The Fallen Princess

Seven

The prince held the tent flap aside and stepped out into the cool night air, the canvas whispering shut behind them. The camp hummed with movement, crackling fires, low voices, the snorts and stamps of restless horses. Everything busy and orderly.

Zaria moved at his side, rubbing absently at her stinging wrists. He barely took two steps before nearly colliding with the knight returning from the darkness, cradling a fresh bowl of steaming soup.

“Your Highness.” The man bowed his head and extended it carefully, like offering something sacred. “Give it to the princess.” Callen didn’t pause. Didn’t explain. The knight blinked, gaze flicking between them.

His eyes snagged on Zaria—on her unbound hands, her upright posture—as if he couldn’t reconcile the fact she wasn’t lashed to a chair like dangerous cargo. Callen shifted; his shoulder cut the knight’s view of her wrists. A silent correction.

Zaria pretended not to notice. Her attention was fixed entirely on the bowl, on the savory smell of meat and herbs rising with the steam. Hunger twisted sharp enough to hurt.

The knight passed it over awkwardly, as though unsure whether he was allowed to look at her directly. Zaria accepted the bowl with both hands, fingers curling around warm wood. She didn’t care that her hands shook. She didn’t care that her pride protested. Food was food.

“We don’t have tableware,” Callen remarked as he fell into step again. “You’ll have to sip it.”

Zaria nodded, utterly unconcerned with elegance.

“That is just fine.” She lifted the bowl and drank carefully, savoring each mouthful as if it were a priceless delicacy, breathing through the heat as it slid down her throat and settled into her stomach like a promise.

As they walked, she took in more of the camp than she had before. Tents staked in neat lines. Men moving with disciplined purpose. Too many of them. Too many weapons. Too many dragons all answering to one prince.

How long have you been preparing for this? The thought left a cold edge behind her ribs.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” she started between measured sips, “since I’m merely a hostage… but what brought you to the Southern Kingdom in the first place?”

Callen didn’t answer. They passed a line of tethered horses, reins looped over posts. Sparks floated up from a nearby fire and vanished into the dark. Zaria waited, certain he’d chosen silence.

Then his voice came low, stripped of theatrics. “Your King stole my mother’s youngest sister.” Zaria stopped mid-step. She looked up at him just in time to see his eyes shift, gold flickering behind the human disguise, bright and molten, like something alive pressing against a cage.

The sight jolted her hard enough that the camp seemed to fall away for a second, replaced by a grassy hill and a sky split with light, a man in gold armor, a whisper in her ear... Run Zaria.

The world tilted.

“I’m sorry.” The words left her softly before she could think better of them. She shook her head as if she could dislodge the strange déjà vu crawling up her spine with icy fingers. “There is nothing for you to be sorry for, Princess.” His tone stayed distant, but not cruel. “You were also a victim of the Lewd King.”

They walked in silence for a few heavy heartbeats. Zaria drank again, slower now, the warmth in her hands steadying her enough to speak without her voice betraying her. “I’m glad you came for her,” she admitted, surprising herself with the honesty.

How different would things have been if someone had come for my mother? If someone had stormed the palace for her, cut their way through guards, torn down doors and chains...

“She was a rotting corpse when we found her.” The growl scraped out of Callen like it hurt to say it. His eyes lit fully gold, not flickering now, burning bright and furious, the memory fanning flames he didn’t bother hiding.

Zaria gasped. The bowl slipped from her hands and hit the dirt with a dull thud, soup splashing across her shoes. She stumbled back a step, heart hammering. Callen turned at once, startled by the sudden movement.

“It’s you…” The whisper crawled out of Zaria’s throat. His brow furrowed. “What is?” “You’re the knight.” Her breath came too fast, too thin. “I’ve seen you before... your eyes. I’m certain of it.” Her thoughts tangled, words spilling over one another.

The golden eyes in her dream. The man in armor who told her to run. The one who caught her when she fell. Those same eyes burned in front of her now. “You’re not making any sense.” Callen stepped closer, careful this time, and for the first time there was something like concern in his voice.

He reached for her arm, not roughly, not as restraint, but as if he feared she might bolt. And suddenly she heard herself the way he must be hearing her. Unhinged. Mad. Dream-touched. Cursed. This is exactly why Mother made me swear never to speak of my dreams.

Her mother had called them echoes. Zaria closed her eyes and forced her breathing to slow. In. Out. Again. The camp sounds returned... boots shifting, a distant laugh, a fire popping.

When she opened her eyes, she made her face blank again. “I apologize.” Her voice came quiet, controlled. “It’s nothing.” “It didn’t look like nothing.” Callen didn’t release her. His hand slid from her arm to her fingers, steadying a tremor she hadn’t realized.

“I have lingering traumas.” The lie went down smoother than it should have. Zaria eased her hand free and stepped forward as if the moment had never happened. For a heartbeat, something like guilt crossed Callen’s features, gone almost before it landed. Then he let her go.

They moved deeper through the camp. Every knight they passed bowed to Callen with stiff-backed respect. Fists pressed to their chests; heads dipped, murmured acknowledgements. His presence cut through the night like a drawn sword; conversations thinned around him, then resumed when he passed.

Ahead, the glow of a larger fire illuminated a cluster of figures, Men women and children. Unbound now, no ropes, and cloaks had been handed out for warmth. Some wore plain tunics and rough dresses; others still bore the remnants of courtly finery beneath road grime.

They were ringed by armed guards who watched with unreadable expressions. Zaria’s gaze swept once, twice... And then she saw him.

“Zakai.” She didn’t remember deciding to move. One moment she was walking. The next she was sprinting, dress bunched in her fists, feet barely feeling the packed earth. She hit him hard enough that he staggered, then his arms closed around her automatically, strong and immediate.

Zaria clung to him, fingers fisting in the back of his tunic as relief crashed over her in a dizzying wave. Tears came hot and sudden, humiliating in their speed. “I’m happy to see you safe.” Zakai’s voice sounded tight, rougher than usual.

He brushed her tears away with his thumb, studying her face like he was counting every piece of her for damage. “I heard there was an incident with the wagons. When I couldn’t find you, I feared the worst.”

Zaria dabbed at her face and lifted her chin. “I won’t pretend I’m innocent,” she murmured. “But I also won’t pretend I’m sorry.” Zakai arched a brow. “Of course it was you.”

His gaze roamed over her quickly, too quick to be casual, searching for injuries, for torn fabric, for signs of harm. Her dress was wrinkled and dusty, but it hid the worst of the bruising.

“I need to find our littlest sister.” The words cut out of Zaria. She stepped back and scanned the crowd, eyes frantic now that her brother was real and present and the next need could finally surface. “I didn’t see her on the wagons.”

Zakai’s hand shot out and caught her wrist, stopping her mid-turn. He froze. His fingers tightened slightly, feeling the swollen flesh beneath his touch, the rough edges of rope burn. His jaw clenched. Slowly, he pushed her sleeve back.

Dark bruises bloomed across her skin, ugly and vivid against her pale complexion. “Did they do this to you?” Rage sharpened his voice into something dangerous. “I will tell you once I find our sister.” Zaria yanked her arm back. “Not now.”

“She’s dead, Zaria!” The words tore free before he could stop them. Regret flashed over his face immediately, but it was too late. Zaria stared at him, the world narrowing to the space between them. “What?” Her voice broke on the single word.

Tears welled again, blurring her vision. This time she didn’t blink them away. “I’m sorry.” Zakai took her hands in both of his, grip gentler than his expression. “I didn’t mean to tell you like that.” He pulled her aside, away from the cluster, away from curious ears and soldier stares.

Firelight painted his face in shifting gold and shadow as he spoke, voice shaking. “After the prince revealed you weren’t dead, only sleeping, he ordered those willing to surrender to gather in the front gardens.”

Zakai swallowed hard. “When I reached her room, the castle was already in chaos. Fires. Screaming. Guards abandoning their posts.” He looked down, blinked once, and the next words came like knives. “Her maid took her life… to spare her from a worse fate.”

Zaria’s lungs refused to work. Her chest constricted until she couldn’t tell whether the pain was grief or lack of air. A strangled sound rose in her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth and forced it back, forced herself not to make a noise that would carry.

Her little sister’s face flashed in her mind. Bright eyes, crooked smile, the way she used to tug Zaria’s sleeve when she wanted attention. Gone. Zakai drew her into another embrace, holding her so tightly it should have hurt. This time, it did. Zaria flinched.

He felt it instantly. Zakai pulled back just enough to search her face, voice dropping. “Zaria… did they beat you?” “No.” Zaria shook her head, tears streaming now. “No.” “Don’t lie to me.” Fury trembled in his voice, familiar and terrible.

“She tried to run.” The voice came from behind them. They both turned. Prince Callen stood a few paces away, arms folded loosely over his chest, golden eyes watching them with careful attention. “Twice,” he added, almost conversationally.

Zakai’s attention snapped back to Zaria. “Where were you going to run to?” The demand came out sharp, the protective instinct looking for somewhere to land. “To you, of course.” Zaria sniffed and wiped her cheeks again. “Where else?”

Zakai huffed a breath that sounded like a scoff and a sob tangled together. “You are a mess, Zaria.” He rubbed smudges of dirt and tear tracks from her face with his sleeve, the gesture achingly tender. “We have to go now, Princess.” Callen’s tone shifted back to command.

Zakai’s eyes narrowed. “Go where?” “She has caused too much trouble already.” Callen’s gaze flicked to Zaria with pointed meaning. “She’ll remain under my direct supervision for the rest of the journey.” His voice went flat. “She will not be harmed as long as she complies.”

Zakai held his stare for several long, charged seconds. His hands flexed at his sides. He wanted to fight, Zaria could see it in every tense line of him, could feel the rage rolling off him in quiet waves. But there were dozens of dragon knights nearby.

They had no weapons. No allies. Nowhere to run. Finally, Zakai exhaled slowly and gave a reluctant nod. Zaria stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him one last time, clinging as if she could anchor them both in this single moment before the world tore them apart again.

“Wherever we go,” she whispered into his shoulder, voice shaking, “we go together.” Zakai held her tighter. “Always.” Callen waited, giving them that much at least. Then he stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Zaria’s shoulder. Not cruel. Not gentle. Certain.

“It’s time.” Zaria released her brother slowly, fingers reluctant to let go. She took one step back, then another, eyes locked on his until the space between them grew too wide to pretend it wasn’t real.

Then she turned and walked beside the dragon prince, the camp’s firelight following them like watchful eyes.