The Fallen Princess

Thirty Two

Zakai held out the small glass vial as though it weighed far more than a few ounces. “Here,” he murmured, placing it into Zaria’s palm. The liquid inside sloshed slowly, thick as syrup, its green hue catching the candlelight like wet jade. “It’s from Crown Prince Christian. His wedding gift, apparently.”

Zaria tilted the vial slightly, watching how the potion clung stubbornly to the glass... heavy, viscous, almost alive. A strange knot tightened inside her chest. Zakai must have seen the flicker of fear cross her face.

“He made certain it was safe for the baby. He told me himself. Whatever’s in there… it’s meant to help you, not harm you.” Zakai said quietly, knowing all too well what she was bracing herself to do tonight. Her stomach turned.

“Tell him…” Zaria whispered, her throat thick, “tell him I’m grateful.” She didn’t allow herself time to hesitate. She uncorked the vial, the bitter scent rising sharply, and swallowed the potion in one long, burning gulp.

By the time she lowered the empty glass, she was coughing, blinking through the sting as the foul taste settled in her chest. Zakai squeezed her shoulder, trying to look reassuring but failing, the worry circling his eyes gave him away.

“You’ll be alright,” he said, patting her arm. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay with you long… I’m sorry, sister.” “It’s alright,” she murmured, even though nothing about any of this felt alright. “I understand.”

He hesitated, just long enough for her to see how badly he didn’t want to leave her, then pulled her into a quick, tight hug before slipping from the room. The moment the door shut, silence pressed in like fog.

Zaria walked onto the small balcony, the single thing she’d asked River for when choosing chambers: a sliver of sky.

The iron chair chilled her thighs through the thin fabric of her night gown, but she didn’t mind. Below, the courtyard glowed faintly with the remnants of the celebration. Lanterns swinging in the night breeze, half-cleared tables scattered with petals, servants wandering quietly in the aftermath of a feast meant to celebrate her new life.

Her new marriage. Her new prison. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach. Little one, she thought, her heart breaking and swelling at the same time. We will survive this. We will hold on until he comes for us.

Callen’s face rose in her memory... his smile, the heat of his hands on her hips, the fire in his voice when he whispered that he would never stop fighting for her. Tears stung her eyes, but the wind dried them before they could fall.

A voice broke the quiet. “Zaria?” She startled, too quickly, catching herself with a hand on the rail. The world tipped for a breath before steadying again.

She turned toward the room, blinking as her vision swayed. A figure stood just beyond the bed, softened at the edges like someone half-remembered. “I apologize for letting myself in,” the man said, stepping closer. “I knocked several times but received no answer.”

“Wind,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her temple. “The wind must have swallowed the sound.” He moved toward her with steady, deliberate steps. Her head felt fogged… heavy… pleasantly distant, as if she were floating just beside her own consciousness.

“You’re cold,” he breathed, touching her arm. His hand was warm and she leaned into it instinctively. “You’re warm,” she sighed, her lips curving faintly. “Are you unwell?” he asked. “You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” she whispered, even though she knew she wasn’t. She drifted toward the mirror, staring at her blurred reflection. Her cheeks were bright, her pupils wide. She lifted a hand to touch the glass... her own face seemed foreign.

Warmth settled behind her. Strong arms circled her waist and urged her gently to lean back. Her head lolled against a shoulder she felt she should recognize. “Today was a very long day,” she murmured.

“For me,” he said softly, “it was a wonderful day.” His hand slid to her cheek, tilting her face upward. “May I kiss you?” She laughed softly, small, breathy, not fully present. “Yes,” she said, offering her mouth.

The kiss was gentle. Slow. Intent. He kissed her like she might break, kissing the corners of her mouth, kissing the ghost of her sadness away. “May I?” he asked again, fingers touching the edge of her nightgown. She nodded.

After that, memory dissolved into heat and softness. Warm hands smoothing over chilled skin. A slow undressing. A murmured reassurance. The press of lips. The blur of motion. Borrowed warmth. A fog she couldn’t push through.

When morning came Zaria woke choking on breath. She sat up so quickly the room swayed around her. The sheets fell to her lap. Her chest seized with dread as her gaze swept to the side. River lay beside her. Half-covered. Bare-chested. Breathing evenly.

Her blood turned to ice. She scrambled off the bed, dragging the blanket over her body as she backed away. No. No. No. River stirred at the motion and reached for her arm with gentle confusion. “Zaria? Is something wrong?”

She shook her head, breath hitching. “I’m… not feeling well.” She fled into the washroom just in time. She gripped the edges of the basin as the bitter remains of Christian’s potion tore up her throat. Her stomach emptied violently. Tears splashed into the bowl.

“Zaria?” River called softly. “I’ll fetch the physician.” “No,” she breathed, wiping her mouth. “I’m fine.” “There is no need to hide your suffering,” he murmured. “Morning sickness is natural. I’ll have the physician bring a calming tonic.” Morning sickness. The lie she needed. She nodded faintly, exhausted.

When he left, Zaria rinsed her mouth, washed her face, scrubbed her skin until it stung. By the time River returned with the physician and maids, she sat silent and rigid on the bed.

The physician was cold. Her clinical hands prodding her abdomen with far too much force. When pain flared, Zaria slapped her hand away. “That is unnecessary,” she said sharply. “You’re roughly a month along,” the woman replied dismissively. “This won’t cause harm Lady Elarion.”

Zaria’s eyes hardened. “Get out.” “It is my duty to examine you-” “I said get out.” River appeared in the doorway. “If Zaria is uncomfortable, leave.” The woman bowed stiffly and exited. Zaria’s voice trembled with fury. “I will only see a healer.”

River knelt at her side, expression softening. “If that’s what you want, I’ll find the best healer in the Isles or send for one from the Western Kingdom.” Her shoulders eased only slightly. “Did she hurt you?” he asked gently. Zaria hesitated, then nodded.

River stood sharply. “That’s all I needed to know.” He gestured, and maids entered carrying boxes of all shapes and sizes. Tall and beautifully wrapped. “I brought you some gifts,” River said. “All this?” she asked, surprised. “Open them.”

She lifted the lid of the first box and froze. Pants. Not dresses. Perfectly tailored trousers in rich fabrics. Her heart stuttered.

More boxes revealed blouses, boots, riding gear. Garments that felt like her, not a princess in silk. River smiled softly. “I noticed you wore your riding clothes for most of the journey. I thought… perhaps you’d like a wardrobe that reflects who you are.”

She swallowed hard. “Thank you,” she whispered. “There’s one more gift,” he said carefully. “But I want to give it to you properly. May I escort you downstairs?” “Let me change first?” she asked, hope flickering. He nodded and stepped outside.

Zaria slipped into the trousers and boots and buttoned the tailored jacket. The reflection in the mirror startled her... strong, capable, recognizable. When she stepped into the hall, River’s breath caught.

“You look beautiful,” he said softly. She blushed despite everything. “Cover your eyes.” She obeyed, letting him guide her outside. Cool salt wind brushed her cheeks. “Open.” Zaria lifted her hands-

A white horse stood before her, elegant and proud, its coat gleaming like moonlit snow. It stepped closer, nudging her palm with a warm, velvety nose. She laughed, truly laughed, and hugged the animal’s massive head.

“He’s yours,” River said, placing the reins in her hand. She turned to him with shining eyes. “He’s perfect.” Her gaze fell on the saddle. A longbow rested there with smooth wood, carved with swirling elven motifs, gleaming under the sun. A quiver hung beside it.

“A bow?” she whispered. River nodded. “A common hobby in the Isles. I thought you might enjoy having one of your own.” Emotion swelled in her chest. Complicated, overwhelming, but not all grief. Zaria felt a shard of strength pierce through the sorrow.