Malvoria did not agree at first.
In fact, her first response was an immediate, incredulous, "Absolutely not."
Sarisa, already standing with one hand on the tray, looked back at her without blinking. "I'm going."
"No," Malvoria repeated, more sharply this time.
"You are not walking into the lower cells while half the palace is looking for a reason to make this worse. Your mother would love nothing more than to catch you running to her."
"That is exactly why I have to do it."
Malvoria opened her mouth, probably to argue something loud, profane, and painfully reasonable, but Elysia got there first.
"It can be done," Elysia said mildly, closing her book and rising from her chair beneath the tree.
Both Sarisa and Malvoria turned toward her.
Elysia crossed the grass with the serene expression of a woman proposing tea service instead of royal deception.
She stopped beside the table and looked Sarisa over from head to toe, taking in the blue gown, the unbound hair, the fury still held too neatly in her posture.
"Yes," she murmured. "With the right spell, it can be done."
Malvoria stared at her. "You're encouraging this."
"I'm preventing a larger disaster," Elysia corrected. "If Sarisa sneaks off looking like herself, she'll be caught in six steps. If she goes looking like a palace guard, there is at least a chance she'll reach Lara before her mother notices."
Malvoria scowled, because she hated when Elysia was right almost as much as she loved it.
Sarisa set the tray back down and took one step toward Elysia. "Can you do it?"
Elysia's lips curved. "Of course."
Malvoria threw up her hands. "Fine. Fine. But if this goes badly, I'm burning the west wing."
"That seems proportionate," Elysia said.
"It is for me."
The children, thankfully, were too occupied with inventing a new game involving flower petals and dramatic betrayal to notice the sudden shift in adult tension.
Elysia led Sarisa a little farther down the terrace, away from curious eyes, and motioned for her to stand still.
"Hold your breath for the first part," she said. "Transformation magic always tastes strange."
"That is not comforting."
"It isn't meant to be."
Sarisa nodded once.
Elysia lifted both hands. Her magic came quiet and silvery, nothing like Lara's fire or Malvoria's crackling strength.
It moved like moonlight on water, cool and elegant, winding around Sarisa's body in thin ribbons. The first touch of it made Sarisa shiver.
It slid over her shoulders, down her arms, around her throat, and then tightened, not painfully, but with enough force to make her gasp.
For one dizzying second the world doubled.
Her skin prickled. Her bones felt too close to the surface. Her dress dissolved into the texture of rough dark fabric, heavy and practical.
The weight of a breastplate settled against her ribs, leather straps crossing her shoulders.
Her hair tightened, drawing itself back beneath the illusion of a guard's close-bound style, and her hands changed too—broader, rougher, bearing the callused look of someone who held weapons, not pens.
When Elysia lowered her hands, the spell settled with a faint shimmer and was gone.
Malvoria whistled.
Sarisa looked down at herself and nearly staggered. She wore a guard's uniform now—one of the lower palace ranks, simple but convincing. Even her voice, when she said, "Well?" came out slightly rougher, lower in her own ears.
"Very good," Elysia said with satisfaction. "Not perfect up close, but more than enough if you keep your head down and don't stop to chat."
Malvoria circled her once, arms crossed, clearly trying to hate the idea and admire the execution at the same time. "You smell wrong."
"That is an unfortunate sentence."
"For a disguise, I mean," Malvoria snapped. "Less princess. More corridor dust and bad decisions."
Elysia flicked two fingers, and a faint additional pulse of magic settled over Sarisa. The scent changed—subtly, but enough. Clean linen and sunlight dimmed under steel oil and leather.
"There," Elysia said. "Now you smell disappointing enough to pass."
Sarisa would have laughed under other circumstances. Instead she reached for the tray.
Malvoria caught her wrist before she could lift it.
For a moment, all the teasing vanished from her face. What remained was raw, protective anger.
"If anyone tries to stop you," she said quietly, "you do not argue. You come back to me. Understood?"
Sarisa met her eyes. "Understood."
"And if you see your mother—"
"I know."
Malvoria's grip loosened. "Good."
Elysia adjusted the position of the covered broth on the tray, practical as ever. "The lower guard post changes at the half hour. You have about ten minutes before the route grows crowded. Use the western stair. Fewer witnesses."
Sarisa took the tray fully this time. It was warm in her hands. Too warm. Lara had gone without food since the night before. The thought made something in her chest tighten all over again.
She glanced once toward the lawn.
Aliyah and Kaelith had collapsed into the grass in a tangle of limbs and triumph, both laughing over some victory only they understood. They looked up at the same time, sensing her gaze. Aliyah waved.
Sarisa lifted one hand from the tray and waved back.
Then she turned and went.
The corridors of the palace felt different in borrowed skin. Colder. Narrower. The uniform changed the way people looked at her or rather, didn't look. Servants passed with only the briefest flick of attention.
A junior clerk nearly walked into her and muttered an apology without ever raising his head. It was almost insulting, how invisible lower rank made her.
Good, she thought grimly. Let them ignore me.
She kept her pace measured, not too quick, not too slow. The western stairwell was dim and sparsely used, tucked behind storage rooms and old service passages.
At the first landing, two guards were talking quietly over a cup of watered wine. One glanced at her tray and grunted.
"Dungeon delivery?"
Sarisa lowered her head a fraction. "By order."
The guard made a face. "Lucky bastard. Thought they were starving the demon."
Sarisa's grip tightened on the tray hard enough to make the cup lids rattle. She forced her shoulders not to react, gave a brief nod, and kept walking before she did something fatal.
The lower corridors smelled of damp stone and old metal. Torches burned lower here, smoke marking the ceiling. The palace's polished brightness gave way to something much older and meaner, the architecture stripped of beauty and reduced to function: locks, bars, silence.
Sarisa's heart began to pound harder the farther down she went.
Not fear of being caught. Not entirely.
Fear of seeing Lara there.
A final turn. A narrow hall. A barred door with two sentries posted outside.
One of them straightened when he saw her. "Order?"
Sarisa tipped the tray just enough for him to see the food. "Prisoner meal."
The second guard snorted. "About time. Thought Her Majesty wanted her to chew the chains for breakfast."
The first unlocked the outer gate with obvious reluctance. "Don't get too close. She's awake now."
Sarisa stepped through.
The gate shut behind her with a heavy metal clang that ran down her spine like a threat.
She walked forward into the dim torchlight, tray steady in both hands, every pulse beat in her body now saying the same thing.
Lara.