The Fallen Princess

Four

Princess Zaria stood pressed into the deepest, darkest corner of the preparation room, her back against cold stone, fingers knotted tightly in the fabric of Zakai’s cloak that still smelled faintly of him. He had wrapped it around her shoulders just before the guards separated them, jaw tight, eyes full of warning.

Don’t let them see you, those eyes had said. As if she’d ever had a choice. Now the cloak clung to her like the thinnest of shields, a flimsy barrier between her and the world waiting just beyond those doors.

This part was always the worst... The waiting. The silence that was never truly silent, filled with only the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. The knowledge that in a few breaths, in a few steps, she would be paraded out like a prized animal, displayed for whichever man wanted to buy or own or ruin her.

She forced herself to breathe slowly, shallowly. In. Out. Again. Anything to keep the panic from climbing too high up her throat and choking her.

I suppose I am in a zoo of sorts, she thought grimly, casting a brief glance at the tall, narrow window beside her. The drop beyond it was far too high to survive. Still, for a single dangerous heartbeat, she considered it. A little laugh... light, false, and desperate scraped her throat. Death had stalked her for so long in subtle ways. How ironic it would be to meet it by her own foolish leap.

Across the room, several of her half-sisters fluttered about like brightly colored birds. They fussed with their gowns. Garments of silk and shimmer, cut low and slit high, adorned with feathers, beads, and jewels that caught the torchlight. They preened and adjusted and spun, excitement bubbling out in nervous giggles.

Their flirtatious laughter echoed off the stone walls. Zaria watched them over the edge of Zakai’s cloak, her icy eyes cool, her expression unreadable. Have they no regard for their own worth? she wondered, not for the first time. Did they truly think this was choice? That their beauty guaranteed them favor rather than danger? Or were they simply pretending, because pretending was easier than admitting the truth?

She shut her eyes for a moment, grounding herself in the feel of the cloak beneath her fingers, the weight of the fabric, the lingering warmth. A familiar voice sliced through the noise of the room. “You won’t gain the attention of any man dressed like that.”

Zaria opened her eyes. Her older half-sister, flame-haired and painted to perfection, sauntered toward her, hips swaying with the same cruel confidence she’d wielded when they were children. She wore a gown the color of spilled wine, slit nearly to the hip, her bodice tight enough to threaten the structural integrity of the dress.

“That is my greatest wish,” Zaria replied, tone flat, irritation slipping through the calm mask she normally kept in place. “Why must you always be so stubborn, little sister?” the redhead purred.

She seized Zaria’s chin between her fingers, pinching hard enough to sting, forcing Zaria’s gaze up to meet her own. Gold dust shimmered on the woman’s eyelids and collarbones, catching the light as she leaned in.

“You won’t get away with wearing this tonight,” she murmured, flicking the edge of the cloak with a sharp fingernail. “We have extra special guests to entertain.” The word entertain carried its usual poisonous implication.

She shoved Zaria’s chin away, satisfied, and drifted back toward the other girls who were admiring themselves in a tarnished standing mirror.

Zaria exhaled slowly once her sister’s back was turned. Her fingers dug tighter into the fabric of the cloak. It has always worked before, she reminded herself. A small, cowardly trick: wrap herself in something plain and heavy, keep her head bowed, stand near the back.

She clung to the hope that the cloak would once again grant her a degree of invisibility, just enough to slip unnoticed into the back of the hall beside men insignificant enough that no one would question their disappearance.

The curse of looking like her mother, her unnervingly ethereal beauty, was that humans coveted her the way they coveted rare treasures. She had learned long ago how to stay beneath notice.

Nearly an hour later, the door to the preparation room creaked open. A guard stepped inside, armor clinking, face blank. “It’s time,” he announced.

The half-sisters flocked toward him eagerly, skirts whispering over the stone floor. Zaria waited until they were nearly gone before allowing herself to be swept along in their wake.

The great hall roared with life as they entered. Torches blazed along the walls, their flames casting golden light over polished stone, thick columns, and long tables filled with nobles.

Servants wove between them with pitchers of wine and trays of food—roasted meats, glistening fruits, steaming bread. The air was thick with scents and sound: laughter, clinking goblets, murmured deals, flirtatious whispers.

The King lounged on his throne, draped in heavy robes, a golden crown resting on his head. A performer in all but name. Tonight, he truly played the part. “Presenting… the daughters of His Majesty!” the herald called out, voice booming.

The King’s lips curled into a showman’s smile, his tone theatrical and indulgent, like a circus master calling his trained creatures into the ring.

She stepped into the hall with her head bowed. The weight of a hundred eyes pressed down on her shoulders like a physical force. Humiliation clawed at her chest, but she forced her feet forward, keeping her pace slow, measured.

She set her sights on the farthest chair at the edge of the hall, near the lesser nobles. Just get there, she told herself. Sit. Breathe. Endure. “Zaria!” Her father’s voice sliced through the clamor, loud and commanding.

“My most exotic and beautiful daughter,” he continued, “come here a moment.” The guards at the edges of the hall shifted instantly, two of them stepping subtly into her path. There would be no slipping away tonight.

Zaria’s jaw tightened. She let out a sharp breath through her nose, carefully neutral, and turned. “Take that robe off her,” the King ordered with a lazy flick of his fingers. Two guards stepped forward. One reached for the clasp at her throat. She slapped his hand away.

“I can take it off myself,” she said softly, but there was steel beneath the quiet. Zaria unfastened the cloak and slid it from her shoulders. The silk dress beneath clung to her frame like liquid night. Plain by her sisters’ standards, but still far more revealing than anything she would have chosen. A hush fell over the nearest tables.

The guard who accepted the cloak from her stared. “Please send it to my room,” she murmured. He nodded too quickly, clutching it like a sacred relic.

“Zaria,” the King boomed, gesturing her to come near. “I’d like you to meet our special guest tonight.” A man rose from the seat beside the King. No... not a man.

He was enormous, even before he straightened fully to his height. Broad shoulders strained the fabric of his simple yet finely made tunic. Muscles corded along his arms, the kind that spoke not just of training, but of something born in his very bones. His jaw was strong, his features sharp, his hair dark and swept loosely back from his face.

He radiated power like heat from a forge. “This is Prince Callen of the Western Dragon Kingdom,” the King announced proudly. “Treat him well.” Zaria swallowed. Even if she and Zakai fought him together, she doubted they would leave more than a bruise.

She lowered her gaze, settled her features into a mask of compliance, and took the empty chair beside him. Her mind spun, not with options (there were none) but with the bitter knowledge that everything about her life could change tonight.

After a moment, curiosity pried at her. Just a glance, she told herself. She turned slightly and met golden eyes. Not human. Not remotely human. They glowed faintly, like molten metal, like the eyes that had haunted her nightmares for weeks. Her heart stumbled in her chest.

“Are you not even going to take a bite?” Prince Callen asked casually, nodding toward her untouched plate. She forced a tight, polite smile, picking up her fork. She moved the food around, cutting a piece of meat, nudging vegetables, lifting one bite halfway to her lips before setting the fork down again.

He chuckled, low and amused. “So, the answer is no, then,” he murmured, leaning in slightly. Zaria inched her chair away and the King noticed. His fist slammed down on the table with a boom that silenced the hall. Goblets rattled. Conversations died mid-sentence. Zaria flinched.

He held her in a hard, unblinking stare until she slid her chair back to its original position, close enough to feel the dragon prince’s heat. “Don’t test me,” he warned, voice low and dangerous. A cold prickle of fear traced down her spine. Not for herself, she had endured worse, but for what he might do to her sisters if she pushed too far.

“I apologize for my daughter,” he said then, his tone suddenly slick with false charm. He gestured for more wine. “Though her beauty rivals a goddess, she has the manners of a beast. She simply needs to be tamed.” Heat flooded Zaria’s cheeks. Shame and fury warred in her chest. Her nails bit into her palms beneath the table.

“But if she’s not to your taste,” the King continued conversationally, “I can suggest another of my daughters…” He snapped his fingers.

“Take her to the dungeons and leave her a few weeks as pun—” “There’s no need,” Prince Callen said, cutting him off. Zaria’s head snapped up. No one interrupted the King. Not without paying for it.

“I like her the way she is,” Callen added smugly, lifting his goblet. The King stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed. “You’ve chosen well,” he said, clinking his wine against the dragon prince’s.

Callen stood and extended his hand toward Zaria. She took it because she had no choice, her fingers light in his grip. “I request permission to escort your daughter to my room,” he said smoothly, bowing his head respectfully but his golden eyes never left hers.

Disgust curdled in Zaria’s stomach. She looked away. The prince pulled her closer, her shoulder hitting his chest as he drew her against him. His grip was steady, unyielding. “It was a grueling trip,” he said lightly. His tone was polite; his meaning was not. “I’m exceptionally tired.”

Zaria pinched his side... hard. He only tightened his hold, amused. “I see,” the King said, hiding his satisfaction poorly. “Please, go get some rest.” Then, more pointedly, to Zaria: “Kindly escort our guest of honor to his room.” I will rip out the king's heart, she thought, smile tight. Someday.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she managed between clenched teeth. “She is my gift to you,” the King added lazily. “I am no-!” she began, but the dragon prince hoisted her clean off the ground, pulling her fully against him. He pressed her face to his chest, muffling her protest as he turned and walked from the hall with easy, confident strides.

The ornate doors shut behind them with a heavy thud. Zaria shoved at him, twisting. To her surprise, he let her go abruptly. She hit the stone floor hard, the impact jolting pain up her side.

She rose slowly, gathering what remained of her dignity, and began walking down the corridor. The prince’s footsteps followed behind her at an unhurried, steady pace. From the corner of her eye, half-hidden behind a column, she spotted Zakai.

Her heart lurched. No. No, no, don’t you dare... He could not interfere. Not here. Not with a foreign prince. Not without risking more than his own life.

“So you are PRINCE of the DRAGONS,” Zaria said loudly, putting extra emphasis on the titles, hoping Zakai heard and understood who they were dealing with. She tried to wave him away with a small, subtle motion of her fingers. Callen noticed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, stopping abruptly. She turned to face him and offered the most innocent smile she could manage. “Nothing.” His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing more and resumed walking. Zaria fell into step again, mind racing.

I should have feigned illness one last time, she thought bitterly. Begged that odious messenger not to pick my sister instead. All the others she’d escaped or killed had been minor men. Nobodies. Their deaths had been buried or ignored. But this was different.

A dragon prince did not simply go missing. “So, you are an elf?” he asked suddenly. “Half,” she replied quickly. “You don’t seem to enjoy your father’s dinner parties,” he noted, amusement glittering in his golden eyes.

“The King’s dinner parties,” she corrected with quiet venom. “And no. They are only enjoyable for those considered people... not for those gifted away like objects.” He chuckled, unbothered.

Without warning, he reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. In a single smooth motion, he turned and threw it behind them. Zaria realized the target half a breath before the blade could fly true.

Zakai! She flung out her hand on instinct, calling on that inner light. It burst free in a narrow flash, striking the metal and knocking it off course. The knife clattered harmlessly across the stone floor.

Chaos exploded. Zakai lunged from his hiding place, reaching for her arm, trying to yank her behind him. Prince Callen snarled and seized her other wrist, dragging her back. With his free hand, he drove his fist into Zakai’s skull with terrifying force.

Zaria watched in horror as her brother’s head struck the stone wall with a sickening c***k. He crumpled quickly, collapsing to the floor in an unmoving heap. “Zakai!” she cried.

She tore herself from the prince’s hold, dropping to her knees beside her brother. She turned his head gently, fingers searching frantically for breath, for movement, for something. She could not tell if he was conscious. She could not tell if he was alive.

She wrapped her arms around him, placing her body between his and the dragon prince. “If you wish to harm him, you will have to kill me first,” she spat, voice shaking with fury. Prince Callen laughed, the sound low and incredulous.

“You’re rather bold, Princess,” he said, tipping his head. “Having your lover follow us, then defending him with your life even after he fails you.” “He is my brother,” she snarled. “He only wishes to protect me.”

“I don’t rightly care,” the prince said. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her down the corridor toward a nearby chamber. Pain lanced across her scalp, but she refused to cry out. He kicked the door open and shoved her inside, slamming it shut behind them.

“I had no intention of harming you, little elf,” he growled. “Or of lying with you.” He stepped closer, golden eyes hard. “But now that you’ve attempted to take my life,” he continued, pulling a blade and pressing it against her throat, “I will take yours.”

A thin line of cold bit into her skin. “I wasn’t foolish enough to attack you,” she said coolly, keeping her voice steady despite the thundering of her heart. “Do what you must.” He studied her face, his gaze tracing the curve of her jaw, the defiance in her eyes. Something like amusement flickered there.

“Do you wish to die?” he asked, lips curling into a smirk. She said nothing. “I’ll leave your brother alive,” he added after a beat, “as long as he surrenders. But I will kill your filthy human father before I return home.”

Zaria let out a slow breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Then you have my eternal gratitude,” she replied. The blade pressed deeper for an instant, a sharp sting of pain. Then he withdrew it, laughter rumbling in his chest.

“You’re quite amusing, little elf,” he said. The last thing she felt was the sharp, sudden impact of his strike at the back of her neck. Then the world tilted, went black, and swallowed her whole.