Chapter 79: A Princess of No Crown
Chapter 78: A Princess of No Crown
Lyria’s POV
Olly exhaled sharply, as though casting the entire matter aside by force.
"Ah, to the afterlife with it," he said, waving a hand. "No use breakin’ our heads over things that may never come to pass."
Jacob grunted in agreement, though his expression remained thoughtful.
"Aye," Olly continued, straightening in his seat. "We’ve got better things before us tonight."
His eyes shifted to me, brightening.
"We’ve got Iria."
There was a murmur of agreement from the others nearby.
I could not help it—I laughed softly, the sound slipping past my lips before I had quite decided to allow it.
"And what," I asked, reaching for a bottle and refilling Jacob’s glass, "does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything," Olly said promptly. "Means we ought to drink instead o’ talkin’ nonsense."
Jacob raised his glass slightly. "A far better use o’ time."
I shook my head, though I obliged them all the same, moving along the bar and refilling what needed refilling, the steady rhythm of it grounding in a way I had come to rely upon.
The conversation shifted.
Olly took a long drink from his glass, then set it down with a satisfied exhale.
Then he looked at me again.
"Have ye thought about it?"
I paused.
My hand stilled where I had been pouring.
"Thought about... what?" I asked, turning slightly toward him.
"Don’t do that," he said with a frown.
"Do what?"
"Act like ye don’t know what I’m talkin’ about." He leaned forward slightly. "Don’t treat me like I ain’t here."
"I am not—" I stopped myself, then shook my head. "I truly do not know what you mean."
Olly groaned.
"Goddess above," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "The girl’s forgotten."
"I have not forgotten," I said calmly. "I cannot forget what I do not recall in the first place."
"That’s worse," he said.
Jacob snorted.
"Out with it, man," he said. "Stop makin’ a show of it."
Olly shot him a look, then turned back to me.
"I asked ye," he said, more slowly this time, "if ye’d consider givin’ me son a chance."
I blinked.
Ah.
That.
"I see," I said.
"He’s a good lad," Olly continued quickly, as though afraid I might interrupt. "Works hard. Keeps out o’ trouble—mostly. And he’s about to land himself a proper job, steady pay and all that comes with it. He’d take care o’ ye."
Jacob scoffed immediately.
"Take care o’ her?" he said. "With what? Empty words and rough ways?"
Olly bristled. "Better than your lot, I’d wager."
"My grandson," Jacob said, straightening, "he’s apprenticed to a jeweller. Works with nobles, he does. Learns a proper trade."
"Proper trade," Olly repeated, as though the words offended him.
"Aye," Jacob said firmly. "And Iria would be better off there than with your son."
I chuckled at their words.
"Gentlemen," I said, shaking my head slightly, "I do appreciate the... enthusiasm."
"That ain’t enthusiasm," Olly muttered. "That’s sense."
Jacob ignored him.
"But I am not particularly interested," I continued.
Olly clutched at his chest as though wounded.
"Not interested?" he repeated. "Not even a look?"
"I do not require a look," I said gently.
"Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong," he insisted. "If ye saw him proper, ye might change your mind. He’s a bit rough, I’ll grant ye that, but if ye look close—"
"That’s just it," Jacob cut in. "You’ve got to look close."
Olly turned on him. "And what’s that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Jacob said, entirely unbothered, "whatever looks he’s got, they ain’t showin’ themselves easy. Mine don’t hide."
"Oh, here we go," Olly muttered.
"One look at my grandson," Jacob continued, lifting his glass slightly, "and anyone can see it plain."
Olly gagged.
"Your grandson?" he said. "That scrawny boy? Iria’s too pretty for him."
Jacob’s expression darkened. "And your son is not?"
"At least he’s got some weight to him!"
"Weight ain’t the same as worth."
"And what would you know about worth?"
"More than you, clearly."
They went back and forth like that, voices rising and falling, neither one conceding an inch, each more certain than the other that they were entirely correct.
I did not intervene.
There was no need.
Instead, I moved along the bar, attending to other patrons, filling glasses, collecting empty ones, offering small smiles where they were needed and brief replies where they were expected.
The argument behind me became part of the background noise.
And it was, strangely, comforting.
By the time I returned to them, their debate had shifted.
"It’s not either of them," Olly was saying as I approached. "If we’re bein’ honest."
Jacob frowned. "What d’you mean?"
"I mean," Olly said, gesturing vaguely, "if there’s anyone fit for her, it ain’t our lot."
Jacob’s eyes narrowed. "And who would that be, then?"
Olly leaned back, a grin spreading slowly across his face.
"The nobles."
I stilled slightly at that.
"The suitors," he added.
Jacob barked a laugh. "You’ve lost your head."
"Have I?" Olly said. "Look at her."
Jacob did.
So did the others nearby.
I became acutely aware of it all at once—the weight of their attention, the stillness that followed.
"She’s wasted here," Olly went on. "You know it. I know it. Everyone here knows it."
"Aye," someone further down the bar agreed.
"She ought to be in silk, not aprons," another voice added.
Jacob studied me for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Aye," he said. "If we’re speakin’ true... she’d fit better there than here with us."
My fingers tightened slightly around the cloth in my hand.
"That is quite enough," I said lightly, though there was a firmness beneath it.
Olly waved a hand. "Ah, don’t look like that. We’re not wrong."
I glanced toward the door, just in case there were guards nearby.
Olly laughed when he noticed.
"There ain’t no guards here," he said. "They don’t come near this place."
"They’re too busy guardin’ the nobles," Jacob added.
"Even so," I said quietly, "you should be careful."
"Careful?" Olly echoed. "In here?"
"Aye," another man said. "This is the one place we can speak free."
"Then you ought not abuse it," I replied.
They laughed at that, as though caution itself were an unnecessary burden.
Jacob pushed himself to his feet then, his glass in hand.
The movement drew attention.
Gradually, the noise softened.
He raised his glass.
"Well then," he said, his voice carrying further than it had any right to, "if we’re speakin’ truth tonight—"
"Oh, here he goes," Olly muttered, though he was smiling.
Jacob ignored him.
"I’ll have a toast."
There was a murmur of approval.
"To Iria," he said.
My breath caught.
"Our girl behind the bar," he continued, "who listens more than she speaks, works harder than she ought to, and carries herself better than most nobles I’ve seen."
A few heads nodded.
A few glasses lifted.
"To Iria," he said again, more firmly this time.
There was a pause.
Then—
"To Iria!" someone echoed.
"To Iria!"
"To our girl!"
"To our—"
Jacob’s voice cut through it all, steady and certain.
"To our princess."
Everything stilled.
For one suspended, disbelieving moment—
Then the tavern erupted.
Glasses were raised.
Voices overlapped.
Laughter, cheers, agreement—loud and unrestrained.
"To our princess!"
"Our princess!"
"Aye, Iria!"
"Princess of the Tallow and Tide!"
Heat rushed to my face so quickly it was almost disorienting.
I stood there, caught entirely unprepared, my thoughts struggling to arrange themselves into anything coherent.
This had never happened before. This was not something I was used to. People did not like me like this, after all.
I should not feel this way.
But I could not help it.
Tears pooled in my eyes.
