The Fallen Princess

Eleven

Warm light spilled through the window. Soft, golden, almost syrup-thick as it painted long beams across the wooden floorboards. It crept along the edge of the bed and warmed Zaria’s cheek, stirring her from the depths of sleep.

For a long moment she lay still. She did not recognize the scent of the room. It didn’t carry the musk of tents or the stale smell of knights’ gear. Instead, she smelled soap. Fresh linens. Cooked oats. Too warm. Too safe. Wrong.

Then sound returned. A dull murmur of voices. Two men. The words were indistinct, blending together until they became little more than noise. Then, slowly, they sharpened.

"With respect, My Prince—" "I am aware of their concerns.” The interruption came smooth and cold. Zaria knew that voice. It was Prince Callen. “We leave when I decide we leave." The words landed with quiet finality.

Silence followed. Not because the man agreed. Because there was nothing left to argue. "That will be all." "Yes, My Prince." The knight bowed and withdrew. The door clicked shut behind him.

Zaria’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked blearily at the unfamiliar ceiling—the beams of polished pine, the pale plaster walls, the patterned curtains that fluttered in the morning breeze. “Welcome back to the land of the living, little elf.” Her head turned toward the voice.

Prince Callen sat in a chair beside her bed, one leg crossed over the other, a stack of papers in his hand. He set them aside the moment her eyes opened.

For several seconds he simply watched her with the calm irritation of a man who’d been stuck waiting far longer than he preferred. And yet… beneath the impatience in his eyes was something that looked suspiciously like worry.

“Where are we?” Zaria pushed herself upright. Her muscles ached with the effort. Her voice sounded thin. Weak. As though it had been unused for days.

“An inn,” Callen replied. His gaze swept over her automatically, assessing. She still looked pale. Not unexpected after so many days unconscious. Still... Something about it sat poorly with him. “Yes, but where?” she pressed.

Callen arched a brow. “Would you even know where we were if I told you?” he asked dryly. “Could you point this place out on a map if I held one in front of you and recited the name?”

The remarks stung. Zaria refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing it. And no, she wouldn't be able to point this place out on a map. But she would sooner bite her own tongue in half than admit that to him.

A heavy silence filled the room. Callen eventually exhaled a long, tired breath. His irritation, sharp a moment ago, softened around the edges. “Orilon,” he muttered at last, as if the word itself annoyed him. “Just outside the Forest of Kra.”

Callen leaned back in his chair. “We’ve been here for three days.” Zaria narrowed her eyes in disbelief. “Three days?” she echoed. “I think I would remember—” “You've been asleep for three days Princess.”

The realization hit like a blow. It wasn’t a dream then. The wolf. Anya. The blood. The voice in the darkness... She threw the blankets back and slid from the bed, her bare feet meeting the wooden floorboards. Her mind scrambled through fragments of memory.

“Princess. Sit down before you hurt yourself further,” Callen said as he rose from his chair. She ignored him entirely. “Where is my brother?” She demanded, breath quickening, dread twisting deep inside her. He never would have left her side if she had truly been asleep for three days.

Her gaze darted to the closest exit. The window. “If you jump out that window,” Callen growled. “Then so help me Gods—” “Where is Zakai?” “He’s with your damn sister!” Callen snapped, storming toward her.

Before she even had a chance to flee, his hand caught her arm. He pulled her back against his chest. Her entire body trembled against him. Callen exhaled slowly, a measure of his frustration bleeding away at the realization that she wasn’t fighting him. She was frightened.

“Why is it that your first instinct is always to run?” It sounded less like a question and more like an observation he had finally grown tired of keeping to himself. Zaria didn't answer. Instead, both hands found the front of his tunic, gathering the fabric between her fingers.

For a moment, she tried. Tried to swallow it down. Tried to gather the pieces of herself back together. But the effort shattered.

A broken sound escaped her. She leaned her forehead against his chest. She hated this. Hated crying. Hated feeling this helpless. The Southern Palace was gone. The youngest of her sisters was dead. Anya had lost her leg. She didn't know if Cecil and Aldric were alive. And Zakai...

Zakai was the only constant she had left. The one person who had always been there. Now even he was somewhere else. The grief she had spent days outrunning finally caught her. For today, she was simply too tired to keep running.

Callen went still. For a moment he seemed entirely at a loss. Tears stained the front of his tunic, as she clung to him as though he were the only solid thing left in her world. Then, slowly, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Awkward. Careful. As though comforting crying females was a skill he had somehow managed to avoid learning. And when she didn't pull away, he let her stay there. He said nothing. Simply held her while she cried.

The storm spent itself slowly. Little by little, her shoulders stopped shaking. Her grip on his tunic loosened. Eventually the tears stopped. Not because she felt better. Simply because there was nothing left in her.

Then Callen's arm eased from around her shoulders. The absence of it felt strangely noticeable. Zaria stepped back first then climbed back onto the bed and drew her knees to her chest. Her cheek settled against one knee. Empty. That was the only word she could find for it. Empty.

Standing where she had left him, Callen watched her quietly. She looked more disheveled than he had ever seen her. Loose strands of pale hair clung to her cheeks. Her eyes were still red from crying. Yet somehow, despite the swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks, she remained beautiful.

Callen crossed the room, without a word, and opened the door. One of his knights immediately straightened. "Food," Callen ordered. "Something hot." The man nodded and disappeared. The door clicked shut once more.

"I'm not hungry." She breathed. Callen turned. "That is unfortunate." Zaria frowned. He came and sat on the edge of the bed. "You are eating." "I just cried for half an hour." Zaria wiped at her face again, though the tears had long since stopped.

"You also spent three days unconscious." His gaze dropped briefly to her folded frame. "We leave at dawn." A beat passed. "You'll need your strength." Zaria picked at the sleeve of the unfamiliar nightdress. Soft blue fabric gathered beneath her fingers.

“Why don’t you lie back down?” She shook her head stubbornly. “How is my sister? Is she—” Her voice cracked. She couldn’t finish. Callen’s expression softened not dramatically, but enough that the shift was unmistakable.

"She lost a significant amount of blood." Zaria's hand stilled. “And recovery will take time but she lives.” The words loosened something in her chest. "How will she travel?" "She won't." Callen rested his forearms on his knees.

"I've arranged for her to remain here." Zaria looked up. "A retired physician and his wife live on the outskirts of town." His voice softened slightly. "It is her best chance." Zaria nodded. She understood. That didn't make it hurt less. Another sister gone. Not dead. But gone all the same.

Silence stretched between them. Then Callen felt the mattress shift. He glanced over his shoulder just as Zaria moved closer. A moment later her forehead rested lightly against his back, and her arms slipped around his middle. Callen stilled.

Bold little thing. She crossed boundaries as easily as breathing. Never seeming to care that he was a prince. Or a dragon. Or technically the man holding her captive. To Zaria, he suspected those titles mattered far less than they should.

“Thank you.” The words were barely above a whisper. Soft enough that he almost missed them. “For what?” For a moment she didn't answer. “I thought you would leave us to die,” she admitted quietly. “But you came for us.”

Something tightened unexpectedly in his chest. Slowly, he turned to face her. Zaria sat back at once, her arms falling away. “You are not so worthless that I would leave you,” he said softly. Her throat tightened.

“And even if I had,” he continued, “you are not so weak that you would die.” For a moment he simply looked at her. Then his hand rose. This time he didn't stop himself. His fingers settled lightly beneath her chin, tilting her face upward until her gaze met his.

“I should not believe in you more than you believe in yourself, Zaria.” It was the first time he had spoken her name. Something strange unfolded inside her chest. Small. Warm. Entirely unwelcome. And yet she found herself smiling anyway.