Princess and Maid - Chapter 14: Proxies and Principles

Adrastia guided the wheelchair through palace corridors Roselle had never seen. Each turn revealed more opulence—gilded ceiling frescoes, marble statues in recessed alcoves, doorways inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

The few nobles they passed stopped mid-conversation, bowing deeply to Adrastia while casting curious glances. Roselle ducked her head. It was probably the first time they, or anyone for that matter, had ever seen a princess pushing a servant along in a wheelchair.

They approached a set of double doors flanked by imperial guards in formal ceremonial armor. The guards opened the doors without question, revealing a large audience chamber.

Roselle’s breath caught.

Two dozen palace staff stood in neat rows, facing forward in rigid attention. Maids, footmen, laundresses—all wore identical expressions of barely concealed fear. At the front stood a severe-looking woman in a formal black dress with silver accents. This was Madam Gisele’s counterpart in the central palace.

Adrastia pushed the wheelchair to the center of the room, positioning Roselle to face the assembled staff.

“What is this?” Roselle whispered, her pulse quickening.

“Justice,” Adrastia replied simply. She moved to stand beside the wheelchair. “Can you identify any of the individuals who attacked you?”

Roselle’s stomach clenched. “I—”

“Take your time,” Adrastia said, her voice carrying in the silent room. “Look carefully.”

Roselle gripped the armrests tightly, anxiety flooding through her. These people would remain in the palace long after the princess’s interest in her inevitably waned. If she accused someone wrongly—or worse, correctly—what would happen after?

But the alternative seemed equally dangerous. Refusing the princess felt impossible.

She forced herself to look at each face systematically. In the second row, fifth from the left, stood an older woman with a narrow face and thin lips. Recognition hit Roselle like a physical blow.

“Her,” Roselle said, pointing with a shaking finger. “The older woman, second row, in the gray uniform. She was the leader—the one who gave the orders and hit me in the face when I fought back.”

The woman’s face remained impassive, but something flickered in her eyes.

Roselle continued scanning, finding another familiar face three people down. “And her too. The woman with the dark hair tied back. She’s the one who twisted my arm behind my back.”

The woman flinched visibly.

By the time she reached the back row, she’d spotted a third. “The red-haired maid at the end. She’s the one who brought the bucket of… waste.”

“Three out of five,” Adrastia noted. She nodded to a guard standing nearby. “These three have been identified.”

The older maid stepped forward suddenly. “Your Highness, this is absurd! The girl isn’t in her right mind. Look at her! Drugged with pain remedies, confused. She’s making wild accusations!”

“Am I?” Roselle snapped, anger flaring through her pain. “You’re the one who said I was getting above my station. You’re the one who said ‘next time will be worse’ after you beat me.”

“Lies!” the woman hissed.

“Silence,” Adrastia commanded, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. “There were five of you. Twenty lashes each is the prescribed punishment for assault on imperial household staff.”

The princess turned toward a guard, and he approached, carrying two whips. Roselle recognized both instantly from her tavern days, where drunken soldiers sometimes boasted of military punishments. One was a standard disciplinary whip—flat leather strips that would leave painful welts but rarely broke skin. The other—

The other was a nightmare. Metal tips caught the light at the end of each lash. Twenty strokes with that would flay skin from bone. It wasn’t a disciplinary tool; it was an execution device.

“Who were the other two?” Adrastia asked, taking both whips and holding them up for all to see. “Identify them now, or the punishment will be thirty-three lashes each.”

The older maid’s composure cracked. “This is outrageous! You can’t—”

“Elsa from the laundry,” the dark-haired woman blurted, pointing toward a mousy woman in the front row. “And Martha from the kitchens.” She nodded toward a heavyset woman near the back.

Both individuals paled, Martha stumbling backward until guards blocked her retreat.

Roselle frowned. She couldn’t honestly place either face. The attack had happened too quickly, and she only recalled the other three.

“Your Highness,” the senior housekeeper at the front of the room spoke up. “This type of interrogation proves nothing. They could be naming innocent people to lessen their own punishment.”

“An astute observation, Madam Helaine,” Adrastia replied coolly. “However, it’s moot. Before assembling your staff, before Miss Varian’s testimony, I conducted a thorough investigation. My guards questioned everyone in the domestic quarters, traced movements, established timelines. We already knew who was responsible.”

Roselle blinked in surprise. The princess had investigated? For her?

“Today’s identification merely confirms what we already knew,” Adrastia continued.

Adrastia turned to face the five identified attackers, now grouped together under guard. “Who ordered you to assault my attendant?”

The question hung in the air. Roselle watched the group exchange nervous glances, none meeting the princess’s gaze directly.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” Adrastia continued, running her finger along the metal-tipped whip. “One of you will tell me who gave the order, or you will all face the barbs.”

The youngest maid—Elsa—broke first. “It was her!” She pointed at the older woman. “She organized everything! Said there’d be silver for each of us!”

“Shut your mouth, you stupid girl!” the older woman hissed.

The red-haired maid nodded frantically. “She told us someone important wanted the tavern girl taught a lesson. Said we’d be doing the palace a favor!”

“Traitors!” The older woman lunged toward the younger maids, only to be restrained by the guards.

The dark-haired woman kept her eyes fixed on the floor. “She promised protection if we got caught. Said nobody would care about a servant getting roughed up.”

Roselle tightened her grip on the wheelchair’s armrests, her knuckles turning white. These people had beaten her, humiliated her, left her broken—all for a few pieces of silver.

Madam Helaine stepped forward. “Your Highness, domestic discipline typically falls under my authority—”

“This was not discipline, Madam Helaine. It was assault on imperial staff,” Adrastia replied coldly.

Adrastia approached the older woman, who stood rigidly between two guards. “I’ll ask you directly. Who gave you the order to attack Roselle Varian?”

“Nobody important, Your Highness.” The woman’s voice dripped with false deference. “Just thought the girl needed reminding of her place.”

“Five people coordinated an assault, used palace resources to plan it, timed it during my absence, and targeted my personal attendant.” Adrastia’s voice remained eerily calm. “Yet you expect me to believe this was your independent initiative?”

“People talk, Your Highness. Servants gossip.”

Adrastia sighed and gestured toward a side door. A young page entered—the same boy who had summoned Roselle to the palace originally. His face now bore an ugly bruise across one cheek, his lip split and scabbed.

Roselle’s breath caught. Someone had questioned him roughly.

“This page delivered messages between you and someone outside the domestic staff,” Adrastia said, watching the older woman’s reaction. “He’s been most informative about your meetings.”

The woman’s composure cracked slightly. “The boy is lying.”

“Perhaps your memory needs stimulation.” Adrastia lifted the metal-tipped whip, examining it with clinical detachment. “Twenty lashes with leather is survivable. But this?” She ran her finger along one of the metal barbs. “At five lashes, infection typically sets in. At ten, permanent disfigurement. At twenty?” She leaned closer to the woman. “The palace would need to hire a new servant.”

Roselle shivered despite herself. The cold calculation in Adrastia’s voice wasn’t anger—it was something more frightening.

“Sir Donald!” the older woman blurted, stepping back from the whip. “It was Sir Donald of the First Imperial Guard! He paid us to teach her a lesson!”

“Sir Donald,” Adrastia repeated. “You’re certain?”

“Yes! He approached me in the servants’ passage near the east wing. Said the girl was causing problems. Offered twenty silver pieces to arrange an accident!”

“Look at me.” Adrastia’s command froze the woman in place. “Say his name again.”

“Sir Donald.”

“Once more.”

“Sir Donald of the First Imperial Guard, I swear it!” The woman’s voice cracked. “Please, Your Highness, it’s the truth!”

Adrastia handed both whips back to the guard. “Bring Sir Donald of the First Imperial Guard to me immediately.”

Two guards departed at a brisk pace. The remaining guards herded the five attackers to a corner of the room, where they huddled like frightened animals.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Roselle cleared her throat. “Who is Sir Donald? Why would he care enough about me to do this?”

Adrastia moved behind Roselle’s wheelchair, positioning it to face the chamber doors. “Sir Donald is a knight in my father’s personal guard. He’s also likely another buffer between the attack and its true architect.”

“Buffer?”

“The person who gave the order would never dirty their hands directly. They’d use intermediaries—someone orders Sir Donald, he orders the maid and page, who organized the actual attack.” Adrastia’s voice lowered. “Based on his affiliations, Sir Donald likely serves the Empress’s faction.”

Roselle frowned. “The Empress wanted me beaten?”

“Possibly. Or Duke Orastian. Or any number of other players who benefit from undermining my position.” Adrastia’s hands rested lightly on the back of Roselle’s chair. “Sir Donald may be as high as we can reach with this particular thread.”

Minutes dragged into a half-hour of tense waiting. Roselle fought the urge to fidget, uncomfortably aware of the five attackers watching her from across the room. The pain in her ribs flared as her muscles tensed.

Finally, the chamber doors swung open. An armored man entered. Tall and imposing with a meticulously trimmed beard, he moved with military precision. Sir Donald.

He halted several paces from them, offering a formal bow. “Your Imperial Highness. I was told you requested my presence.”

His polished armor caught the chamber’s light, the insignia of the First Imperial Guard—a golden eagle with spread wings—gleaming on his breastplate. Roselle had never seen him before, yet this man had ordered her beaten bloody.

“Sir Donald,” Adrastia’s voice remained conversational, almost pleasant. “In your knightly vows, how heavily does honor weigh?”

The knight straightened slightly. “Honor is the foundation of knighthood, Your Highness.”

“And loyalty to one’s master?”

“Sacred. Second only to loyalty to the Emperor himself.”

Roselle noted how he kept his gaze fixed on Adrastia, not once looking at her slumped form in the wheelchair. Did he even recognize her?

“Interesting principles.” Adrastia stepped forward. “Tell me then, Sir Donald, why did you order my personal attendant assaulted?”

His expression remained neutral, but Roselle caught the slight twitch of his hand. His gaze flickered briefly toward the servants huddled in the corner before returning to Adrastia.

“I did no such thing, Your Highness. There must be some mistake.”

“A mistake.” Adrastia’s mouth curved in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She gestured to the ring-leader maid. “You, approach.”

The older servant shuffled forward, head bowed.

“Tell Sir Donald who ordered you to assault my attendant.”

The woman’s voice trembled. “It was you, Sir Donald. In the east passage. You paid me twenty silver pieces.”

Sir Donald’s jaw tightened. “This woman is lying. I have no dealings with domestic staff.”

“The page who delivered your messages is also lying? They arrived to the same answer independently.” Adrastia gestured to the bruised boy.

“Servants lie to save themselves from punishment, Your Highness.”

Roselle’s ribs throbbed with remembered pain. The casual dismissal in his voice made her stomach churn.

Adrastia glanced around the chamber. “You should understand, Sir Donald, that this is a public forum. Nothing said here will remain private. Word will spread of this discussion to every corner of the palace.”

Roselle caught her meaning immediately—Adrastia was ensuring witnesses. Whatever happened here would become known, regardless of outcome.

“With that understanding,” Adrastia continued, “I ask you once more: who ordered you to arrange this assault?”

Sir Donald’s face had gone slightly pale, but his voice remained firm. “I deny any involvement, Your Highness. These servants fabricate tales to escape punishment.”

“I see.” Adrastia clasped her hands behind her back. “Sir Donald of House Terrick, third son of Baron Terrick, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“House Terrick—a minor noble house from the western provinces.” Adrastia’s tone shifted, taking on a casual, almost bored quality. “Your father achieved his title through service in the border wars, as I recall. Not inherited nobility.”

Roselle watched confusion flash across the knight’s face at this apparent change of subject.

“My father earned his title through blood and sacrifice,” Sir Donald replied stiffly.

“A shame his third son couldn’t maintain such honor.” Adrastia’s voice hardened suddenly. “Instead, Sir Donald of House Terrick stoops to ordering attacks on servant girls. Tell me, is that what knighthood has become? Paying others to do your dirty work while you hide behind your armor?”

A flush crept up Sir Donald’s neck. “Your Highness, I must object to—”

“Object all you want. It changes nothing.” Adrastia circled him slowly. “House Terrick’s legacy—earned through battlefield valor—now stained by a coward who attacks defenseless servants through paid proxies.”

The knight’s hands clenched into fists. “I am no coward.”

“No? What would you call a man who orders five people to beat a single girl? Who has human waste thrown on her? Who threatens worse if she doesn’t ‘remember her place’?”

Each question struck like a physical blow. Roselle could see Sir Donald struggling to maintain composure as Adrastia systematically dismantled his honor.

“Your father fought against armed men on the battlefield.” Adrastia glanced meaningfully at Roselle in her wheelchair. “You wage war against injured maids. Truly, House Terrick’s standards have fallen.”

“Enough!” Color mottled Sir Donald’s face. “You go too far, Princess.”

“I’ve barely begun.” Adrastia stepped closer. “Let it be known throughout the palace that I, Princess Adrastia, heir to the Steel Throne, declare Sir Donald of House Terrick a dishonorable coward who conspires against the imperial household through the foulest means.”

Roselle watched in astonishment as Adrastia pulled off her right glove with deliberate slowness.

“Let it be known that his house shall forever bear the stain of the filth he has so easily had thrown on his behalf.” Adrastia’s voice carried to every corner of the chamber. “Unless…”

In one swift motion, she flung the glove directly into Sir Donald’s face.

“Unless he accepts my challenge to defend what scraps of honor remain to him.”

The glove fell to the floor between them. The chamber went deathly silent.

Roselle held her breath. Even in the tavern, everyone knew what a thrown glove meant. A formal challenge. A duel.

Sir Donald trembled visibly, rage and fear battling across his features. “You… challenge me?”

“A captain of the Imperial Guard challenges a knight who has forgotten his vows,” Adrastia corrected. “Or does your courage extend only to ordering beatings from the safety of shadows?”

His breathing came in sharp, shallow bursts. “I accept.”

“Perhaps you do have enough honor to hide the snakes pulling your puppet strings,” Adrastia remarked. “How noble to protect those who use you.”

“You know nothing of my circumstances!” The words burst from him with surprising vehemence.

Roselle caught something in his tone—not just anger, but desperation. What hold did his masters have over him?

Adrastia retrieved her glove from the floor. “Tomorrow, then.”

“After the mid-morning bell,” Sir Donald replied, rigid with barely contained fury.

“After the mid-morning bell,” Adrastia confirmed. “Bring your second.”

Sir Donald bowed stiffly and turned to leave.

Roselle exhaled shakily. “Can you do that? Challenge a knight to a duel?”

“I just did.” Adrastia moved behind the wheelchair. “Guards, escort those five to the holding cells. They’ll receive the leather and be expelled after tomorrow’s matter is settled.”

“What happens now?” Roselle asked as Adrastia began wheeling her toward the doors.

“Now?” A grim smile touched Adrastia’s lips. “Now we prepare for a duel.”