The Fallen Princess

Nine

Zaria slouched dramatically in the saddle, letting her full weight melt backward until she rested against Callen’s chest like she’d been built for the sole purpose of testing a dragon prince’s patience.

He had insisted she ride in front of him every day, because she would absolutely run off if left unattended, and Zaria, naturally, treated that decree like an invitation. By the fourth morning, it had become routine.

Callen lifting her up without asking. Zaria muttering curses under her breath while he pretended not to hear. The soldiers adopted a careful kind of ignorance. No one looked at the way his arm stayed braced around her waist.

No one acknowledged how she’d stopped flinching at the press of his chest at her back, or how the space between insult and familiarity had begun to blur in tiny, dangerous ways.

Her retorts came faster now, sharper, better timed. Callen’s mouth would twitch like he was enjoying it, and that, more than his grip, more than the way he controlled the reins, made her uneasy.

They traveled in long stretches of silence, and when something broke that silence it felt wrong in a new way. Familiar enough to make her forget, for a heartbeat, who held all the power.

“When will we be arriving at your castle, oh great Dragon Prince?” she complained, voice thick with theatrical agony. Behind her, Callen chuckled. The vibration rolled through his chest and into her back, a low reminder that he was solid, warm, and far too pleased with himself.

“Stop whining, Princess. It’s only been a few days.” His tone stayed dry. “And stop leaning on me. I’m not a chair.” “But my back is tired from sitting on this horse,” she protested, leaning harder just to prove she could.

“And you’re much stronger than I am. Are you not capable of supporting the weight of a very small, very helpless girl for a few hours?” A low hum of amusement rumbled out of him.

“I may be strong enough, little elf,” Callen murmured, leaning until his breath brushed her neck, “but you are still a woman… and I am a man.” Zaria’s spine went rigid. “I’m aware.” The words came clipped, controlled... too controlled.

Callen’s arm tightened at her waist, a smug tug that pulled her back against him anyway. “Good,” he breathed. “Then stop pretending you don’t feel it.” She shot upright so fast she nearly toppled sideways.

Heat bloomed beneath her skin, immediate and treacherous. She hated him for it, hated how easily he could pluck a reaction from her like a string. Once he’d gotten what he wanted, he loosened his hold as if granting mercy.

Zaria sat rigidly forward for the next several hours. Back stiff. Chin lifted. Posture unnaturally perfect. Not a single complaint left her mouth. Callen didn’t bother hiding his smirk.

Near sunset, the prince’s soldiers began their nightly ritual of making camp. The sky bled orange and violet, gold threaded through the clouds like a last stubborn ember. Birds called to one another from the canopy. Somewhere beyond the trees, water rushed over stone.

Callen dismounted first, landing with effortless grace for a man his size. He turned, slid his hands around Zaria’s waist, and lifted her down with infuriating ease. His hands stayed there half a beat too long, long enough for her pulse to trip, short enough for him to pretend it hadn’t.

Then he released her. The absence of him felt colder than it should have, and the stiffness in her hips made itself known the instant she shifted her weight. Zaria rubbed at her still-sore wrists as if she could rub the memory of rope from her skin.

“May I see my brother tonight?” she asked immediately. “I will consider it.” Before she could press, Callen’s gaze snapped past her. His voice turned sharp. “You there. Come here.”

A nearby knight snapped to attention and rushed forward.

“Yes, Your Highness?” Zaria recognized him instantly. The same brute who had tied her down on the first night. The same hands that had taken too much pleasure in making her helpless.

Her stomach twisted and instinct shoved her backward, right behind Callen, so she could peer over his shoulder like a wary creature hiding behind a larger predator. “Bring me the elf prince,” Callen ordered. “He’s not a prince,” Zaria muttered.

Callen arched a brow, flicking her a warning look. “Then bring me the male elf who looks exactly like this one,” he corrected, gesturing lazily toward her. “He’s actually much taller,” she whispered, because she couldn’t help herself.

“Princess.” Callen’s voice lowered, dangerous with restraint. “Yes?” Zaria’s sweetness was entirely fake. “Shut. Up.” She shut up. Callen exhaled like she’d aged him years already, then waved a hand. “Actually... escort her to her brother. I’d like a few hours to myself.”

“As you wish,” the knight replied. He reached for Zaria’s arm. His fingers clamped down hard enough to bruise. “Wait. Release her.” Callen’s voice cut through the space like steel. The knight froze. Zaria froze too, the breath caught in her chest.

Callen stepped forward, expression darkening. “Are you the one who secured this princess on the first night?” “Yes, Your Highness.” Callen punched him. Hard. The man crumpled instantly, hitting the earth like a felled tree.

Zaria’s eyes widened. Her voice came out small and shocked. “Did you kill him?” Callen ignored the question completely. “Come here.” Zaria stepped around the unconscious knight, careful not to touch him, careful not to look too long. Callen lifted her sleeve.

Fresh bruises were already blooming along her arm, dark, angry marks against pale skin. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. A muscle ticked beneath his cheek. One of Callen’s personal knights hurried forward, alarm flickering in his posture.

“Your Highness, are you alright?” Callen nudged the unconscious man with his boot. “Take him to the medic. Make sure he’s reprimanded for conduct unbefitting a knight.” The other knights obeyed instantly. Within moments, the man was dragged away like inconvenient cargo.

When they were gone, Callen rubbed his knuckles with a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Why is it that wherever you go, chaos follows?” “I didn’t punch that man,” Zaria muttered defensively. “Must you always have the last word?”

Zaria opened her mouth. Closed it again. Glared instead. Callen flicked her forehead. “Ouch!” She hissed, rubbing the spot like she could rub his smugness off too. “Come on.” His sigh sounded like surrender. “Let’s see your brother.”

Zaria’s face lit instantly. Exhaustion fell away. Her posture straightened. Her eyes brightened with something fragile and precious. Hope. Callen pretended not to notice, though his gaze softened for a brief moment, so brief she might have imagined it if she weren’t watching him.

The walk took longer than expected. The forest narrowed the caravan’s route, forcing the wagons into stretched, uneven clusters. The air grew brisk as night crept in. Zaria felt the first truly cold breeze of her life and shivered, clutching her sleeves tighter around herself.

“Do you live where it snows?” she asked, curiosity threading through the words before she could stop it. Callen nodded. “During certain seasons.” Zaria’s expression softened. “I’ve always wanted to see snow.” The admission slipped out gentler than she intended.

“My mother used to tell us stories from her childhood. She claimed it was always snowing where she was from.” Her voice thinned at the end. Nostalgia turned into ache. She swallowed hard, but it stayed lodged in her chest anyway.

Callen didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer pity. He just walked beside her in silence, and something in his face shifted as they rounded a bend, attention sharpening, the way it did when the world demanded he decide something.

His gaze dropped to her hands—unbound, empty. Four days ago her wrists were tied. Three days ago he would’ve counted her steps like they were crimes waiting to happen. Tonight, she walked at his side without that fever-bright look of someone measuring distance to freedom.

A small clearing opened before them. Soldiers stood guard at the perimeter around a cluster of people gathered near the firelight, surrendered souls of every rank: men and women, children tucked close—watched, contained, but not mistreated.

Ropes were cut away, hands freed, Cloaks had been draped over cold shoulders. Bowls of stew steamed in grateful hands. A steady, unsentimental kind of care that didn’t ask permission to exist.

“Zaria!” A familiar voice called warmly. Zakai jogged forward, relief washing over his face so openly it made Zaria’s throat tighten. Their three little half-sisters trailed behind him like ducklings, clinging to his sleeves and each other, eyes wide and too old for their faces.

“They won’t leave my side for a moment,” Zakai muttered with a resigned sigh, though his hand moved automatically to pat each girl’s head as he spoke, gentle and steady. Zaria’s heart filled, breaking and mending all at once.

Callen turned slightly toward her. “Princess. I have business to attend to.” His tone sounded casual, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I’ll leave you with your brother… if—” He leaned closer as if he meant to threaten her, only his voice dropped into something meant just for her. “You promise not to cause me grief while I’m away.”

Zaria’s mouth tipped. “I promise.” Callen gave her one long, suspicious stare, weighing the truth of her words like it was a coin he expected to be counterfeit. “Stay where the firelight reaches,” he murmured. Zaria blinked. “That’s an order?”

“Call it whatever makes you feel less grateful.” He brushed past Zakai, pausing just long enough to lean in and murmur low at his ear, “If anything happens, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

Zakai stiffened.

Callen clapped his shoulder once, hard enough to make him wince, then turned and walked away. The moment he vanished around the bend, Zakai exhaled shakily like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. “He is insufferable.”

Zaria watched the darkness where Callen had gone, the memory of his hand at her waist earlier in the day still lingering, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure she agreed. Not entirely. Not anymore.