The Fallen Princess

Eight

“Do you perhaps have a basin of water I could wash in before bed?” Zaria asked as they followed the narrow dirt trail back toward the prince’s tent. Her tone stayed cautious—not timid, not pleading—careful in the way someone speaks when they’re exhausted, sore, and clinging to the last scraps of dignity.

“A basin?” Callen echoed, and a scoff cut through the night. He shot her a sideways glance, one brow lifting. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I stepped into that musty castle and realized humans don’t have indoor plumbing.”

Zaria blinked. Indoor… what? She rolled the strange words around silently, trying to make them fit into anything she understood, and then shoved the question back down where it belonged.

She would sooner swallow gravel than hand a dragon prince the satisfaction of watching her flounder. Callen caught the stare anyway and laughed. “Don’t worry, little elf. You’ll see soon enough.”

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he reached out and flicked her forehead. Zaria recoiled like he’d snapped a tether. “Stop that,” she hissed, rubbing the spot. “For now,” he replied, utterly unbothered, “there’s a stream nearby. You can wash there.”

He changed direction without waiting for agreement, veering off into the trees that bordered the camp. The forest swallowed the noise behind them until only the whisper of leaves and the soft trickle of water remained, and the moon hung high and watchful as they stepped into a shallow clearing where a narrow stream cut over smooth stones.

“The water isn’t as chilly as I expected,” Zaria remarked, easing one cautious foot into the crystalline flow. Callen only nodded, already crouched to unlace his boots.

He removed them with efficient motions, set them neatly on a flat rock, then folded his socks with an almost comical level of precision. Like the act of being orderly might keep the universe from noticing he was stuck escorting her.

Zaria bent to rinse her dress, lifted it to wring it out. A heartbeat later, something wet slapped Callen square in the face. “What the hell is—” He sputtered, yanking dripping fabric off his head, blinking water from his lashes. Zaria froze mid-gesture. “Sorry!” she called, sheepish.

Callen looked up. Then he froze. She stood knee-deep in the stream wearing nothing but her undergarment. Thin white fabric gone wet and clingy, outlining far too much under moonlight, the kind of accidental boldness that would’ve gotten her applauded in a brothel.

For a moment, Prince Callen—warrior, commander, dragon prince—forgot how breathing worked. “What in the Gods’ name are you doing?” The words cracked out of him, genuinely horrified. Zaria blinked at him, unfazed. “I’m bathing.”

“Bath—” He covered his eyes briefly like he could wipe the image from his mind. It didn’t help. “Then why is your dress wet?” He shook the dripping fabric for emphasis. “Why did you throw it at me?”

“I was trying to wash it.” She shrugged, as if she’d just explained the most obvious thing in the world. Callen stared at her. Then at the dress. Then back at her, expression locked somewhere between outrage, disbelief, and the overwhelming urge to walk into the stream and let it swallow him.

His gaze snagged again. Too much moonlit skin, too much shape, too much of her looking fearless when she had every reason not to be. He yanked his eyes away so violently he nearly gave himself whiplash.

“Then why not just keep it on?” he demanded over his shoulder, scrubbing both hands through his hair. “It was too tight.”

“That makes no—” He stopped, clenched his jaw, then sank onto a fallen log and turned his entire back to her like she was an eclipse, and he’d been warned not to look directly at her or he’d go blind.

“How do you plan on getting back to the tent?” He asked, refusing to face her. “I’ll wear the dress,” Zaria replied cheerfully, splashing water up her arms. “I’ll wring it out first.” The splashing grew louder.

Callen’s expression set. She is going to be the death of me. He dragged a hand down his face. She is truly a work of art... destructive, chaotic art. “She’s not wearing that back to camp,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “The damn thing is practically translucent.”

“What was it you said?” Zaria’s voice cut in from behind him bright with mischief. Callen stiffened. “Princess…” He inhaled slowly, summoning the patience of a saint. “Why are you standing behind me.”

“Technically I’m no longer a princess.” She stepped past him to rinse the dress again, water sluicing over fabric. “You can just call me by name. Since I’m a hostage.” “You’re not really a hostage,” he started. “Oh?” Zaria countered immediately, quick as a blade. “Then am I free to go?”

Callen turned so fast he nearly fell off the log. “No.” “Then I’m a hostage.” She concluded it simply and went back to scrubbing like the conversation was done. Only when she turned did Callen catch the marks across her back.

Deep bruises spread over pale skin like spilled ink, ugly and violent, the kind of imprint armor left when someone hit too hard or tackled without care. He approached without thinking, something tightening in his chest. “I didn’t realize it was that severe,” he murmured.

His fingers lifted, hesitated, hovering in the space between them like he’d remembered, abruptly, that she wasn’t one of his soldiers to grab and move. “Princess.” The title landed like a question he didn’t quite know how to voice.

She didn’t answer with words, but she didn’t retreat either. Callen’s fingers brushed the edge of one bruise, light, careful, more a test of reality than a touch. “It’s from that knight’s armor,” she replied, voice clipped. “When he tackled me.”

Callen’s mouth went hard. That level of force had been unnecessary. Sloppy. Brutal. And the thought of someone laying hands on her with that kind of carelessness spiked through him with a heat he didn’t enjoy recognizing.

His fingers hovered again, then traced the edge of another bruise, gentler this time, infuriatingly gentle for a man who spent his days wrapped in steel and threat. “I didn’t realize,” he murmured, the words tasting like ash. “I didn’t realize he—”

Zaria exhaled softly, trying for dismissive. Trying for fine. “It’s nothing.” Callen’s eyes flashed gold for a heartbeat. Not the theatrical flicker he used to intimidate. Something rawer. “No,” he breathed. “It’s not.” He stared at the bruises as if they were a personal insult.

Zaria didn’t know what to do with that kind of anger when it wasn’t aimed at her. She lifted her own hand and covered his. He finally lifted his gaze to her face, and whatever was there. Anger, sincerity, something dangerously close to protectiveness, made her throat tighten.

For a moment, Callen’s hand remained under hers, still, obedient to the touch as if he’d forgotten he was a prince and she was a fallen princess and the world demanded edges between them.

Then he exhaled, slow and controlled, and his gaze dropped to where her hand covered his. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost humor, but not enough to break the moment. “You shouldn’t have to tell me it’s okay,” he breathed.

Zaria’s pulse kicked, traitorous and warm. “And you shouldn’t look so offended on my behalf,” she shot back softly, because teasing was safer than whatever this was. Callen’s eyes lifted again, gold catching in the dark.

“I’m not a monster,” he returned, then pulled his hand back with deliberate care, as if he didn’t trust himself to keep touching her without wanting more than he could allow.

The silence stretched—charged, watchful. Her breath hitched, she refused to let it show. To break it, to ground herself in something practical, her gaze slid toward the bank where her dress lay, soaked and dark, clinging to stones.

She shifted as if to reach for it. Callen moved at the same time. His hand closed around her arm, not rough, not restraining, just firm enough to stop her. His grip was careful where the rope burns and bruises lived, like he’d memorized every tender place in the span of a minute.

Zaria blinked at him, startled. “That’s the only clothing I have.” Her voice stayed even, steadier than she felt. “You won’t be comfortable in that,” Callen replied. “Here.”

He hooked his fingers under the hem of his own shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. Zaria stilled, staring like her mind had tripped over itself. Moonlight caught every line of muscle. Broad shoulders, chest like carved stone, abdomen defined enough to make an angel blush.

The kind of body built by war and discipline and the certainty that no one could afford to be weaker than him. Callen didn’t give her time to process it.

He stepped in and shoved the shirt over her head with brisk efficiency, like if he treated it like a chore it wouldn’t feel like intimacy.

The fabric fell to her knees, sleeves swallowing her hands. His scent wrapped around her immediately—warm smoke and something faintly spiced—like standing too close to a hearth. “I’ll have something mended for you until we can get a proper dress,” he muttered.

Zaria nodded, genuinely touched despite herself. “Thank you.” Her smile—small, soft, unguarded—hit him harder than he expected. His eyes flicked to her mouth, then away, like he’d been caught doing something dangerous.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” he grumbled. Her gaze dropped. One heartbeat. Too long. Then she snapped it away like it burned. Callen’s mouth tipped. “There it is,” he drawled. “Now you know how I felt.”

“Are you… sure you’re allowed to walk around like that?” she muttered as they started back toward camp, sneaking one last forbidden glance at his back. Callen stopped so abruptly Zaria walked straight into him.

He turned slowly. “You...” He pointed at her. “...are asking me...” He pointed at himself. “...if I’m allowed to walk around like this.” Zaria nodded, earnest as if this was a reasonable question.

Callen barked a laugh. “Are you not the same woman who stripped down to almost nothing in front of a man she barely knows, with zero warning whatsoever?” “I was dirty!” Zaria shot back, offended. “Is that not what you and your men do when you’re dirty?”

“You are not a man,” he breathed, disbelief roughening the words. then immediately lowered his voice when they neared the edge of camp. “And I don’t know your circumstances, but it is not safe for you to do that here.”

Zaria glared up at him. “Are you implying I’m the sort of person who strips in front of any man?” Callen stared at her. Silent. Completely, utterly lost. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how your brother has survived this his entire life.”

He resumed walking, muttering under his breath, “Saints preserve me… To answer your original question,” he added once the camp came back into view, “yes. I may do as I please. This is my camp. Every man here answers to me.”

“Prince Callen.” A knight jogged toward them, focus fixed on Callen, not noticing Zaria at first where she hovered half-behind him in the too-large shirt. “We wanted to verify the schedule before shift change.”

When the knight finally saw her, his gaze dipped. Then lifted. Then dipped again, slower this time, greedy curiosity sharpening his eyes. Callen moved instantly. He stepped forward, blocking Zaria completely, posture shifting in a subtle way that still broadcast danger like a drawn blade.

“I’ll meet you at the barracks tent in ten minutes.” The knight straightened. “Yes, Prince Callen.” He turned to go. “Oh, and send someone to my tent who can sew,” Callen added without looking back. The knight nodded and hurried off.

Zaria inhaled, preparing to thank him. Before she could, Callen tipped his head just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye. “Next time,” he murmured, low, “warn me before you throw your clothes at me.”

Zaria sputtered. “I— That was an accident!” His mouth curved again, quick and knowing. “I know.” And for the first time, the unsettling truth settled a little deeper.

This dragon prince might threaten to sell her, mock her, drag her across the continent… but he was also the one who had shielded her, noticed her bruises, and put clothing in her hands, however begrudgingly.