The Fallen Princess

Five

When consciousness returned, it did so in fragments. Motion came first, the uneven jolt and sway beneath her body, the creak of wood, the muffled clatter of wheels rolling over rough ground, and the rhythm of it crawled under her skin until it felt like the world had narrowed to nothing but impact and breath.

Her eyelids fluttered once, then again, heavy as if they’d been stitched shut, and for a heartbeat she simply listened, gathering herself the way she’d learned to gather herself in rooms where fear was expected of her.

Then the smell arrived. Old dust. Sweat. Stale canvas. Zaria forced her eyes open. Dim light. A sagging ceiling of filthy canvas patched in uneven squares. The wagon rocked, and the boards beneath her rattled with every rut in the road.

She shifted an inch and felt bodies close on either side. Women pressed shoulder to shoulder, wrists bound, hair tangled, dresses torn. Some stared at the floorboards like they weren’t inside their own bodies anymore. Others tracked every sound with wide, exhausted eyes.

A few faces were familiar. Her sisters. Not the ones she had raised. Not the ones she truly loved. The King’s daughters by other women. Pretty, frightened, and utterly useless to her. Her arms were wrenched behind her back, wrists bound tight with thick rope.

Zaria tested the knot once, then again, slow and careful. The rope dug into her skin immediately, scraping until she felt the hot sting of blood rising. Good. Pain meant she was awake.

She began to move. Not wildly, not loudly.

She twisted her hands against the restraint, searching for slack, for a mistake in the knot, for anything. Each pull burned. Each turn tore at already tender flesh. The wagon’s constant jolting made it harder, but she kept at it.

Minutes blurred. Sweat trickled along her spine. Somewhere nearby, a girl sniffed quietly, trying to swallow her panic. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was likely closer to an hour, the rope loosened just enough.

Zaria twisted her wrist sharply and wrenched one hand free. Pain flared as blood rushed back into numb fingers. She swallowed the sound that tried to escape, kept her freed hand hidden behind her back, and shifted onto her knees.

She scooted toward the rear of the wagon. The boards creaked beneath her weight. A few women glanced over, nervous and silent. At the back, the canvas sagged where it met the wooden frame, worn thin in places.

There was a small tear, likely rubbed open by time and friction. Zaria pressed her eye to it. Sunlight stabbed her vision. She blinked hard, waited for her sight to adjust, and looked out.

Another wagon rumbled close behind them, nearly identical to hers.

Between the two, five mounted men rode in a loose formation, relaxed like they had all the control in the world. When one turned, the light caught his eyes. Unnaturally bright, metallic, tinted with color that didn’t belong to humans. Dragons.

Zaria leaned back against the wagon wall, rough wood pressing into her spine, and her mind started sorting through options the way it always did when her life depended on speed. She couldn’t overpower them. She couldn’t bargain. She couldn’t throw herself off the wagon without being trampled or cut down before she hit the ground.

But she could run. And she could blind. She tore a strip from the hem of her already ruined dress with her teeth and one hand, ripping it down into makeshift bandages. She wrapped the cloth around each bleeding wrist, hissing when fabric brushed raw flesh.

It was clumsy work, but she couldn’t afford a trail. Then she crept back toward the tear. “Don’t,” one of her half-sisters whispered. Wide eyes. Lips barely moving. Fear in every inch of her. Zaria lifted a finger to her mouth, a silent command.

The girl swallowed the rest of her protest and dropped her gaze. Zaria turned back to the canvas and drew in a steadying breath. Her palm pressed against the rough cloth, grounding herself for a single second.

Then she reached inward, toward that familiar glow, her strange, secret light, and pulled at it like drawing water from a deep well. It answered. White brilliance exploded outward, punching through the thin barrier of the wagon’s rear and searing across the open air behind them.

Even Zaria flinched, eyes stinging as the light flashed. Shouts erupted. The dragon riders cursed, horses shrieking and stamping as the men threw up their hands to shield their eyes. The light kicked up wind—hard, sudden—sending sand and gravel whipping into the air.

Now. Zaria scrambled to the back of the wagon, grabbed the wooden frame, and swung herself out. Her shoes hit the road hard. Her knees nearly buckled. She didn’t stop.

She sprinted across the narrow stretch between the wagons, seized the side of the one behind, and hauled herself up. Momentum carried her into a roll as she threw herself inside. She landed on her shoulder, biting back a cry.

Faces snapped toward her. More women. Disheveled, terrified, eyes wide and rimmed red. They scrambled back as if she were something dangerous. Then Zaria saw them. Three small shapes huddled near the front of the wagon.

Three little girls bound hand and foot, cheeks wet with tears, dresses torn and dirty. Her sisters. The ones she had raised. The ones she truly loved.

Zaria moved toward them on her knees, fast and quiet, and for a moment everything in her narrowed to those small faces and shaking shoulders, until the wagon jolted violently to a stop. She pitched forward, catching herself on her palms just before she collided with them.

Outside, men yelled orders. Hooves struck the ground. Armor clanked. Zaria dropped fully to her knees in front of the girls and forced her breathing to steady. Their eyes were huge with terror. Their shoulders shook. She didn’t speak.

If she spoke, the panic would leak into her voice and become theirs. So she met each of their eyes in turn and held them there, pouring calm she didn’t feel into her expression. I’m here. I will not leave you. The canvas flap flew open and light rushed in.

Heavy boots stomped onto the boards as men climbed inside, counting, cursing, tightening ropes, checking faces like inventory. Zaria’s pulse hammered, but she let her body go slack. She slumped sideways, head lolling, eyes closed.

She slowed her breathing, shallow and careful, mimicking unconsciousness as best she could. The men moved around her for tense minutes. Someone muttered about “damn trouble.” Someone yanked a knot tighter near the girls.

Then, one by one, they filed out. Zaria breathed but stayed still. Another set of boots approached. Slower, heavier, more deliberate. “No count is needed,” A large, calloused hand seized her arm and yanked her upright. The girls squealed, terror spilling over.

“You seem to be nothing but trouble, little elf.” Prince Callen’s dark laugh threaded through his words. His golden eyes gleamed with malicious amusement as he dragged her toward the open flap. Zaria dug her heels in. He jerked her harder.

“Where is my brother?” The question came out sharp, tight, furious. Callen caught her face in one hand—firm, controlled—fingers pressing into her cheeks just shy of bruising as he forced her to look at him. “You’re lucky to still be alive,” he growled. “And this is how you thank me?”

“I didn’t ask to live.” The words left her cold and true. For a beat, silence stretched. Then his mouth curled into a slow, infuriating grin. He hauled her out of the wagon and toward a waiting white horse, its mane braided with small metal rings.

He tossed her over the saddle as if she were nothing but a sack of grain. She landed belly-down, breath knocked from her lungs. Callen mounted behind her in one smooth movement, weight settling easily, one arm bracing her in place.

“Move!” he barked. The riders responded at once. Wagons creaked as they started forward. Horses surged into a steady run. Zaria glared down at the horse’s neck, jaw clenched. “I don’t wish to ride with you.”

A low chuckle rumbled behind her. “That’s funny. I don’t recall asking what you wished for.”

He leaned in, breath warming her ear. “Shut that little mouth of yours, Princess. Or I may sell you to the next slave merchant we pass.”

Zaria twisted her head as far as she could and shot him a look of pure disgust. Her tongue itched for a cutting remark. She swallowed it. Silence, for now, was survival.

Night fell quickly. Under a sky scattered with cold stars, Callen’s men moved with efficient purpose. Tents rising in circles, fires crackling to life, horses watered and brushed down.

Dragons in human skin doing human work, as if the ordinary tasks could make them seem less dangerous. Callen dismounted first. Zaria was pulled down immediately after. “Take her,” Callen ordered a large man in layered plate armor. “Tie her inside my tent when it’s finished.”

Then he shoved Zaria forward. She stumbled and collided with a solid chest. Strong arms caught her automatically, then tightened, turning the catch into a hold. “Yes, Your Highness,” the knight rumbled, reverence thick in his voice.

He set her on her feet but didn’t release her arm. His grip tightened until pain shot up her shoulder. Zaria’s body ached from hours of hard riding, wrists throbbing beneath cloth, but she lifted her chin and scanned the camp while he dragged her along.

Fires glowed. Shapes moved. Men laughed. Nowhere, nowhere, did she see Zakai’s familiar white hair or sharp profile. Cold dread clenched in her chest.

“I’m not sure why His Highness hasn’t killed you yet,” the knight muttered as they neared a broad canvas tent. “It’d be best not to test his patience.” Zaria didn’t answer.

Inside, the tent was still half-finished. Poles not fully anchored, crates scattered around, canvas flapping slightly with the wind. The knight released her arm for a single moment to adjust something near the center pole.

A single moment was all she needed. Zaria bolted toward the opening. She didn’t make it two steps. Armor slammed into her back and drove her to the ground. The impact knocked the air from her lungs as she hit packed earth. “I... Can’t.... Breathe...” She rasped, chest burning.

“I don’t care if you can breathe.” Flat. Bored. Cruel. He hauled her upright, spun her around so quickly her vision blurred, and shoved her into a sturdy wooden chair near the center of the tent. Ropes came out again—thick, rough, unforgiving.

He started with her ankles, binding them tight. Then her shins, her knees, anchoring them to the chair legs. When he reached her wrists, he used far more turns than necessary. By the time he finished, she could barely move anything but her fingers.

“This is quite excessive.” Zaria kept her voice even, light on purpose. “I’m just a small girl.” The knight gave a low chuckle and tugged the final knot hard, checking its strength. “Stay put, Princess.” He stepped back. “Perhaps His Highness will allow you to live another day.”

Then he ducked out without a backward glance. Zaria exhaled long and slow. Pain settled in layers—wrists rubbed raw, ankles aching, rope biting into her waist. Time dragged. Outside, the camp shifted from chaos into a steady hum.

Voices drifted in and out: men arguing over bedrolls, someone laughing at something crude, the clank of armor being discarded. A few men stepped into the tent at intervals, dropping off chests and weapons, barely sparing her a glance.

Her hands went numb. Her legs tingled with pins and needles. Every breath felt slightly tighter than the last. “Please…” The word slipped out before she could swallow it. “Let me out of these binds.” No answer.

Then the flap at the entrance moved. Someone was coming in. Zaria’s heart pounded as she strained against the ropes, turning her head as far as she could to see who stepped through.