The Fallen Princess

Twelve

“Sir, when are we expected to depart?” one of Callens personal knights asked as the prince stepped outside the inn.

“That’s the first thing you ask?” Callen scoffed, pinning him with an incredulous glare. “Not even a ‘How are you faring, my mighty and fearsome prince’?”

The knight opened his mouth. “How are you fa—” “We leave at first light,” Callen cut him off sharply. “Be prepared.” He resumed walking before the knight could try again.

The town of Orilon was modest by most standards. Stone cottages with weathered slate roofs nestled between winding cobbled lanes. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys despite the mild weather, carrying with it the scent of fresh bread, roasting meat, and burning wood.

Small gardens crowded with herbs and late summer flowers spilled into narrow pathways while chickens wandered wherever they pleased with complete disregard for ownership.

In truth, Callen had never met humans quite like those in Orilon. Three days earlier they had arrived with hundreds of armed Dragon Knights, foreign nobility, and enough trouble to overwhelm a larger town, a Kingdom even.

Instead of slamming doors in their faces, the townsfolk had offered food, beds, and more patience than was probably wise.

The border lay less than two days away now. Soon the roads would give way to the northern highlands. The air would grow colder. It will be all pines and farmland. Snow-capped mountains would rise along the horizon.

Home. The word carried a familiar weight. Returning had always been bittersweet. There was comfort in it. Duty. Familiarity. There was also his father. And that alone was enough to sour even the fondest thoughts of home.

“Zakai!” He called as he strode into the small residence as though it belonged to him. An older man rose from his chair, bowing deeply. “Welcome, Prince Callen.”

“Please, Desmond, sit,” Callen said, waving the good Doctor down. “Don’t encourage my behavior.” The older man chuckled.

“They’re in the bedroom.” He advised. Callen stepped forward just as Zakai nearly collided with him. “Prince Callen,” Zakai greeted with practiced calm, dipping his head respectfully. His shoulders, however, remained tight.

“How is Zaria?” “That’s always the first thing you two ask,” Callen replied with mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “A little hurtful, truly.” Zakai simply waited. Humor rarely seemed to have much effect on him.

One corner of Callen's mouth twitched before he finally gave in. “She woke this morning.” Relief flashed across Zakai's face. “I made sure she ate and drank enough to compensate for the three days she spent sleeping.”

Callen folded his arms. “She objected to both, naturally.” “That sounds like Zaria.” The ghost of a smile touched Zakai's mouth before fading again.

The familiarity with which Callen spoke of his sister had not gone unnoticed. Neither had the growing ease between them. At times, the two seemed to forget they were not companions traveling by choice.

Zakai never forgot what Callen was. A dragon prince. Their captor. No amount of kindness changed that. And Zaria... Zaria had always possessed a dangerous habit of finding the good in people others overlooked.

It was one of the things he loved most about her. And one of the things that frightened him now. Nothing good came from growing attached to someone you could not keep.

“When can I see my sister?” The question came immediately. Callen wasn't surprised. The twins had always seemed to move in orbit around one another. One worried where the other worried. One grieved where the other grieved.

It was as though each instinctively knew where the other's thoughts would turn before they were ever spoken aloud. At times, Callen felt strangely guilty for coming between them. He preferred not to dwell on that particular feeling.

“As soon as your younger sister is settled,” he replied after a moment's consideration. “You have permission to escort Zaria here afterward so she can say her goodbyes.”

Relief softened Zakai's expression. “Thank you, my Prince.” “Speaking of sisters.” Callen reached into the back pocket of his trousers and withdrew a small hand-sewn doll.

“I passed a merchant on my way here. He gave me a fair price.” He held it out. Zakai looked at the doll. Then at Callen. A faint understanding flickered across his face. “You should give it to her yourself.” Callen frowned. “Why?”

“Because she'll remember who gave it to her.” The prince stared at him for a long moment. Then sighed. “An unfortunate possibility.” Zakai's mouth twitched. “She was awake the last time I checked.”

Callen made his way down the narrow hall. The cottage was quiet. Warm. Lived in. He paused outside the bedroom door. The doll felt oddly heavy beneath his arm. He had already done more than enough for this child. More than anyone would reasonably expect.

And yet he'd bought her a doll. Why? The answer surfaced immediately. Zaria. Callen shoved it away just as quickly. Some truths were better left alone. At least for now. He tapped lightly against the frame. “Come in.” The voice was little more than a whisper.

When he stepped inside, tired brown eyes shifted toward him. The little girl looked painfully small against the pillows. Pale. Fragile. Far too young to have endured everything she had. Yet she was alive.

Callen cleared his throat. Suddenly, and somewhat irritatingly, he found himself unsure what to say. “You don't know me,” he began. Then hesitated. "I know your sister." The answer felt safer somehow. Less complicated than the truth.

Anya said nothing. She simply studied him. Not fearfully. Curiously. “Here.” He crossed the room and placed the doll carefully into the crook of her arm. “A gift.” The girl's eyes widened. Her fingers closed around it immediately.

She turned it over slowly before drawing it against her chest. For the first time since entering the room, a faint smile appeared. “Thank you.” The words were weak. But clear. Something eased unexpectedly in Callen's chest.

“You heal quickly,” he told her, adopting a firmer tone before the moment could become uncomfortable. “And get some rest.” The smile lingered. “I'll try.”

When Callen stepped back into the hall, Zakai was waiting against the wall. The elf pushed himself upright. “Thank you for that.” Callen glanced toward the closed door. “It seemed a worthwhile investment.”

A quiet laugh escaped Zakai. “The girls have never had much in the way of belongings.” His gaze lingered on the door. “She'll treasure it.” Callen looked away first. “The physician and his wife seem decent people.”

“More than decent.” “They've wanted children for years.” Something softened in Zakai's expression. “That will make this easier for Zaria.” “Nothing about this will be easy for Zaria.” The words left Callen before he thought better of them.

For a moment neither spoke. Then Callen clapped a hand against the elf's shoulder. “Go see your sister.” Zakai nodded. “Thank you, Prince Callen. I will never be able to repay what you've done for my family.”

A grin tugged at one corner of Callen's mouth. “Oh, I'll think of something.” He stepped toward the door. “Enjoy the grace period while it lasts.”

By the time he returned to camp, the brief peace of Orilon had already begun to fade. Duty waited exactly where he had left it.

When Callen stepped into the temporary encampment on the outskirts of town, he was greeted by the familiar chaos of men preparing for departure. Raised voices, clanging pots, arguments over rope knots, someone yelling about missing firewood.

He continued toward the command tent, irritation simmering beneath the surface. Three days. Three days of listening to increasingly creative variations of the same complaint. The men wanted to move. His father's commander wanted to move.

Half the camp seemed convinced the kingdom would collapse if they remained in Orilon another hour. Callen disagreed. And, inconveniently for everyone involved, his opinion was the only one that mattered.

Inside the tent, his father’s favored commander was already waiting. “My prince, it’s nice of you to join us,” the old man said stiffly... too stiffly. Almost insolent.

Callen was in no mood for passive aggression. He already knew his father would be displeased by the delay, but the king’s preferred method of discipline—shouting—had long since ceased to impress him.

“I was confirming the route,” the commander added crisply. “Oh? Funny…” Callen replied, folding his arms. “I don’t recall granting you the authority to confirm anything.” The commander stiffened.

“But,” Callen continued, smiling without warmth, “by all means… continue.” The old man’s jaw clenched, but he bowed his head and read the routes aloud with the obedience of someone who knew exactly how far he could push the prince and no further.

By the time Callen returned to the inn, the sun had dipped behind the rooftops, leaving Orilon bathed in a dusky glow. Bone-deep exhaustion weighed him down like armor he couldn’t remove.

The scent hit him first. Cooked meat. Warm herbs. Fresh bread. He entered the room expecting silence. Instead— “The family fostering Anya sent food back for you,” Zaria said from the window seat.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” One dark brow lifted. “In fact, I half-expected to have to track you down and drag you back.”

“I’m currently schemeless, your highness,” she declared proudly. “No tricks left up my sleeves.” Callen laughed—a low, tired, genuine sound. “Even if that weren’t true, would you tell me? “Probably not.” She admitted honestly.

He shook his head, amused despite himself. Callen pushed away from the door and leaned against the wall. With a quiet sigh, he bent to loosen the laces of his boots. His fingers had only just found the first knot when she crossed the room.

Before he could refuse, she was already there. Zaria dropped to her knees in front of him, one hand briefly settling against his thigh to steady herself before reaching for the laces. Callen went still. The room suddenly felt much smaller.

A dangerous place for a man's thoughts to wander. Particularly when a beautiful woman was kneeling between his legs, entirely unaware of the effect she was having on him.

Or perhaps she was aware. That possibility was somehow worse. His jaw tightened as he quicky tried to turn his attention elsewhere. To anything but her.

Gods. A curse slipped from beneath his breath. “What?” Zaria asked, glancing up. Callen looked away immediately. “Nothing.” Nothing he intended to explain anyway.

Suspicion flickered briefly across her face. Then she returned to the laces. A moment later the knot finally surrendered. “There.” Zaria brushed her hands together and stood.

Relief unfurled quietly through Callen. At least now he could stop fighting his own thoughts. Gods knew they had been heading somewhere unproductive.

Callen removed the boot the rest of the way before crossing the room and dropping heavily into the nearest chair. Every muscle in his body protested. He leaned his head back against the wood and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Here.” His eyes opened. Zaria stood before him holding a steaming bowl of stew. Callen stared at it. Then at her. “Why are you suddenly being kind to me?” He asked skeptically. “I've always been kind,” she argued.

A laugh escaped him. “I think mischievous is more accurate.” Zaria looked entirely too pleased with herself. Callen accepted the bowl and tore off a piece of bread. The stew was hot, rich, and far better than anything he'd expected to find in a border town.

“I hope you got to say your goodbyes,” he said between bites. “I did.” She murmured. Then, quieter— “My brother told me what you did for Anya. The doll.” Her fingers smoothed over the front of the tunic she wore. “And these clothes. Thank you.”

Callen looked up briefly. “No need to thank me.” He returned his attention to the stew. “It is merely another mended uniform.” “Oh?” Zaria glanced down at herself. “Did Timothy mend it?” Callen paused. Slowly.

“Yes.” His voice was perfectly flat. “Timothy mended it.” Zaria smiled. “It seems he's gotten rather good at it.” “Mm.” Callen took another bite. “It seems Timothy has memorized your measurements.”

For some inexplicable reason, the notion irritated him. He decided that was Timothy's fault. Zaria, thankfully, noticed none of it. She sat on the edge of the bed before falling backward onto the mattress with a sigh, one arm flung over her eyes.

The gesture was unexpectedly familiar. Comfortable. As though she had forgotten for a moment that she occupied a room with a Dragon Prince. “You can have the bed tonight,” Zaria immediately pushed herself up onto her elbows.

“It is alright.” Callen set the bowl aside. “I was planning to get my own room.” “Your own room?” Suspicion entered her voice immediately. “You mean leave me unattended?”

The beginnings of a grin tugged at her mouth. “In that case perhaps you should let me stay with my brother. I promise I won't—” “No.” The answer came instantly. Callen exhaled. Tired. Certain. Zaria's smile vanished. “Fine.”

She fell backward once more. Callen's lips curved despite himself. A long silence settled over the room. Eventually Zaria curled beneath the blankets like a weary creature seeking warmth. Her breathing gradually slowed. Soft. Even.

Within minutes she was asleep. Callen remained where he was. Watching. The tension slowly left her face. The faint twitch of her fingers eased. The small rise and fall of her chest settled into a steady rhythm.

She still wasn't well. Not entirely. And he still had no idea what had happened in those woods. Zakai hadn't known. The healers hadn't known. And Zaria herself had offered no explanation. For a moment, Callen considered asking her directly.

The questions sat ready on his tongue. But not today. She looked exhausted. Fragile. The thought came. Then passed. For once, he found he lacked the energy to chase it.

Quietly, he crossed the room. He tugged the blankets higher until they rested beneath her chin. A loose strand of white hair had fallen across her temple. His hand lifted. For a moment he simply looked at her.

Then his knuckles brushed lightly against her cheek as he tucked the strand away. The touch lingered longer than necessary. Callen chose not to dwell on why. He had enough problems already.

Returning to the chair, he stretched out his legs and crossed his arms. The room fell silent once more. He had never intended to get another room. The lie had been for her benefit, not his. Eventually his head tipped back against the wood. Sleep claimed him not long after.