The Princess's Runaway Tale

Deborah and the Silent Knight

Deborah had never been fond of Christopher, despite his designation as her personal knight. He loomed behind her like an impenetrable wall, silently commanding attention with his imposing presence. Accustomed to the charm and grace of noble youths, Deborah found his perpetually stoic demeanor unsettling. Out of respect for Prince James's goodwill, she tolerated Christopher’s constant shadow, but not without reservation.

She imposed strict boundaries, declaring, "You are not to enter my chambers without permission," her voice laced with the entitlement she was so used to. To her, Christopher was nothing but an inconvenient necessity, a sentiment she hardly bothered to mask. She even took to calling him a nickname—“Chrissie”—a name as incongruous with his rugged facade as a pet name would be for a battle-hardened warhorse.

Coddled by those around her, Deborah basked in the indulgence of a court that once revolved around her. Before the arrival of the new queen, her whims were law and her temper, a force unchecked. It was said that James, the beloved prince, and the king would pluck the stars from the heavens if she so desired. The universe, it seemed, existed to orbit around Deborah, the adored princess.

Notwithstanding the accolades about Christopher’s unparalleled prowess, the whispered tales of his acclaim as a preeminent swordsman were meaningless to Deborah. What mattered was his allegiance—when the princess required a protector, this legendary blade would cast aside all glory and submit unconditionally to her will.

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It was, therefore, a shock to many when, during last year’s royal hunt, Deborah abruptly dismissed Christopher from her service. Her decision seemed merciless. How could she so easily abandon a knight who had stood vigilant at her side, unwavering, for nearly five years? To observers ensnared in palace gossip, this remained an enigma, a story left untold.

Yet Deborah, with her untamed pride, never felt the need to explain herself. Only she recalled vividly the night of trepidation, when noble entourages lay ensnared in the depths of sleep after a day’s hunt, and Christopher, meant to stand guard outside her tent, materialized instead at the edge of her bed.

The moon’s icy glow bathed the tent in an eerie luminescence, casting the figure by her bedside in sharp, shadowed relief. His bulk was an oppressive specter, a beast’s shadow swallowing the moonlit tent, suffocating in its presence. Her heart thudded against the silence, prey to an instinctual dread.

Stunned awake, Deborah met his feral gaze. From beneath a mask of gold, eyes gleamed, primal and fixated, an inexplicable tempest of emotions swirling within their depths. It was an intimacy unwanted, a silent battle fought in the space between fear and fascination.

A gasp caught in her throat, and as suddenly as he appeared, Christopher vanished as if plucked from reality by the very moonlight that defined him. The night returned to its whispered stillness, but Deborah’s world remained forever altered—a truth she kept locked, a memory sealed beneath the sterling visage of control.

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The recollections, however, haunted her, threatening to unravel her carefully maintained facade. In the realm of court wizardry, only those of royal or magical blood bore the marks of unique coloration—gifts from the deity of light, symbols of divine favor. But never had pure golden eyes existed among their kind. Even Deborah’s own glassy blue eyes, renowned as the North American Rose Princess, did not possess such a distinction.

Her pulse quickened, uncertainty gnawing at her resolve. For all the binding strength of the knight’s oath, Deborah held no assurance in her ability to master Christopher completely. Beneath the enforced tranquility of their blood-forged pact lay questions without answers, riddles unworthy of voice. Should she place trust in James’s selection, knowing only Christopher remained capable of ensuring her safe departure from the palace’s clutches?

Clutching to hope in the sanctity of their sworn contract, Deborah reminded herself that once she issued a command, Christopher was bound by magic to comply. Whatever his nature, for better or worse, she was still his sovereign.

Taking a steadying breath, Deborah signaled to her servant, who had faltered at a perceived blunder. With a dismissive wave, she approached the robed elder with resolve, "Mother Saisa, I have a task for you. Summon Christopher."

Saisa, the sole attendant gifted in the arcane arts, was her only recourse now. With the loss of the moonstone—a tether to her knight—Saisa’s incantations were the swiftest path to Christopher's side.

“I need him.”