The Fallen Princess

Six

“Oh… it’s the little elven princess.” Callen’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I almost forgot you were here.” He shoved the flap aside and stepped in like he owned the air—casual, unhurried—with a wooden bowl balanced in one hand.

Steam curled up in lazy ribbons. The smell hit Zaria hard: roasted meat, herbs, salt. Her stomach twisted with a sharp, humiliating ache. A full day without food.

If glaring could kill, he would’ve dropped in the doorway, and she would’ve stolen his soup before his body hit the dirt. “Could you be so kind as to untie me now, Your Highness?” Zaria flexed her fingers as much as the ropes allowed, fighting to coax feeling back into them.

Pain lanced up her wrists. “I can’t feel my hands.” “And why,” Callen drawled, strolling closer like she was a curiosity on display, “would I do that? So you can run?” His gaze flicked over the knots, almost appreciative, like he was evaluating workmanship. “I think not.”

Zaria let out a bitter scoff. “Run where, oh great dragon prince of the West? Back to the home you destroyed?” She shifted in the chair; rope bit deeper into her waist. “Or perhaps I’ll run to my dead mother’s unmarked grave and see if that brings me any consolation.”

Her voice wavered once. She swallowed the tremor before it could reach her eyes. “Please untie me.” Not a beg. Not yet. Just the edge of someone nearing the end of her patience. The knight beside Callen snapped his head toward her, offended on his prince’s behalf.

Callen only laughed and took an infuriatingly slow sip of soup. “No.” Zaria exhaled through her nose. “Fine. But remember, I asked nicely first.” Her fingers tugged once at the ropes, testing. “I’m tired of sitting like this.”

Without waiting for permission, because she never did, she hooked her hand under the rope cinching her waist and reached for her light. She aimed for a narrow burn through the fibers. A clean cut. A quiet victory.

But her hands were half-dead with numbness. Her stomach was a hollow, twisting thing. The rope around her middle stole her breath and left her magic with nowhere to settle. Her light answered anyway. Power surged outward in a sudden, violent gust.

Canvas snapped and rattled. Loose items skittered across the floor. Papers leapt into the air like startled birds. A bedroll flipped and landed on a chest with a heavy thump.

The gust slammed through the tent, and the chair went with it... beneath her. With her waist pinned tight and her balance stolen, she couldn’t brace in time; Zaria went over. The impact forced the air from her lungs.

“DAMN IT, woman!” Callen barked. He shoved his bowl into his subordinate’s hands so abruptly broth sloshed over the rim. “Go. Get me another.” The knight didn’t hesitate. Callen looked down at her as if she’d personally inconvenienced fate; golden eyes narrowed, irritation carved deep.

“You’re rather weak for an elf.” Arms crossed; he let the silence judge her. “I’m only half-elf, Your Highness.” Zaria pushed up onto one elbow, dirt smearing her sleeve. “But thank you for noticing.”

He righted the chair with a jerk, then hooked his boot under the leg and dragged it closer, as if he were positioning furniture. “You probably couldn’t even kill a human child.” “You underestimate me.” Her mouth curved, sharp and humorless.

One brow lifted. “Oh?” “Except it wasn’t my light.” She tipped her head. “It was a dagger.” For a heartbeat, Callen went still. Then he dropped into a crouch in front of her—slow, deliberate—and drew a small knife.

Lanternlight kissed the blade as it began sawing through the ropes binding her legs. “You killed a child?” Dark amusement edged the words, “Of course not!” Zaria lifted her chin. “It was a man.” A low chuckle rumbled out of him. “Impressive.”

The last coil fell away from her wrists. Pins and needles ripped through her hands as blood returned. Bright, overwhelming pain that made her teeth clench hard enough to ache. Zaria shook out her fingers once, twice, willing them to obey.

“Come.” Callen caught her wrist and yanked her upright as if she weighed nothing at all.

He hauled her to a small wooden chest, flipped the lid open, and rummaged through it like he was searching for a tool. Glass clinked. He pulled out a tall bottle filled with clear liquid.

Zaria shook her head, mouth curving. “Tempting offer, Your Highness, but I need my wits about me if I plan to escape.” Callen didn’t bother looking up. He caught both her hands, stretched her arms out in front of her, and pulled her closer.

Before she could piece together his intent, he popped the cork with his teeth and poured liquor directly onto her wounds. The burn hit instantly. Zaria hissed, teeth sinking into her lip hard enough to draw blood. Fire raced up both arms. Her shoulders trembled but she refused to pull away.

“All of this was unnecessary, little elf.” Callen recorked the bottle with maddening calm, then flicked her forehead—light, almost careless. “Your brother surrendered the moment he saw you were unharmed.”

Zaria froze. Relief slammed into her so fast it nearly buckled her knees. She forced back tears. She would not hand him the satisfaction. “We are not monsters,” Callen added, sliding the bottle back into the chest. “In fact… it’s often the opposite.” Her eyes stung anyway. She blinked hard.

Callen caught it, and groaned like she’d personally offended him. “Oh, gods. Are you going to cry? Now? Of all the times you could have cried, you choose now?” Zaria sharpened her glare.

“You’re quite spirited, Princess.” The arrogance stayed, but curiosity threaded through it. “I’m curious why you fear your father when defiance seems to be your default.” Zaria ignored the hook and lifted her chin.

“I’m missing my youngest sister.” She watched his face, searching for recognition, tension, a slip. Nothing. “You will be missing a lot of sisters.” Callen bent to gather the papers her magic had thrown everywhere, stacking them with impatient precision. “Not everyone was as willing to betray their king and country as you.”

“I did not drive a knife through the King’s heart.” Zaria stepped closer, hands curling and uncurling as sensation returned. “As much as I would have liked to.” The last part slipped out under her breath.

Callen paused mid-reach and glanced up. “And I don’t have a collective people to betray,” she continued, because anger made her brave. “My mother was practically a prisoner. Though…” Her voice softened despite herself. “There are a few good people I care deeply for.”

Cecil. Gentle, fierce. Aldric. Mischief and brightness. Callen’s mouth curved. “So you have a lover.” “What? No.” Zaria’s head snapped up. “How did you get that from anything I just—” “You spoke it with such longing that I assumed—”

“Well, you assume wrong.” She cut in sharply, then stooped to snag a paper that had skidded under a crate. Callen shrugged. “You’d be surprised how often I’m right.” Zaria didn’t answer. She kept picking up the clutter instead—hands busy, mind sharper for it.

After a moment, she forced her tone casual. “Is there perhaps another wagon?” Callen froze.

Only a blink. Only a breath. Still, she caught it. Understanding, and the faintest sigh from a man who knew exactly what she wanted.

“Yes,” he admitted. “There are more wagons.” Zaria’s breath hitched. She forced it smooth. Callen straightened and dusted his hands off. “Listen, little elf. If you promise not to run, and stop causing me utterly endless trouble, I’ll walk you to the ones who surrendered.”

Hope flared, hot and sudden. Desperation trampled pride. Zaria nodded at once. “Is my brother there? Can I see him too?” Her voice cracked on brother. She swallowed and tried again. “If I can just see him, even from a distance, I swear I won’t run.”

She leaned in without thinking. Risk felt familiar as breath. If Zakai lived, if she could confirm it with her own eyes, she would agree to nearly anything.

Callen studied her. Golden eyes dragged over her face, weighing the truth of her desperation. “I’ll allow it.” The permission landed flat and final. “But you cannot stay with him. Don’t even ask.” His mouth tightened. “You’ve already given me enough headaches with your pathetic little games.”

“I understand.” The words came too fast. “Thank you, Your Highness.” She bowed, deeply, no sarcasm this time. Callen’s lips twitched, pleased with himself. “I am nothing if not a gentleman,” he announced. Zaria stared at him. Then she burst out laughing.

Callen stopped. Stared. Blinked, like the sound offended him. Zaria slapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking as she tried to smother it, laughter burning in her lungs until it hurt. When she finally got control of herself, her eyes were bright and her smile wouldn’t quit.

“Certainly, Your Highness,” she managed. “A true gentleman.” Callen scowled. Zaria kept smiling anyway, because for the first time since the nightmare began, she’d been handed the smallest spark of hope, and she was going to hold it until someone pried it away.