and whose future, like steel, had to be sharpened by pressure.
Before I could even exhale from the weight of my request, Marien—the woman sent to cultivate the island of Cion—stepped forward, her voice crisp and unshaken.
"If the Heart of Steel does not exist in recent records, I will make it exist," she said simply, as if nation-building were no more difficult than arranging flowers. "A ghost district can be drawn into history with the right architecture and whispers in the right ears. All I need is the foundation: a plausible location, remnants of an industry, and one nobleman's death."
Then she turned her gaze, sharp as cut glass, toward the financial advisor.
"Mr. Leo Garves," she said. "Estimate the budget for an infrastructure mirage. We'll need burned ledgers, a crumbled estate, and a paper trail thick enough to satisfy a royal investigation."
Leo didn't blink. He took out a slim book, dipped his pen in ink, and began calculating in quiet strokes.
"Preliminary estimate," he said after a moment, "is eighty thousand silver coins—minimum. That covers fake guild records, ghost workers' payrolls, land documents, two staged interviews with fabricated townsfolk, and possibly one museum exhibit to immortalize the legacy of Eros Swan."
My stomach tightened. Eighty thousand.
The number echoed in my skull like iron bars closing in. I had gold saved—enough to get by, enough for escape—but not for this.
Suddenly, the world felt like it was slipping just a little too far out of my hands.
Too fast. Too vast. Too dangerous.
And yet—these three stood before me as calm as seasoned generals at the dawn of war.
Verian smirked slightly, as if he enjoyed watching me calculate the risk.
Leo simply returned to his notebook.
And Marien?
She met my eyes with an unsettling kind of poise.
"You wanted to be more than a girl hiding under another woman's name," she said. "This is what it costs to become real."
I inhaled deeply, steadying myself. My hands were clenched so tightly I could feel the blood retreat from my fingertips.
"Fine," I said at last, voice even. "But I want every document verified under my command. No secondhand approvals. This is my identity, and I will decide every word that defines it."
Marien gave the smallest of nods. "Then you're ready."
But I wasn't. Not truly. Still—I had no choice but to act like I was.
Because now… I wasn't just playing a game.
I was building the board.