The bruises took longer to heal now.
Yet Charlotte—no, Lina—was beginning to smile through them once more.
Not because it alleviated the discomfort. But because pain felt familiar. Manageable. What mattered more was the brightness in her little brother's eyes, the way he regarded her as if she possessed magic.
It was just like Eladin again.
Finn would trail behind her through the dilapidated barn, the tall grass near their home, the edge of the woods with its rough-barked trees and murmuring shadows. He imitated her every action, chattered when she muttered old strategies from court under her breath, and cheered with delight when she caused a pile of stones to tumble like a "siege tower."
And one morning, while she stitched a hole in his shirt using a piece of string and a bent needle, he looked up and asked, "Are we going to battle the mean king?"
She blinked. Then smiled.
"No," she whispered. "We're going to annoy him to death."
Finn didn't grasp the distinction. But he laughed nonetheless. And that was sufficient.
It began with the boots.
Their father had a pair he valued—stiff leather, polished only when he had to impress someone at the tavern. Lina filled them with cold porridge. The squelching noise they made when he tried to wear them nearly earned her a broken rib.
But the expression on his face?
Invaluable.
Next came the door hinges. Slathered with hog fat. The man couldn't sneak up on anyone now if he attempted to—every entry creaked and screeched like a dying goose.
When he hurled the dinner bowl across the room in anger, Lina calmly picked it up and remarked, "It's a sign of wealth, you know. In the east, flying dishes signify prosperity."
Finn clapped.
She received a welt on her cheek. But even that couldn't diminish the pleasure of watching her father trip over a mysteriously misplaced stool for the third time in two days.
They created code words together. "Operation Mice In Ale Barrel." "Plan Rotten Egg Drop." "Project Leaf-Stuffed Pillow."
It turned into a game. A perilous one.
But it belonged to them.
Finn was her fellow conspirator. Her jester. Her knight.
He would peek out from behind walls, tiny hands over his mouth, eyes sparkling with excitement.
"You're a menace," she commented once after they swapped the tobacco in their father's pipe with dried grass and ash.
"I'm your menace," he chirped.
That evening, she held him close, even though her back ached and her arms shook from the latest punishment.
"I was once a princess," she whispered to him beneath the thatched roof. "In a world that would have adored you."
He didn't respond. Just snuggled closer into her chest, thumb in his mouth.
And for a moment, it wasn't a broken hut or a cruel man's home—it was a throne room for two.
A crown fashioned from twigs. A reign born from defiance.
She might not govern kingdoms here.
But she would rule this twisted little world.
Not with fear.
With mischief. Cleverness. And the same relentless spark that had caused the court to once whisper her name like a spell.
Princess Charlotte had perished.
But the little tyrant?
She was just beginning.