Fated Love: A Royal Connection

Twenty gold pieces. Two bladders of water. Six apples. A loaf of bread. One dagger. An empty journal. A quill. Gwendolyn stared down at what she’d laid out on her bed, the same items she’d been taking out and putting back in at least twice a day for the last week. The same list she’d labored over for months, adding this and that before scratching it out, reminding herself “Only the necessities”. Money. Water. Food. Protection. Something to pass the time. Twenty gold pieces. Two bladders of water. Six apples. A loaf of bread. One dagger. An empty journal. A quill. She rearranged the items on the bed, lining them up straighter. Twenty gold pieces. Two bladders of water. Six apples. A loaf of bread. One dagger. An empty journal. A quill. She would turn eighteen in two days. She’d shift for the first time in two days. She’d be receptive to the Mate Bond… in two days. That was terrifying for two reasons. On one hand, her mate could be someone in the Mystic Moon pack. If that was the case, then it would at least be someone she knew, though not necessarily someone she liked… On the other hand, her mate could be someone outside the pack, someone she’d never met before. If that were the case, well… then Father would sell her off to whichever match did him the most good. Not just him. It would do the pack good. she chided herself. She rolled her eyes at her goody two-shoes conscience. Always defending her father. Always reminding her of her duty. A soft knock jarred her out of her thoughts. “Your Highness?” a woman’s voice called softly. “Time to break fast.” Gwendolyn growled, hastily shoving everything back into her bag and slinging it under the bed. “Yes, yes.” She tried to keep the frustration out of her voice, tried to keep her tone serene and airy, as was expected of her. “Coming, Merilla!” Gwendolyn raked her fingers through the honey-colored sheet of hair she’d gathered over her shoulder, nervously combing it before tossing it back behind her head to hang down her back. She glanced at the mirror, smirking slightly as she gave herself the once-over. Hair was brushed. No makeup, but no one expected that this early. No wrinkles in her dress. That would do. - At breakfast, she sat by her sister Ellen who, at 12 years old, seemed to act like she was at least 70. Ellen had her long blonde hair pulled into a tight, smooth braid, and was eating a bowl of plain porridge, a cup of hot, weak tea beside her. Gwendolyn squeezed her sister’s shoulder as she sat down. She helped herself to a few pieces of bacon, two slices of hot bread with butter and jam, and some cheese. Ellen tapped her head against her sister’s shoulder wordlessly as her greeting before taking a sip of her tea and turning to look at her sister. Gwendolyn smiled weakly, her sister’s powerful gaze making her feel somewhat exposed. There was an unnatural wisdom in the twelve-year old’s bright green eyes that always made the older girl feel as though all of her secrets were on the table, and several other people had admitted to the same feeling. She’d been told that her own eyes, a deep mahogany, made people feel safe somehow, which gave her a thrill. She would, after all, potentially be the next monarch, depending on the identity of her mate, and she liked the idea that her future subjects might feel protected under her gaze. “I’ve knitted you something for your birthday!” Ellen smiled at her. “I think you’ll like it.” “I’m sure I will, El. Thank you.” She squeezed her sister’s hand. The sound of marching boots outside the hall signaled the arrival of her parents and their guard. She and Ellen rose before the door to the hall was opened. Two men from her father’s guard, Sir Hamish and Sir Gregory, marched in somberly, preceding the king and queen. The two betas were the best of the guard, but were absolute opposites. Sir Hamish was young, just over twenty, with sparkling blue eyes, curly blond hair, and a cheerful demeanor. He was also lanky, like a fox and, quite frankly, astoundingly short for a man. Gwendolyn often stood next to him, and was just barely able to look down at the part in his hair, which gave her a thrill every time because she’d never been taller than someone older than her before. Sir Gregory, on the other hand, was taller than most men on the guard. He was lean and muscular, with shaggy, greying brown hair and wore a scraggly beard in the winter. He always seemed to have an air of mourning about him, a grim sense of distaste, as if to smile even for a moment would put everyone at risk. She’d seen both men fight, though, and having two such highly skilled men protecting their family made her feel incredibly secure. The two guards turned on their heels to face each other, flanking the door to allow their king to enter. Gwendolyn curtsied deeply, as did her sister next to her. “Your Grace.” they both murmured as their parents entered the room.