The Fallen Princess

Seventeen

“Princess.” Zaria froze. Callen’s deep, unmistakable voice cut across the courtyard. She turned, bracing herself, fully expecting a scolding. Instead, he strode toward her with his jaw tight and his irritation barely contained… and lifted his arm stiffly.

It took her a heartbeat to understand the gesture. Escort. Royal propriety. She slipped her arm into his tentatively. “Shall I escort you inside, Princess?” His tone was a question in form, but entirely a command in practice.

Zaria nodded quickly. “Yes, your highness.” “You never listen,” he muttered the moment she stood close enough for only him to hear. Despite the complaint, she couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at her lips.

“You gave me conflicting orders,” she pointed out lightly. “You told me to stay with the horse, and also not to move from where I was standing. You never said which command was superior.” Callen pinched her arm lightly, but enough to make her jump. She gasped softly and glared at him.

He stifled a laugh, clearly pleased with himself. Before she could retaliate with words sharp enough to make him regret his life choices, another voice slid into the space behind them. “And who might this lovely lady be?” It was the crown prince.

Zaria turned to face him and understood immediately why the crowd earlier whispered about “the two golden sons of the West.” He looked nearly identical to Callen; same height, same striking features, same molten-gold eyes. Yet where Callen carried an aura of battle-hardened command, this prince wore effortless charm like a cloak.

“One moment, brother,” Callen said sharply, blocking the man’s approach. The crown prince arched a brow, amused at his brother’s territorial posture. Callen leaned closer to Zaria, voice low and cutting as he whispered: “Next time you feel inclined to make a decision, do the opposite. It will most likely be what I want.”

Despite the composed delivery, Zaria caught the warning simmering beneath the surface…and she almost smirked. The crown prince cleared his throat dramatically. “Now then.” Zaria slipped her arm out of Callen’s and offered a graceful curtsey.

“I am Zaria.” “Princess Zaria,” Callen corrected immediately, like a reflex he didn’t even realize he had. She glanced up at him in mild surprise before continuing more formally, “Former Princess Zaria of the Southern Kingdom, your highness.”

“So it is true,” a woman’s voice cut in; sharp, elegant, and edged with fury. Zaria’s gaze lifted to find the queen herself watching her with a storm of emotions in her eyes. “The Southern King collected women like trophies,” the queen seethed, “and bred them like animals.”

“Mother,” The crown prince murmured softly, trying to temper her outrage. But Zaria did not flinch. The words cut, yes... but truth often did. “No offense taken, Ma’am,” Zaria said quietly. “Your description is accurate. My father did indeed behave as you described…and my mother was taken as a prisoner. She was poisoned when I was a child.”

The queen’s expression softened instantly, sympathy washing across her regal features. “You poor dear.” “Why is she with you and not her people?” the king demanded, fixing Callen with a critical stare.

“Father,” Callen groaned through clenched teeth, “can we not do this here?” The crown prince laughed. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.” He turned to Zaria and extended his arm with a flourish. Callen stiffened, irritation crackling off him like static.

Zaria accepted the crown prince’s arm anyway because she enjoyed living dangerously. “Mother and I will get acquainted with our guest,” The crown prince said smugly. “You can speak with Father.” Callen released the longest, most suffering sigh Zaria had ever heard.

“So, Princess,” the crown prince asked lightly as he guided her toward the towering palace doors, “what do you think of our kingdom?” “It’s incredible, your highness,” she replied honestly. “Unlike any place I have ever seen.”

“Please,” he said warmly, “call me Prince Christian.” “As you wish,” she said, bowing her head “And you may call me ‘Ma’am,’” the queen added with gentle approval. “Of course, Ma’am. I am honored by your hospitality.” The queen’s smile softened.

“Set a table for us in the garden,” she instructed a passing servant. They hurried away at once. As they walked, Zaria allowed herself to take in every exquisite detail.

Massive portraits of dragons framed in gold adorned the walls. Intricate vases overflowed with flowers too vibrant to be natural. Sunlight fractured through stained glass, painting the floor in dancing shards of color.

Zaria felt small and awestruck… like a traveler stepping into a world from storybooks. “This way,” Christian said, leading her toward enormous carved doors. Zaria halted for half a breath.

She knew these doors. From her dream.

She forced her expression into one of polite wonder. “The craftsmanship is stunning,” she offered truthfully. The doors opened to reveal a magnificent garden framed by snow-tipped mountains. Roses, peonies, and unfamiliar blooms created a riot of color. A sculpted fountain spilled water down crystal-clear tiers.

No river, she noted with private relief. “Come sit,” the queen said warmly, gesturing to the seat beside her. Zaria obeyed, grateful for the respite. “Tell me about yourself,” the queen said as tea was poured.

“There is not much to tell,” Zaria admitted softly. “My life has been quiet… humble. But the journey here has been full of new experiences.” Christian chuckled. “You sound like a woman who enjoys adventure.” “Perhaps,” she replied with a small smile.

“You must favor your mother,” the queen mused, studying her. “You are one of the most beautiful young women I have ever seen.” Zaria lowered her gaze shyly. “My brother and I resemble her. She was very loving and told us stories of her homeland each night.”

“So, you have a brother?” Christian asked. “I do. And His Highness Prince Callen has graciously allowed him passage with me.” Christian smiled. “How considerate of him.”

“What she truly is, Mother,” Callen’s voice cut through the garden like a drawn blade, “is a problem.” He dropped into a seat with a sour look. Christian raised an eyebrow. “Good talk with Father?”

Callen ignored him. He signaled a servant. “Prepare a room for the princess. Next to mine. For monitoring.” Zaria blinked. “Monitoring-?”

“To be monitored?” Christian echoed. “I can’t imagine that will please your fiancée.” Zaria froze. His fiancée. The tea cup nearly trembled in her hands. Heat flared in her cheeks... anger, humiliation, confusion all twisting painfully inside her chest. Callen had never mentioned a fiancée.

“Don’t be barbaric, Callen,” the queen chastised. “She can stay in my wing as my personal guest.” Zaria managed a grateful smile, though her heart sank. She desperately wanted the queen’s approval… and just as desperately did not want to interfere with whatever arrangement Callen already had.

“She is a hostage, Mother,” Callen countered coldly. “She cannot stay with you.” Zaria snapped her head toward him, temper sparking. Hostage? Now he said it? “Technically not,” she muttered under her breath.

Callen turned, a slow, dangerous smile forming. “What was that, Princess?” Zaria smoothed her expression into something sunny and demure. “I only meant, your highness, that I do not consider myself a hostage. I would have come willingly, had you asked.”

She widened her eyes with porcelain innocence. “In truth…you saved me from a fate worse than death.” Her smile was sweet. Her inner thoughts were murderous.

“Don’t be such a brute,” the queen scolded. “She has suffered enough.” “Then it’s settled,” Christian announced brightly. “The princess will stay with me.” “NO.” “Absolutely not.” Callen and the queen snapped in perfect unison.

“You make me sound like a monster,” Christian grinned. Callen rose abruptly. “It’s not up for debate. The princess is coming with me.” He held out his hand. When she hesitated, only for a blink, he seized her arm and pulled her to her feet with far less gentleness than he usually afforded her.

“Callen!” the queen gasped. “Mother. Brother.” Callen bowed curtly. “A pleasure.” Then he leaned down, his voice a low growl only she could hear: “Stop pretending I hurt you.”

“But you did hurt me,” Zaria pouted. “Emotionally, if not physically.” He scoffed, dragging her away. “You are impossible.”