The Fallen Princess

Eight

The first few days of travel passed in a blur of long roads, unfamiliar customs, and far too many hours spent in a saddle. By the fifth evening, Zaria felt utterly filthy and thoroughly tired of traveling.

Dust clung stubbornly to her clothes. Her braid had long since surrendered to loose strands that curled around her face and neck, and no amount of wiping her hands on her skirts seemed capable of removing the layer of dirt that coated everything.

The dragons appeared entirely unbothered by it. They rode hard from dawn until dusk, stopped only when necessary, then continued again the next morning with the same relentless pace.

Even the prince seemed unaffected by days spent sleeping beneath canvas and riding through dust-choked roads. Zaria, meanwhile, was beginning to understand that there were limits to her endurance.

The camp had settled for the evening by the time they returned from inspecting the perimeter. Fires crackled throughout the encampment while soldiers moved between tents carrying supplies and evening meals.

“Do you perhaps have a basin of water I could wash in before bed?” Zaria asked as they followed the narrow 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.”

"For now, 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. Zaria lingered for only a moment before following.

The forest swallowed the noise behind them until only the whisper of leaves and the soft trickle of water remained. The moon hung high and watchful as they stepped into a shallow clearing where a narrow stream cut over smooth stones.

Zaria immediately dropped onto a nearby rock and tugged off her shoes. After several days on the road they were nearly as dusty as she was. She rinsed the worst of it away before setting them aside.

"The water isn't nearly as cold as I expected." Zaria remarked, easing one cautious foot into the crystalline flow. Callen merely nodded, crouching to unlace his boots. For a brief time neither spoke.

Then a thought struck her. Callen had led them there without the slightest hesitation. Not a single wrong turn. Not a moment spent searching. Zaria narrowed her eyes. "Have you been bathing in this stream this entire journey?"

"Not the entire journey." His answer came without hesitation as he finished unlacing one boot. "We've been traveling alongside it for the last few days." Zaria's lips pressed into a thin line. "You mean to tell me there has been a perfectly good stream available for days?"

"Yes." Callen set his boot aside and reached for the other. "And it never occurred to you to mention it?" A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You never asked, Princess." Zaria stopped halfway through taking another step into the stream.

"And how, precisely, was I meant to ask if I didn’t know?" His grin widened. "I don't know. You seem to have plenty of questions."

Zaria stared at him in disbelief. "You knew I was miserable." "I knew you were irritable." Callen shrugged. "I wasn't aware cleanliness was the source of your suffering."

Zaria stared at him another heartbeat before finally sighing. Whatever argument she might have made no longer seemed worth the effort. If she was finally getting a proper bath, she intended to enjoy it.

The stream deepened gradually beneath her as she moved farther from the bank. Dust clung stubbornly to her clothing despite the water. After several frustrating moments attempting to wash both herself and the dress simultaneously, she finally surrendered.

Her dress would need far more than a quick rinse to salvage it. She pulled it over her head and tossed it toward the bank to deal with later. The garment landed across a nearby rock while the current tugged at its torn hem.

For now, she intended to let the stream do what it could for her. Zaria kneeled in the cool water, allowing the swift flow to wash over her skin and carry away days of dirt, sweat, and discomfort.

"What was that?" Callen turned and picked up the sodden fabric that had been tossed ashore. The garment hung heavily from his hand, dripping water onto the rocks Below. Understanding dawned almost immediately.

Of all the things he had expected Zaria to throw at him, her dress had not been among them. He immediately glanced toward the surrounding trees, checking to make certain none of his knights were nearby. Satisfied they were alone, he turned his attention back toward the stream.

When his eyes found her, she was kneeling near the center, her face lifted toward the night sky. Silver light spilled across her skin while droplets of water glimmered along her shoulders, collarbone, and breasts like scattered stars.

The current curled around her waist, and for one impossible moment she looked less like a princess and more like something drawn from a dream.

Callen's gaze lingered a moment too long. Long enough to realize precisely what he was doing. Long enough for the silence to become noticeable. "Princess," he asked, amusement pressing against the edges of his restraint, "what are you doing?"

"Bathing." "Bathing," Callen echoed. "Yes." She lifted both hands, scooped up a handful of water, and swept it over her face before letting the remainder run down her shoulders. "This is generally how one bathes."

Callen’s gaze drifted skyward for a brief moment, as though offering the Gods his sincere appreciation for their generosity. "Far be it from me to criticize your methods, Princess, but why not leave the dress on?" Zaria paused. Slowly, she dragged one hand along her forearm.

"Do you often bathe with your clothes on?" She asked the dragon Prince though she was already certain of his answer. Callen shook his head, looking entirely unconcerned by the fact that she had just proven her point. "No, I don’t." "Then I fail to see an issue."

"The only issue I see," Callen replied, one brow lifting slightly, "is that we are currently surrounded by a military camp." Zaria tilted her head back, allowing the cool water to run through the long strands of her hair.

"It's just you and me here now, is it not?" "Yes. For now." Callen shook his head. "You’re placing an alarming amount of trust in me, Princess. I'm not a saint." The words should have concerned her more than they did.

Only days ago, he had held a knife to her throat. Yet here, kneeling naked in this stream, Zaria found herself strangely unconvinced that he would harm her.

"Is this not what you and your men do when you're dirty? Bathe together?" The corner of Callen's mouth twitched. "You are not a male," he replied. "It’s not safe for you."

Zaria tilted her head slightly. "Do you not have bathhouses in the west?" Renewed understanding crossed his face. He should have known there was a reason she found nothing unusual about this.

"Only in the brothels, Princess." Zaria stilled. "Oh. I wasn't aware." For the first time since entering the stream, she made a conscious effort to conceal herself, folding one arm across her chest.

Callen bit back a laugh. "It's far too late for that." Her eyes narrowed immediately. "You're insufferable." "Frequently." He didn’t look remotely ashamed of it. With a huff, she turned her back to him. And that was when he saw it. His thoughts vanished immediately.

Dark marks spread across pale skin in ugly shades of violet and blue. They traced her ribs, her shoulder, the curve of her back.

The sight sat uneasily with him. He took an instinctive step forward. Then remembered precisely how little she was wearing and halted abruptly. "Princess." The title came out quieter than intended. Zaria glanced over her shoulder. "What?"

Callen hesitated. "The bruises." She looked down at them herself as though she'd nearly forgotten they existed. "Those." One hand brushed absentmindedly across the worst of them. "It was the knight's armor, when he tackled me."

Callen's jaw tightened. He'd dismissed it at the time. Necessary. Unfortunate. Over with. Seeing the aftermath made it feel very different. "That was excessive." The words escaped before he could stop them.

Zaria turned to face him. One arm crossed her chest in a belated attempt at modesty. "You sound rather offended on my behalf."

"I am." The answer came without hesitation. "I'm not a monster." Zaria paused. Something flickered across her features. "I don't think you are." A breath later, she added, "A monster, I mean."

It was the second time Callen had felt the need to assure her he wasn't a monster. As though he genuinely expected her to see him that way. Perhaps he saw himself that way. For some reason, she couldn't.

For a few dangerous seconds, Callen found himself staring, not at her body but at her. Then he cleared his throat and looked away.

Silence settled between them. The stream whispered over stone. Somewhere deeper in the forest, an owl called. Neither seemed entirely certain what to say after that.

Zaria was the first to speak. “Could you possibly throw me my dress?” “You can't wear that.” Her brows lifted. “It's the only clothing I have.” Callen's gaze flicked briefly toward the marks along her skin. “Not over those bruises.”

Before she could argue, Callen hooked his fingers beneath the collar of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. Zaria found herself staring despite herself.

His build was every bit as formidable as the rest of him—broad shoulders, a lean, powerful build and a chest marked by old scars. Some were little more than pale lines. Others looked as though they had come far closer to ending him.

Callen caught the look and raised a brow. "Now you know how I felt earlier." Before she could think of a response, he tossed the tunic toward her.

Then turned his back to give her some privacy. Only once she had reached the shallows did she pull it on, taking care to keep the dry fabric above the waterline.

The shirt swallowed her. The hem brushed mid thigh. The sleeves disappeared past her palms. Warmth lingered in the fabric alongside the faint scent of smoke, leather, and something uniquely Dragon or Callen she wasn’t sure which.

"I'll have something loose mended for you for the time being." His attention returned to her now that she was dressed. "Until then, wear that."

Zaria nodded. "Thank you." Something unreadable crossed Callen's face as he studied her. Something about the sight of her wearing his tunic stirred an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction. Then he inclined his head once. "You're welcome, Princess."

"You know," Zaria began, smoothing the oversized sleeve between her fingers, "it’s hardly accurate to keep calling me Princess." Callen’s gaze flicked to hers. "Oh?"

"I’m not exactly one anymore." One corner of his mouth lifted. "Titles don’t disappear that quickly."

"They do when you’re no longer in possession of the kingdom." His expression shifted — not entirely amused now. "You’re still a princess," he said quietly. "Perhaps," she replied lightly. "But Zaria will do."

Callen regarded her for a long second. "Careful," he murmured. "You may regret that." "I doubt it." His smile returned — slow this time. "We’ll see."