Page 6

I do not. I will not. I swear it. Though the temptation remains as Winderose rises to the sky beneath the mountain that backs it, swallowing the land beneath, a sprawling city spreading before it like a skirt of smaller buildings that look like toys at the feet of a giant.

We’re still hours away from the capital, and it’s all I can see.

My breath catches in my throat. The sheer scale of the palace itself feels overwhelming.

The walls are not just tall, they are impossibly thick, constructed of white stone that gleams in the sunlight, studded with towers that pierce the blue above.

They are intricately carved, etched with symbols of the Overking’s reign, not grim and functional like Heald’s fortress, but ostentatious, proclaiming power with every chiseled detail.

The closer we ride, the louder it gets, the distant clang of metal, the murmur of thousands of voices, the incessant bustle on a scale I’ve never imagined as we pass into the beginnings of the outer city.

It’s a sensory assault that I thought I’d prepared for on the ride here.

I was wrong. Everything is wood and stone without a hint of green, buildings packed together.

And though the street we ride is wide, it’s filled with people and carts and animals calling, with vendors hawking wares and women leaning out windows above offering their own sort of custom.

I have to remind myself this time to keep my eyes front and stay at attention, Gorgon’s measured pace the clomping commitment of a warhorse who’s trod on the fallen to reach his destination without a moment of pause.

It’s he who carries the day, who keeps me going, unimpressed and duly diligent in his relentless stride, and preserves my honor with his own.

Oh, to possess the lack of care of a Healdean warhorse.

The weight of all that stone, the volume of the crowd, the rich scent of spices and foreign foods mingle with the stink of refuse and too many bodies, and suddenly I’m terrified I really am going to turn and run.

Or just throw up. Neither of which I’ve ever done in the face of an enemy. Ever.

I’m numb by the time we pass the bulk of the outer city and approach the main gate.

It’s not a good state for a soldier, but I’m struggling to adapt, to compartmentalize this shift of reality.

The gate isn’t helping, a truly colossal archway flanked by two immense guard towers.

Carved griffins with wings spread wide adorn the keystones, their eyes seeming to watch our approach.

Compared to this grandeur, my small, dusty contingent feels insignificant.

My leather armor, appropriate on the battlefield, suddenly feels out of place, coarse and rough in this shimmering, polished world.

I run a hand over the scuffed leather molded perfectly to my thigh, a prickle of self-consciousness finally waking me again.

Silly child. I am a warrior. A raw, untamed thing, a princess of Heald. And I will not be bowed by a city or any sense of reduction that city might impose upon me.

We halt before the gate, where two guards, resplendent in polished steel breastplates that have never seen an honest fight, and bright blue cloaks untouched by the stink of a battlefield, stand at attention.

Their armor gleams with a blinding brilliance, reflecting the sunlight.

They look… soft. They are soft. Their posture is perfect, but their hands are clean, their faces unscarred, movements dull and without precision.

They haven’t seen a real war, I realize, not like I have.

I’m suddenly no longer anxious, whether that’s a good thing or not.

“State your business,” one of them says, his voice flat, his gaze sweeping over my mud-splattered boots with a dismissive air. He doesn’t even bother to look up at my face. He sees only a provincial warrior, not the daughter of a queen.

My jaw tightens. “I am Remalla of Heald,” I say, my voice ringing with the authority of my station. “I am here by summons of Overking Gyster to marry Overprince Altar of Protoris.”

The guard’s eyebrows rise slightly, his gaze finally flicking up to my face, then to the Heald banners. His companion snorts, a small, derisive sound. “Another one, eh? The Overprince will have his pick of the litter.”

My blood runs cold. Another one? The dismissive tone, the crude remark, unbecoming a soldier, let alone addressed to a princess. My face flushes with indignation despite myself. This is a blatant disrespect, not just to me, but to Heald.

“You will address me with the proper deference,” I state, my voice dropping, the battlefield’s chill seeping into my tone.

“I am a daughter of Heald, and queen’s heir.

And you will not make light of my presence here, nor the Overking’s summons.

” I feel a flash of the temper that often burns in my mother, a hot, unwelcome surge.

Today, if I must be like her, I claim it, and gladly.

The guard’s smug expression wavers. He has to see the threat in my eyes, the rigid set of my shoulders.

How my hands hold my reins with ease, the sword at my hip.

The other guard coughs, shifting his weight.

“Right. Apologies, highness. Just… been a busy day.” He gives a stiff nod.

“Proceed. The Citadel doors stand at the end of the High Street, straight ahead. You can’t miss it. ”

I nod once, sharply, and urge Gorgon forward through the massive gate. The sheer scale of the city within is overwhelming, but I am grateful for the clod of a guard. He has reminded me that those who live here are weak, untested, and that I am a princess.

Who will never show fear because I am not afraid.

Here, the buildings rise several stories high, some with intricate carvings, others painted in vibrant colors.

The streets are a river of people – merchants showcasing their wares just as in the lower city, just more elegantly, their cries echoing through the narrow alleyways while nobles in silks and jewels, their rich perfumes mingling with the earthy smells of the common folk, linger.

Children weave through the crowd, their laughter bright and fleeting.

The taste of dust and a thousand different scents, both foul and fair, fight for attention.

It’s loud, vibrant, and utterly disorienting, but I’ve faced such input before, forced to focus on a battlefield far more dangerous than this simple street.

I’ve been hiding behind my anxiety and the uncertainty like one of those children. Time to face head-on all obstacles. This might not be what I was raised to do, trained to do, but surely my experience maneuvering a deadly warzone will be sufficient to manage a life like this.

And yet, I am a fish pulled from a cold mountain stream and dropped into a bustling, if stagnant pond. I am so out of place that my assurances to myself struggle for dominance over the returning unease.

We navigate the chaotic streets, my guards forming a tight half-circle behind and beside me, their expressions flat and level, and now I understand why my mother chose them.

Not to hurt me—at least, not entirely. But because, from their reactions, it’s clear to me that yes, they’ve been here before, with her, as I suspected.

Where my soldiers might have been overcome as I had been, these three don’t falter when I need their presence most. And while I would trust any of my company to have my back, I admit I take comfort from this trio’s knowledge and experience beyond my own.

While I fight with this new world I’ve found myself in, they are there to support me.

As much as it burns me to admit it, Mother was right.

Very well. I will accept her foresight, all untold, and use it to my advantage. Because their lack of awe means I have time to adapt and adjust while we ride, allowing them to watch over me when I am unable to do it alone.

I’m far from completely without personal protections, however, my ears and eyes as keen as ever, if blunted by the myriad of sights and sounds that dull my focus from simple overwhelm.

My ears ache with the sheer volume of noise while my eyes try to take everything in at once, feeling utterly lost in this labyrinth of stone and humanity.

I snap into focus thanks to furtive movement, its very secretive nature a flag waving for my attention. To my left, a small, skinny hand reaches out, snatching a bright red apple from a merchant’s stall. The vendor, a large man with a booming voice, immediately spots the theft and lunges. Misses.

She darts away, a flurry of a grubby brown cloak and flying bare feet.

“Thief!” he bellows, his voice cutting through the market chatter. “Stop her! Get her!”

The girl, no older than ten or twelve, looks terrified as she turns to glance back.

Her eyes are wide, darting like a trapped bird’s.

She clutches the apple to her thin chest, her dirty tunic clinging to her bony frame.

She ducks and weaves through the crowd, desperate, but two burly market guards are already closing in, their faces grim.

She stumbles, and they grab her, their hands rough on her small arms.

A sickening jolt goes through me at the sight of her, grasped between them, helpless.

The girl’s face is etched with pure fear, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she dangles, hefted between them, bare feet swinging desperately as she kicks for freedom.

She looks so small, so helpless against their unyielding grip.

This isn’t a battlefield, not a matter of war, but it triggers something deep within me, something tied to my sense of honor, my ingrained code of protecting the innocent.

This is a violation of something fundamental.

And I need a cause to focus on that isn’t my own unease.

Without thinking, I pull Gorgon to a halt. My guards stop, surprised. The huge warhorse snorts, sensing my tension. “Release her!” I snap, my voice cutting through the market noise, sharp and clear.

The guards, startled, turn to me, their grip on the girl momentarily loosening. Her toes touch the ground, but she’s still contained, wriggling and straining against them. “This is a thief, Lady,” one of them says, his tone annoyed. “Caught red-handed.”

The girl whimpers, burying her face against her shoulder. The apple, a single, perfect red orb, rolls from her grasp and into the dusty street. It feels absurdly important, this one apple, but why?

“She is a child,” I state, my voice firm.

“And she is terrified. What crime has she committed that warrants such rough handling? A single apple? Are the people of Winderose so wealthy they would starve a child for a piece of fruit?” Never mind my own mother would have beheaded the child by now, or had her flayed first, more likely.

Then again, children of Heald are precious, and even thieves’ offspring know better than to get caught in such a manner.

My own early training meant being thrown from the keep for three days on my own, without food, water, shelter, a way to acquire any of those. To prove I could survive.

This child has no castle to return to when, grim and dirty and with new life lessons learned, she returns home to throw an apple in her mother’s face.

Ah, yes. That’s why the apple, then. Have I forgotten so very much of what makes me who I am?

My gaze sweeps over the two guards, then to the merchant, who now looks uncomfortable. The smell of dust and the faint sweetness of the now crushed and oozing dropped fruit fills my nose. Someone’s stepped on it, the white flesh leaking its juice into the street.

I urge Gorgon forward and release his reins. “Retrieve,” I whisper.

Freed from his battle-readiness, the warhorse lowers his lips and helps himself to the fruit, only taking the half undamaged, leaving the mashed bit behind. As he lifts his head, he crunches hard, loud in the quiet that’s fallen over the street.

“She’s stealing, Lady,” the second guard insists, but there’s less conviction in his voice now. He clearly doesn’t want to cross a Heald warrior.

“As has my horse,” I tell him in a flat voice, dismounting.

My boots hit the uneven cobbles with a thud.

The crowd watches, leaning in, a ripple of curiosity and apprehension passing through them.

I feel them more than see their reaction, sense as I’ve been trained to do what’s going on around me.

It’s with casual confidence that I stride towards the girl, my leather armor creaking softly with each step.

She flinches as I approach, but I keep my face empty, my movements deliberate.

“Arrest my horse,” I say, “or release her.” I’ve learned to shout in battle, but I prefer the quiet authority that allows no argument, taught by my aunt.

The general, I think, would be proud of me.

One of the two soldiers has stepped back already, hand at his side.

My eyes bore into the guard who still holds the girl’s arm. “Now.”

He hesitates for a moment, but with a sigh of resignation, lets go. The girl pulls away, rubbing her arm, her eyes wide as she stares at me, then down at the remains of the fallen apple.

I cross to the vendor, make a careful selection, two more apples in hand, before tossing the merchant a small coin. It’s far more than the fruit is worth, but I’m making a point. I hold out one to the girl, the other already being sniffed by my horse.

“Here,” I say, my voice gentle. “Eat. Hunger is a powerful teacher, but so is a moment of kindness.” Oh, how Mother would scowl at me for that sentiment.

The girl hesitates, then slowly, tremblingly, snatches the apple from my hand.

Her fingers brush mine, thin and cold. Her gaze, still wary, holds a flicker of something new, though.

Surprise, and perhaps, a tiny spark of hope.

It’s a small, almost insignificant connection, but it grounds me, reminds me of the simple code that still guides me, even in this bewildering, opulent city.

This, I realize, is the kind of battle I understand.

The girl vanishes, swallowed by the swirling crowd.

My hand still tingles from the brush of her cold fingers, the memory of the single, red apple a sharp contrast to the harsh reality of her fear.

I watch the spot where she disappeared, a pang of something unidentifiable—disappointment?

Frustration?—twisting in my gut. No word of thanks, just a desperate escape.

My battlefield code demands gratitude for a rescue, but the street holds different rules, I realize. Here, survival is thanks enough.