Page 5
Story: His Forbidden Princess
three
. . .
Lirien
Freedom tasteslike honey wine and wood smoke. It feels like rough-spun cloth against my skin instead of silk. It sounds like laughter without protocol, music without ceremony. I can't stop smiling as I move through the crowded streets, my hood pulled low enough to shadow my face but not so low that I can't drink in every detail of this vibrant, messy, glorious world I've been denied for twenty-three years.
My heart pounds with the thrill of my escape, still amazed I managed to slip past the guards. Years of eavesdropping on palace staff, months of planning, weeks of gathering courage—all leading to this moment of perfect, stolen liberty.
The night market sprawls before me, lanterns strung between stalls casting golden light over vendors selling everything from roasted meats to intricate jewelry. No one bows as I pass. No one watches their words or adjusts their posture. I am gloriously, magnificently invisible.
I pause at a stall selling fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, the scent making my mouth water. The palace kitchens could produce any delicacy I requested, but somehow I know this simple street food will taste better than any royal feast.
"How much?" I ask, then blush when I realize I have no idea what constitutes a fair price. Palace tutors taught me economic theory, not practical commerce.
The vendor—a woman with laugh lines etched deep around her eyes—looks me up and down. "Two copper for you, love. You look like you could use something sweet."
I fumble with the small pouch of coins I brought, careful not to reveal how much it contains. My fingers close around what I hope is the right amount, and I place it in her weathered palm.
She counts it quickly, then hands me back a piece. "That's too much."
"Keep it," I say, surprising myself with my boldness. "The smell alone is worth it."
Her smile shifts from professional to genuine. "First time in the city?"
"Is it that obvious?"
She laughs, a rich, uninhibited sound I immediately envy. "You've got that look—like everything's new. Country girl?"
"Something like that." I accept the paper-wrapped dough and take a bite. The crisp exterior gives way to soft, warm insides, the sweetness exploding on my tongue. I can't help the small moan of pleasure that escapes me.
"Good, ain't it?" She winks. "Be careful out there. City folk can spot newcomers, and not all are as honest as me."
I nod my thanks and continue through the market, licking sugar from my fingers in a way that would horrify my etiquette instructors. Each step takes me further from the palace, from duty, from the weight of a future not of my choosing.
A group of street performers has drawn a crowd up ahead. I join the circle of onlookers, delighting in the acrobats who flip and tumble with impossible grace. When they pass a hat for coins, I contribute without hesitation, rewarded with a flourishing bow that makes me giggle.
It's strange how quickly I'm adapting to anonymity. All my life I've been the center of attention—Princess Lirien Vellara, heir to the throne, subject of constant scrutiny. Now I'm just another face in the crowd, and the freedom is intoxicating.
I continue my exploration, passing through quieter streets where couples walk arm in arm, then noisier ones where taverns spill light and music onto the cobblestones. The guards at the gates warned me against this area, but curiosity pulls me forward.
One establishment seems less raucous than the others—a tavern with a painted sign depicting a crown made of wheat. The Crown and Sheaf. Appropriate, given my circumstances. I hesitate only a moment before pushing open the door.
The interior is warm and wood-paneled, crowded but not chaotic. A musician plays a stringed instrument in one corner while patrons talk, laugh, and drink at scattered tables. I make my way to the bar, trying to project confidence I don't feel.
"What'll it be?" The barkeeper barely glances up from the mug he's drying.
"Whatever you recommend." My voice sounds steadier than I expected.
He eyes me more carefully now, taking in my plain clothes and probably noting my accent, which I can't quite disguise despite my best efforts. "First time here?"
"First time anywhere," I admit, then bite my tongue. Less information is safer.
Something like sympathy crosses his face. "Try the honey mead. Gentle but sweet."
The drink he slides toward me is golden and fragrant. I take a cautious sip and find it surprisingly pleasant—nothing like the watered wine I'm permitted at state functions. I turn to survey the room, leaning against the bar as I've seen others do.
That's when I notice him.
. . .
Lirien
Freedom tasteslike honey wine and wood smoke. It feels like rough-spun cloth against my skin instead of silk. It sounds like laughter without protocol, music without ceremony. I can't stop smiling as I move through the crowded streets, my hood pulled low enough to shadow my face but not so low that I can't drink in every detail of this vibrant, messy, glorious world I've been denied for twenty-three years.
My heart pounds with the thrill of my escape, still amazed I managed to slip past the guards. Years of eavesdropping on palace staff, months of planning, weeks of gathering courage—all leading to this moment of perfect, stolen liberty.
The night market sprawls before me, lanterns strung between stalls casting golden light over vendors selling everything from roasted meats to intricate jewelry. No one bows as I pass. No one watches their words or adjusts their posture. I am gloriously, magnificently invisible.
I pause at a stall selling fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, the scent making my mouth water. The palace kitchens could produce any delicacy I requested, but somehow I know this simple street food will taste better than any royal feast.
"How much?" I ask, then blush when I realize I have no idea what constitutes a fair price. Palace tutors taught me economic theory, not practical commerce.
The vendor—a woman with laugh lines etched deep around her eyes—looks me up and down. "Two copper for you, love. You look like you could use something sweet."
I fumble with the small pouch of coins I brought, careful not to reveal how much it contains. My fingers close around what I hope is the right amount, and I place it in her weathered palm.
She counts it quickly, then hands me back a piece. "That's too much."
"Keep it," I say, surprising myself with my boldness. "The smell alone is worth it."
Her smile shifts from professional to genuine. "First time in the city?"
"Is it that obvious?"
She laughs, a rich, uninhibited sound I immediately envy. "You've got that look—like everything's new. Country girl?"
"Something like that." I accept the paper-wrapped dough and take a bite. The crisp exterior gives way to soft, warm insides, the sweetness exploding on my tongue. I can't help the small moan of pleasure that escapes me.
"Good, ain't it?" She winks. "Be careful out there. City folk can spot newcomers, and not all are as honest as me."
I nod my thanks and continue through the market, licking sugar from my fingers in a way that would horrify my etiquette instructors. Each step takes me further from the palace, from duty, from the weight of a future not of my choosing.
A group of street performers has drawn a crowd up ahead. I join the circle of onlookers, delighting in the acrobats who flip and tumble with impossible grace. When they pass a hat for coins, I contribute without hesitation, rewarded with a flourishing bow that makes me giggle.
It's strange how quickly I'm adapting to anonymity. All my life I've been the center of attention—Princess Lirien Vellara, heir to the throne, subject of constant scrutiny. Now I'm just another face in the crowd, and the freedom is intoxicating.
I continue my exploration, passing through quieter streets where couples walk arm in arm, then noisier ones where taverns spill light and music onto the cobblestones. The guards at the gates warned me against this area, but curiosity pulls me forward.
One establishment seems less raucous than the others—a tavern with a painted sign depicting a crown made of wheat. The Crown and Sheaf. Appropriate, given my circumstances. I hesitate only a moment before pushing open the door.
The interior is warm and wood-paneled, crowded but not chaotic. A musician plays a stringed instrument in one corner while patrons talk, laugh, and drink at scattered tables. I make my way to the bar, trying to project confidence I don't feel.
"What'll it be?" The barkeeper barely glances up from the mug he's drying.
"Whatever you recommend." My voice sounds steadier than I expected.
He eyes me more carefully now, taking in my plain clothes and probably noting my accent, which I can't quite disguise despite my best efforts. "First time here?"
"First time anywhere," I admit, then bite my tongue. Less information is safer.
Something like sympathy crosses his face. "Try the honey mead. Gentle but sweet."
The drink he slides toward me is golden and fragrant. I take a cautious sip and find it surprisingly pleasant—nothing like the watered wine I'm permitted at state functions. I turn to survey the room, leaning against the bar as I've seen others do.
That's when I notice him.