The Fallen Princess

Eight & One Half

Zaria lay sprawled on the firm cot, half-covered with a scratchy wool blanket that had clearly never known softness in its life. It itched at her legs and irritated the raw skin at her wrists. She tugged it up anyway, more for the illusion of comfort than for any warmth it offered.

Her entire body ached. Muscles throbbed with each faint change of position, her back pulsing painfully with every beat of her heart. Exhaustion sank deep into her bones, wrapping around her like a cold, unwelcome shroud. And yet sleep refused to come.

The tent was too still, too quiet, save for the occasional muffled murmur of the camp outside, or the distant crackle of a fire. And her thoughts… her thoughts were far too loud.

She rolled onto her side, tried to find a position that didn’t send pain shooting across her back. Failed. Tried again. Failed again. After several fruitless attempts, a soft, frustrated groan slipped free.

She swung her legs over the edge and pushed herself upright, wincing as bruises protested the movement, then crossed to the small wooden chest. Inside, nestled between folded cloths, sat the tall bottle of clear liquor. Prince Callen had used it to clean her wounds earlier. Cleaned-ish.

Zaria uncorked the bottle and took a small sip. The liquor burned on the way down, hitting her stomach like a spark dropped onto dry kindling. But the pain in her back dulled slightly, just enough to make her breathe easier.

She took another. Then a third, longer drink, because control was hard to come by and this, at least, she could choose. “I’m sure Prince Callen won’t mind if I have just a little,” she muttered, then frowned at the crooked cork when it refused to sit properly.

“Or… perhaps a bit more than a little.” She tapped it with her palm. It wobbled. Refused. Popped back up. “Fine,” she grumbled, setting it back inside the chest with the cork tilted at an awkward angle. “Be difficult.”

She returned to the cot and sat down, pulling her knees to her chest. Rested her cheek against them. Stared into nothing. If I behave, she thought, perhaps he’ll let me stay with Zakai. Even for a night. A foolish hope. But hope all the same.

A nervous voice floated in from behind her. “E-excuse me?” Zaria jolted and turned. A young man, little more than a boy, really, stood awkwardly in the doorway, cheeks bright red.

He held a folded uniform in one hand and a sewing kit in the other, eyes fixed with heroic determination on a spot just above her head.

“I was instructed to bring the smallest uniform available,” he managed, “and sewing equipment.” Zaria glanced down at herself. Right. Callen’s shirt. Long and oversized, no wonder the boy looked like she’d threatened his virtue.

She grabbed the blanket and draped it over herself, mercifully sparing him. “Yes,” she answered, swallowing her embarrassment. “I… tore my dress. It’s beyond repair. I’ll need something to wear until I receive another.”

The boy nodded quickly, nearly dropping the bundle in the process, then set it on the chest as if any closer proximity might combust him. “I-I’ll step outside,” he stammered, backing out so fast he nearly tripped. “Just—just poke your head out when you’re dressed.”

“Thank you,” Zaria called after him, but he was already gone. The uniform was simple: a crisp white long-sleeved shirt, lighter than anything she’d ever worn, and black trousers made from a sturdy material unfamiliar to her.

Both were slightly too large, but far better than drowning in the prince’s shirt. She dressed carefully, pleased at the softness against her skin, then poked her head out as instructed. Two fully armored knights stood guard, swords at their sides. They turned toward her in unison.

She blurted, “You may come in!” and retreated before the moment could become more awkward. The young man returned timidly, embarrassment easing as he shifted into the comfort of his craft. He circled her once, humming like the world made sense when it came in seams and hems.

“I can take this in here,” he murmured, pinching the waistband, “and hem these.” His fingers tugged the pant legs with gentle precision. “Please stand just like this, miss.” “It’s Princess to you,” a voice corrected sharply. Prince Callen strode inside, boots loud against packed earth.

The boy went pale. “O-oh. I’m sorry, my prince. I didn’t know—” Zaria offered the boy a small, calming smile. “It’s alright. I’m not really a princess anymore.” Her kindness turned the boy’s face red again, so red she worried he might faint.

Callen, meanwhile, crossed to the chest and pulled out the liquor bottle. He examined the crooked cork, snorted, then let out a low laugh. Zaria folded her arms. He absolutely knew she’d taken some.

Trying to salvage her dignity, she tilted her head toward the boy. “Are you a knight?” The boy shook his head, a pin secured between his lips. “A squire,” he managed. “So where did you learn to sew?”

“Let the man work,” Callen cut in, voice dry. “Or we’ll all be here till dawn.” Zaria rolled her eyes. “I’m having a conversation, not distracting him.” The squire pulled the pin from his mouth long enough to sputter, “I-it’s alright, Princess. I can talk.”

“If you must,” Callen muttered. Zaria flashed a smug little grin before turning back to the squire. “So?” “My mother taught me,” he answered, voice gaining steadiness now that he had a task to cling to. “I have twelve siblings. We all learned to take care of ourselves early.”

“Twelve,” Zaria repeated, impressed. “It’s fortunate for me that you learned.” The squire worked with quick hands, lantern light catching on needle and thread. Within minutes he stepped back, assessing, then nodded to himself.

“This will hold for the night,” he promised quietly. “I can reinforce the seams properly by dawn.” Relief loosened something in Zaria’s chest. “Thank you.” “Oh, wait.” She caught him as he reached the flap. “I didn’t get your name.”

He blinked, surprised by the interest, then offered a timid smile. “Timothy.” “Thank you, Timothy,” Zaria murmured, warmth genuine. Timothy bowed and fled like kindness was more dangerous than steel. The tent fell quiet again.

“Well, thank you, Timothy,” Callen mocked in a near-perfect imitation of her tone, stretching the name with theatrical sweetness. Zaria turned on him, glare sharpened to a point. “The least I could do was learn his name. I have nothing else to offer him.”

“You needn’t offer him anything,” Callen replied, leaning back on his palms. “He did as he was commanded and is compensated by me.” Silence sat between them for a beat. Callen’s gaze flicked to the flap, then back. “Are you going to make ‘Timothy’ stand outside all night?”

Amusement threaded the question. Zaria’s cheeks warmed. “Now you’re shy?” Callen teased, eyes bright with it. “Fine,” Zaria huffed. She snatched the wool blanket and tossed it over his face with surprising accuracy. “Don’t peek.” Callen’s laughter rumbled under the fabric, low and unmistakably pleased.

Later, when the camp sounds thinned and the lantern burned low, Zaria found herself back on the cot—still aching, still restless, still utterly awake. Across the tent, Callen lay stretched out on his own cot, one arm tucked behind his head like sleep came easy to him.

His breathing sounded steady. Too steady. Zaria stared at the canvas ceiling, tried again to settle her back into a bearable position. She gave up. Quietly, she eased off the cot and crossed the tent, careful with every step so her bruises wouldn’t scream.

The chest waited like temptation. She lifted the lid, reached in, and curled her fingers around the liquor bottle. The cork came free with a soft pop. She took one careful sip. Fire, immediate and clean, flooding down her throat.

Her shoulders loosened despite herself. She went for a second sip— “Drink water,” Callen’s voice murmured from the dark. Zaria froze, bottle halfway to her mouth.

One golden eye peered at her through the dim, barely open, the rest of his face still relaxed against the cot as if he hadn’t moved at all. “You’re awake,” she whispered, offended by the betrayal of it. “I’m asleep,” he countered lazily. “You’re hallucinating.”

Zaria narrowed her eyes. “Then hallucinations can’t stop me.” Callen’s eye opened a fraction wider. “I can smell it.” “That’s tragic,” Zaria murmured, and tipped the bottle again. Callen let out a long, suffering exhale, purely theatrical. “Water, little elf.”

“I don’t want water.” “You want to fall over?” “I want my back to stop screaming.” A pause, then Callen’s voice lowered, stripped of its sharper edges. “It will stop screaming when you stop feeding it liquor.”

Zaria scoffed softly, took another sip anyway, then swallowed with grim satisfaction. “It’s for healing.” Callen’s eye closed again as if he’d decided to die on principle. And then, an amused sigh escaped him, warm and unwilling.

“Bring that here.” Zaria blinked. “Excuse me?” Callen pushed himself upright, hair falling messily across his forehead. He held out his hand without looking at it, like he expected obedience because the world usually gave it to him. “Before you drink half the bottle and set my tent on fire with your clever ideas.”

“I have never set a tent on fire,” Zaria mused. “You’ve known me for two days,” Callen replied. “Give it time.” Zaria rolled her eyes, then crossed the space to him anyway. She lowered herself onto the edge of his cot and immediately regretted it.

A groan scraped out of her as bruises flared in protest. Callen watched, mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “What,” Zaria muttered through her teeth, “is so amusing.” He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking over her posture with blatant entertainment. “I never said you could sit there.”

Zaria lifted her chin. “Then why did you tell me to come here.” Callen stared at her for a beat, then the corner of his mouth tipped. “I told you to bring the bottle.” “Well,” Zaria replied, shrugging as if she hadn’t just committed a crime, “the bottle came with me.”

A low chuckle escaped him, genuine enough to surprise them both. Callen grabbed the bottle from her hand and took a swig like it was an insult to his dignity to sip. Then he handed it back. Zaria stared. “So you can drink it, but I can’t.”

“I didn’t tell you not to drink,” he corrected smoothly. “I told you to drink water.” “That’s the same thing.” “It’s really not.” Zaria lifted the bottle and took a smaller sip, eyes on him over the rim. “You’re insufferable.”

Callen’s mouth curved. “You’re exhausting.” They sat there in the dim, the tent wrapped around them like a secret, camp sounds distant and softened, and for a strange moment it felt almost… normal. Not safe. Not gentle. But less jagged than everything else had been.

Zaria turned the bottle slowly in her hands. “Back home,” she admitted, voice quieter than before, “I used to sneak to the upper balconies when the palace got too… loud.” Callen’s gaze sharpened, interest slipping in under the sarcasm. “Balconies.”

“To breathe,” she clarified. “To pretend I wasn’t trapped in silk and expectations.” Her mouth tightened. “To imagine the world was larger than the King’s temper and threats.” Callen didn’t interrupt. He just watched her, expression unreadable—until it shifted, just slightly, into something heavier.

“I don’t get balconies,” he murmured, voice low. “I get maps. Briefings. Men waiting for decisions I don’t always have the right to make.” His jaw flexed. “And a camp full of people who sleep because they assume I’ll stay awake.”

Zaria’s fingers stilled on the bottle. That was… not what she expected. She huffed a laugh—small, unwilling. “I guess we’re not so different after all.” Callen took another swig. “We all have burdens...”

Zaria’s eyelids grew heavy without permission. She fought it for a heartbeat, Then her head tipped. Callen’s hand lifted on instinct—fast, unconscious—hovering near her shoulder as if to catch her before she fell.

He stopped himself at the last second, fingers flexing once in the air. Zaria slumped anyway, cheek landing against him, and the breath that left Callen sounded dangerously close to a laugh.

He went still. Then glanced down at her like she’d personally violated every rule of warfare.

“Of course,” he muttered, carefully sliding the bottle from her lax fingers before it could spill. “Of course you fall asleep on me.” He eased her back onto the cot with more care than he would have admitted to possessing, guiding her bruised body down so she didn’t jolt awake.

He pulled the scratchy wool blanket up over her, tucking it around her shoulders like he was sealing her in against the night. Zaria didn’t stir. Callen watched her for a long beat, eyes lingering on her face as if he was trying to decide what, exactly, she was. Problem, punishment, or something far more dangerous.