The Fallen Princess: Unbound

Chapter Four

Morning came in thin and gray, filtered through rain-streaked glass. The downpour hadn’t relented for days; it had only softened into a steady, stubborn fall that turned the world beyond the castle into blurred watercolor—dark sky, restless trees, courtyard stones slick and shining.

Zaria lay propped against pillows, her body heavy with the peculiar exhaustion that came after agony. Like she’d been emptied out and refilled with something softer, slower. Her hair had been brushed but not braided, pale strands slipping loose over her shoulder in a way that made her look less like a princess and more like a woman who had survived something enormous.

She wore a simple linen shift meant for recovery, not ceremony. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the room felt like a family space instead of a battleground.

Sophie sat carefully beside her with solemn determination, holding the baby as if she were holding a fragile crown. Her small arms trembled a little under the responsibility, but she didn’t complain or fidget; she simply kept her chin lifted and her eyes fixed on the bundle in her lap like she’d been entrusted with a sacred duty and meant to do it properly.

Ava stood on the other side of the bed with her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone pale, gaze pinging between Zaria’s face and the baby as if she was afraid to look too long in case the moment vanished.

Cillian was in Callen’s arms, settled against his chest with the easy comfort of a child who trusted the world because his father refused to let it hurt him.

Callen sat in a chair drawn close to the bed, one arm wrapped around Cillian, the other resting along the bedframe like an anchor point he wouldn’t relinquish. His face was drawn with fatigue, but his posture remained alert. Still too used to danger to fully exhale, even with warmth at his back and family in front of him.

Zakai and Fay were already there, quietly orbiting the children without hovering. Fay lingered near the hearth with a shawl over one arm and a cup of water within reach, ready for the moment someone needed comfort, or order, or an extra hand.

Zakai leaned near the window, posture relaxed in the way only a man on watch could manage; his attention drifted more to Fay’s reflection in the glass than to the rain beyond it.

Sophie glanced up at Zaria. “She’s not crying anymore.” Zaria’s chest tightened, part relief, part fear she refused to feed. “She already did enough of that for one night,” she murmured, her voice rough from lack of sleep.

Zephira wasn’t anything like Cillian had been as an infant. She cried more often, fed less, and stayed awake through the night as if sleep was something she didn’t trust, as if closing her eyes meant giving something unseen a chance to reach for her.

Sophie nodded gravely, as if this was sacred truth. The baby shifted, tiny mouth puckering, then relaxing again. Her hair was dark, like Callens, and when she blinked, her eyes caught the firelight in that strange way that made Zaria’s breath pause for half a heartbeat.

Not fully gold. Not fully anything. Dark honey threaded with something deeper at the edges. Sophie tilted her head. “She looks like you,” she decided, then added with careful honesty, “but… also not.”

Zaria’s lips curved, tired and tender. “That’s how babies work, my little love.” Ava edged closer, peering down. “What’s her name again?” Sophie answered before Zaria could, saying it carefully like she’d been practicing in her head. “Zephira.”

Ava repeated it softly, then wrinkled her nose. “That’s long.” “That’s because she’s important,” Sophie said at once, offended on the baby’s behalf. Zaria let out a quiet laugh that turned into a wince.

Callen noticed instantly, he always did, even when she tried to hide it. His eyes shifted to her with that same steady, helpless attention, like he could fight armies but not this lingering ache in her bones. “Easy,” he murmured.

Zaria nodded, breath catching. “I’m fine.” Callen didn’t believe her, but he didn’t argue, not with the children watching. The door opened with a knock, but without announcement. Not a servant this time.

The Queen entered first, moving with composed grace that didn’t need permission. Christian followed with his usual dramatic ease, as if he were stepping onto a stage rather than into a recovery chamber.

Koen came last, quieter than both of them, a shadow placed deliberately behind the shine, as if he’d chosen the dimmest part of the room on purpose. He’d been at Christian’s side more often lately.

Christian found him mysterious and unnervingly knowledgeable… not entirely trustworthy, even if he’d never once been caught in a lie The atmosphere shifted the moment they crossed the threshold.

Christian’s eyes swept the bed, the children, Callen’s hand on the frame, Zaria’s exhausted face, and softened, just slightly, in a way that would have startled anyone who didn’t know him well. He approached with measured steps, like he was resisting the urge to barrel forward and gather everyone into his arms at once.

“Well,” Christian drawled as he approached, amusement threading his voice. “Look at all these children. You’ve certainly been busy.” Zaria rolled her eyes, too tired to do it properly. “You’re welcome,” she muttered. “And don’t pretend you don’t love them.” Christian’s chuckle warmed the room.

The Queen stepped closer and placed a hand briefly on Zaria’s forehead, checking warmth the way mothers did when they were worried but refused to show it. “How do you feel Dear?” “Tired,” Zaria admitted. “Alive.”

The Queen’s mouth tightened with emotion she didn’t allow to spill. She nodded once, then turned her attention to the baby. Christian, however, had already locked onto Sophie.

He crouched just enough to meet her level without diminishing his presence and smiled at her like she’d done something heroic. “You,” he said, pointing gently, “are holding court better than half the nobles downstairs.”

Sophie straightened. “I’m holding the baby.” Christian’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Yes. Exactly.” He leaned in, studying the bundle with a softness that didn’t match his reputation, then looked back at Sophie with theatrical sincerity. “May I hold her?”

Sophie hesitated, then looked to Zaria. Zaria nodded once. Sophie carefully shifted forward, and Christian took the baby with a grace that didn’t belong to a man who enjoyed making rooms nervous.

He settled the bundle against his chest like his body already knew how to protect something small. The baby blinked. Christian stared down at her as if she were the most interesting thing the world had ever produced. “Well,” he murmured. “Hello little wisp.”

Sophie brightened, as if she’d just been handed a secret. “Is that her nickname?” Christian looked up with a slow smile. “It is now.” Sophie nodded, satisfied, and climbed off the bed without being told. “Come on, Ava. Let’s go see the rain.”

Ava moved with her instantly, relieved to have direction. They headed toward the balcony with the reckless confidence of children who hadn’t yet learned the world could bite. Fay stepped smoothly into their path.

“No,” she said gently, not unkind, simply firm. “Not the balcony. It’s wet and cold, and you’ll both slip and c***k your heads open.” Sophie frowned. “We won’t.” Fay raised her brows with patient authority. “You will.”

Sophie opened her mouth to argue. Fay didn’t let her. “I’m taking you out,” she said, glancing back at Zaria. “So you can rest. And so they can play without climbing furniture.” Zaria gave her a grateful look. “Thank you.”

Fay inclined her head, already moving. “Shoes. Cloaks.” Zakai crossed the room without a word and gently lifted Cillian out of Callen’s arms. Cillian let out a small protest at being moved, then quieted when Zakai pressed a kiss to his hair.

Callen’s attention followed the motion, reluctant. Zakai’s voice was low. “I’ll keep him close.” Callen nodded once, tight. Fay ushered Sophie and Ava out, Zakai following with Cillian tucked securely against him.

The door shut behind them, leaving the chamber suddenly quieter, softer, like the castle itself had stepped back and granted them one private breath.

Christian still held the baby. The Queen remained near the bed. Koen stood slightly behind and to the side, hands clasped loosely behind his back, gaze fixed on the middle distance as if he refused to look too long at anything that mattered.

Christian’s eyes slid to Koen. “So,” he said, the charm still there but sharpened beneath it, “I’m told my newest niece has an anchor.” Callen’s shoulders tightened immediately. Koen didn’t answer at first.

Christian didn’t press the way most men would. He simply waited, patient and dangerous in his stillness, until Koen’s eyes flicked once to the baby and then away again. “Yes,” Koen said. The Queen’s gaze narrowed slightly. “What kind of anchor?”

Koen inclined his head. “The only kind available, Your Majesty.” Callen let out a low sound. “Don’t be clever.” Koen’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not.” Christian’s gaze stayed calm. “Explain it. Briefly.”

Koen hesitated, as if the words themselves tasted wrong, then spoke in clipped, minimal truth. “My life is tethered to hers. When she needs magic, she draws it. When she has too much… I hold the excess.”

The room went very still. Callen’s jaw flexed. “And let’s not forget the part where you didn’t think to mention this before you fed your magic into her.” Koen’s eyes lifted—cold, unreadable. “I did what was necessary.”

“And now you’re necessary,” Callen shot back, bitter. Koen didn’t deny it. Christian watched the exchange, expression hardening in a way Zaria recognized. Like he was filing it away for later, when there was time to deal with consequences and the shape of what it would cost to keep peace.

The Queen stepped closer and lightly touched the baby’s cheek. Christian adjusted his hold without protest and passed the bundle into her arms. The Queen cradled Zephira with practiced steadiness, gaze fixed on the baby’s face as though she could read a future there.

“She has unusual eyes,” the Queen murmured. Zaria’s chest tightened. “She does.” The Queen tilted the baby slightly, letting the light catch her irises. The dark honey-wine color shimmered, and for the briefest flicker, that deeper thread at the edges seemed to move.

The Queen didn’t flinch, but her attention sharpened. “What is it?” Zaria looked to Koen. “Is that because of her magic?” Koen glanced at the baby, only long enough to confirm what he already knew, then nodded once. “That is the imbalance peeking through.”

Christian exhaled slowly, like he was forcing himself not to ask ten more questions at once. For a moment, no one spoke. Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much, and silence was the only thing that could hold it without spilling.

A knock came at the door. This time it was careful. A messenger stepped in just far enough to bow. “Crown Prince Christian. There is word from the council. They request you at once.” Christian’s expression shifted instantly from intimate to regal, like a cloak thrown over bare skin. “Of course they do.”

The Queen handed the baby to Zaria with reluctance. “Get some rest, dear.” Zaria managed a nod, adjusting Zephira against her chest with a tenderness that felt instinctive now. Protective, practiced, like her body had learned a new purpose overnight.

Christian’s attention moved to Callen. “I could use your support for the meeting.” Callen didn’t answer immediately. His eyes slid to Koen, standing near the foot of the bed like a problem the world insisted on keeping. Callen’s voice was low. “I’m not leaving.”

Christian’s mouth curved, mild and exasperated. “She is a grown woman, Callen, not a porcelain doll.” Callen’s eyes flashed. “That’s not the point.” Christian’s gaze sharpened. “It is exactly the point. Zaria can take care of herself.”

He tipped his chin toward the room, toward Koen without naming him. “And if anyone in here tries to harm her, the entire castle will hear me kill them.” Koen didn’t react. The Queen’s brows lifted slightly, like she approved of the threat.

Callen’s jaw worked. He looked at Zaria, then at the baby, then, once more, at Koen. Reluctant. Finally, he exhaled through his nose. “I’m sending Zakai back in.” Christian nodded. “Do that.”

Callen stood, slow and heavy, as if every step away from the bed cost him. He leaned down and pressed his forehead briefly to Zaria’s, an intimate gesture made sharper by restraint, by the fact that he couldn’t afford softness right now without falling into it.

“Rest,” he murmured, like an order he needed her to obey. Zaria nodded, lips tightening. “I will.” Callen’s gaze lingered on the baby in her arms for half a heartbeat, his throat bobbing once, before he turned and followed Christian toward the door.

The Queen went with them, pausing only once to glance back at Zaria with something soft in her eyes. The door shut. And Koen was still there. Zaria realized she’d been holding her breath.

Koen didn’t move closer. He didn’t speak. He simply stood at the foot of the bed, hands still clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the hearth. Zaria swallowed, throat tight with words she didn’t know how to shape.

“Koen,” she said at last, voice quiet. “Would you like to hold her?” He hesitated, his attention flicking to Zephira —quick, controlled—before he nodded once. Stepping forward, he took the small child into his arms with the same careful steadiness he’d used before, as if he understood that holding her was not the same thing as owning her.

His deep red eyes met Zaria’s. There was no smile, no easy warmth. Only recognition, like they were both standing at the edge of something that couldn’t be undone. Zaria’s chest tightened before she spoke. “You should have warned me.”

She wasn’t accusing. She wasn’t resentful. Just stating the truth. For a heartbeat, Koen’s mask slipped, just enough for Zaria to see what lived beneath it. Regret. Not for the binding. For being known.

Koen inclined his head once, slow. “I warned you in the only way I knew how,” he said quietly. “That night in your room, when I told you I would make the child mine.” Zaria’s throat burned. She’d heard it then as malice, a threat meant to frighten. Not a warning. Not an admission.

But memory was a cruel thing. It rearranged itself when you finally had the missing pieces. She remembered his scars, how he’d shown them without flinching, as if pain was the only honest language he had left, as if he’d learned long ago that softness was simply another way to be punished.

The anger in her chest shifted. It didn’t disappear. It just… changed shape, turning bitter and complicated, threaded through with the uneasy understanding that he hadn’t been boasting. He’d been telling the truth.

“You don’t get to decide what I can handle,” Zaria said, voice steady even as her hands tightened around the blanket at her waist. Koen’s mouth tightened. “No. I don’t.”

A pause stretched between them, filled by the quiet crackle of the hearth and the soft, newborn sounds in his arms, tiny breaths, small sighs, the faint rustle of swaddling cloth as Zephira shifted against his chest.

Then Koen spoke again, quieter than before. “But I get to pay for what I do.” Zaria’s lips parted. The words lodged for a heartbeat; caught on a fear she didn’t want to name. “If she pulls on you… if she takes from you…”

Koen’s mouth curved faintly, humor without warmth, like a reflex he didn’t trust. “Then I’ll endure it.” “Why?” Zaria asked, and she hated how small the question sounded, how much it revealed.

Koen’s gaze flicked to Zephira, to the dark crown of newborn hair, to the strange, dark-gold eyes half-lidded in sleep. When he looked back at Zaria, something unguarded slid into place for the briefest moment...

...Loneliness, raw as an old wound, like he’d spent so long alone he’d forgotten what it felt like to be needed without being used or abused. “I don’t know,” he admitted, and the honesty seemed to surprise him even as it left his mouth.

Then he straightened, the familiar mask settling back over his features with practiced ease. “But I will.” Zaria shifted against the pillows, her expression hardening, not into cruelty, but into decision. “You’re going to tell me things from now on.”

Koen held her gaze. “You won’t like what I tell you.” “That’s not for you to decide,” Zaria said, calm and immovable. For a moment, he looked as if he might argue out of habit alone. Instead, he inclined his head once. “Very well.”

Another heartbeat passed. The room was quiet enough that Zaria could hear the rain ticking against the glass, steady and persistent, like it had all the time in the world. Then Koen added, softer, almost reluctant, as if the words cost him something. “Congratulations, little mystic.”

Zaria blinked. It wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t tenderness. But it was real. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you.” The door opened again.

Zakai stepped back in, silent as ever, eyes sweeping the room with that controlled precision. His gaze landed on Koen holding the child, then on Zaria’s face, then briefly, carefully, back to the baby.

He said nothing. He only crossed the room and took his position near the door, a quiet sentinel set between them and the rest of the castle.

Koen’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly, as if the presence of another witness reminded him what he was supposed to be. His shoulders squared. His expression smoothed. Zaria swallowed the rest of her words. For now.

Because she already knew what Koen had not yet accepted: something had already changed inside him, and it wasn’t going to change back.