Her gown flowed with the wind, its fabric trailing like whispers behind her, delicate yet frantic. Her body trembled, not from cold—she burned hot, always had—but from the storm inside her. Her eyes darted between the grand doors that led back to her gilded cage and the stables, where freedom awaited.
She had never stepped beyond the castle walls. Not under watch, not in disguise. Never.
Lifting her skirts, she ran. The first horse she saw, she mounted—no saddle, no food, not a single idea where she was going. Only fear, pure and alive in her chest, and Lord Baelrik's words playing over and over in her mind. He hadn't lied. His eyes had brimmed with something terrible: pity.
The night gnawed at her sanity. Shadows whispered. Branches scraped like claws. She must have looked mad—a royal girl, her dress worth more than most families would earn in a lifetime, crying and riding into the wilderness as if hell itself were at her heels.
She dared a glance back.
The garden lights had flickered on again.
Someone had gone looking for her.
Imagine their horror when they realized the Crown Princess of Villiria had vanished.
The garden was empty.
Too empty.
Torren felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as his torch cast long, shifting shadows through the hedges.
"She was just here," muttered Renn, the younger guard beside him, glancing around like a hound scenting something wrong.
Torren didn't answer. He crouched low, inspecting the stone railing where the Princess had last stood. No sign of a struggle. No scream. No escort.
Only a faint indentation in the soil below, small and circular—hoofprints.
He straightened, heart sinking.
"She took a horse."
Renn paled. "We need to—"
"Now," Torren snapped, already turning on his heel.
The Queen's chambers were ablaze with candlelight by the time they reached them. Zaphyra stood near the open balcony, her fingers wrapped around a goblet of blood-red wine. She did not turn as they entered.
"Speak."
Renn faltered, but Torren stepped forward.
"Your Majesty... Princess Lilith is gone. She fled through the stables, alone. Likely into the eastern forest."
The goblet in Zaphyra's hand shattered against the marble.
A long pause followed. The Queen remained still, the moonlight drawing cold lines across her expression.
"Seal the castle," she said at last. "No word leaves these walls."
"But—" Renn began.
Zaphyra turned then, slowly, and the look in her eyes silenced the boy.
She turned to the steward in the shadows. "Summon Lord Baelrik. Now."
Baelrik stood in the middle of the throne room, trying not to fidget under the pressure of the crown's gaze. His father had once warned him that proximity to power was like standing too close to fire. It either warmed you or burned you alive.
Right now, he felt scorched.
King Varkul said nothing—he rarely did when the Queen was in the room.
"You were the last to see her," Zaphyra said quietly, which somehow made it worse than if she had shouted. "You spoke with her. Danced with her. Escorted her into the gardens."
Baelrik bowed his head. "She seemed... overwhelmed. I believed she needed air."
"Did you encourage her to run?"
"No, Your Majesty."
"Did you threaten her?"
"No."
Zaphyra studied him for a long time. "Then you are either lying—or you were too careless to see the truth. Which is worse?"
Baelrik swallowed. "Do you want her found?"
"She must be," she answered. "Before word spreads. Before she becomes a symbol." Her eyes narrowed. "And you will help us find her, Lord Baelrik. You'll join the first pursuit party at dawn."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
She stepped closer, voice dropping to a blade's edge. "And if she dies before the Choosing, the Kingdom will mourn a daughter. But you, Baelrik, will mourn everything else."
The council chamber was alive before dawn. No sleep, no silence — just the furious rustle of scrolls, guards in and out like tidewater, and the constant hiss of whispering advisors. Every noble within arm's reach of the throne had come, not out of loyalty, but out of fear. A missing Princess was not just scandal. It was instability. A threat to succession. A chance for enemies to move.
Queen Zaphyra sat at the head of the obsidian table, hands clasped before her like a sculpture of wrath. King Varkul sat beside her, silent as always — but his expression held something unreadable, almost distant.
"Tell me again," Zaphyra said, voice sharp as a whip, "how a girl who has never so much as left the castle walls managed to steal a royal steed and flee into the wilderness — undetected."
No one spoke.
Until Baelrik.
"She was frightened," he said. "I believe she overheard something... about the Choosing. Something she was never meant to know."
Zaphyra's gaze pinned him. "Did you tell her?"
"I mentioned nothing of the ritual. Only that the Choosing has risks. I thought she should know—"
"You thought," Zaphyra cut in, standing. "And now the heir to the throne is running through the woods like a hunted fox. Perhaps next time you'll try less thinking and more loyalty."
Baelrik's jaw tightened, but he bowed again. "I am already preparing to ride after her."
"Not alone," she said. "You'll take two of the Falcon Riders. The rest are already sweeping the western cliffs. She's headed east, but we will cover every pass." She turned to a silver-haired woman at her left — the court seer, Lysandra. "Have your birds found anything?"
Lysandra looked drained. Her eyes were still glowing faintly from the scrying basin's magic. "Only shadows. There is something in the forest... a barrier. Not magic I recognize. Old, wild. Something wants her hidden."
Zaphyra's eyes narrowed. "Smirnova blood. Of course. This is Calyra's doing."
A cold silence fell.
"Calyra is dead," said one of the generals.
Zaphyra smiled darkly. "That's what you were told."
The members of the council looked at her — not with defiance, but with curiosity sharpened to a blade's edge. They wanted an answer. An explanation. A reason why the Queen had mentioned Calyra — a ghost, a disgrace, a daughter lost.
Queen Zaphyra rose from her seat like a serpent uncoiling
"The Choosing is a blessing," she began, her voice smooth but heavy, "a sacred gift the Smirnov bloodline alone has been chosen to carry. But even blessings have limits. Not everyone is strong enough to endure it."
A pause. The flicker of her eyes across the council like a net tightening.
"My—" she caught herself, just barely, "—Calyra was weak. She lacked the will to fight. She gave up too soon, and the symbols abandoned her."
The council held its breath.
"As you all know," she continued, pacing slowly in front of the high windows, "the Choosing is not simply about power. It is about worthiness. About who has the strength to rule. The symbols do not grant their allegiance lightly."
She stopped in front of the throne, her silhouette framed in cold sunlight.
"When Calyra was found, the symbols had left her body — and she lay at the edge of death. It was a message. A warning to all future heirs. Power is earned. Not inherited."
No one dared speak. The memory of Calyra — brilliant, defiant Calyra — still hung in the air like smoke. And though no one would say it aloud, the same question was now on every mind:
Was it coincidence that all of Zaphyra's children had fled or perished... or was it something far more dangerous?
The council chamber emptied slowly, one noble at a time, all of them stealing hesitant glances toward the throne. None of them dared question the Queen, yet the weight of her words lingered in their minds like the echo of a curse.
Zaphyra sat motionless, spine straight, lips pressed into a calm line. Only when the last whisper of footsteps had vanished did she rise from her seat.
Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she moved toward the tall windows, her silhouette sharp against the moonlight. Beyond the glass, the royal gardens lay still, bathed in silver and silence. She remembered the way Calyra had once walked those very paths, her shoulders bruised, her hands bound. The girl had cried quietly, the Choosing having torn her open and left nothing but shame behind.
Weakness. That's what it had been.
The Queen inhaled slowly through her nose. She had not lied — not entirely. Calyra had been too weak. And now Lilith threatened to follow the same path. Or worse... carve her own.
A guard stepped forward from the shadows, his armor creaking with tension.
"Your Majesty?" he asked cautiously.
Zaphyra didn't turn her head.
"Bring me Lord Baelrik."
The guard bowed low and hurried from the room.
Minutes passed.
When the doors opened once more, Baelrik stood in the archway, visibly tense but composed. His black coat was dusted with garden soil — likely from searching already. Zaphyra studied him in the reflection of the window.
"You said you earned her trust," she said, her voice calm and cold.
"I did."
"Then why is my daughter not in this castle?"
Baelrik took a step forward. "She fled. Through the stables. None of the guards saw her go, not until it was too late."
A slow breath escaped her lips, controlled and sharp.
"You were meant to temper her," she said. "Not feed her delusions. Not remind her of Calyra."
"She already had doubts. I thought if I offered honesty, I could steer her."
"You are not here to steer her, Lord Baelrik," Zaphyra snapped, finally turning toward him. Her eyes were molten ice. "You are here to contain her. And now she is somewhere in the wild, alone, untrained, frightened, with power growing in her veins."
"She's still just a girl."
"She is Smirnov blood," Zaphyra hissed. "That bloodline has burned kingdoms to ash for less than what she knows now."
She moved to stand inches from him, her voice lowering into something far more dangerous.
"You will find her. Before the Choosing. Before the court begins to ask questions. If she dies in the wilderness, I will mourn her as a failure — and yours. But if she returns with the fire awakened in her heart..."
Her gaze bored into him, a final warning wrapped in velvet venom.
"...then pray to every god you believe in that it burns you first."
Anxiety coiled in Baelrik's chest like a tightening chain.
The sky was beginning to bleed pale hues, morning creeping past the edges of night. The shadows of the forest stretched long and twisted, still cloaked in fog. His men had gathered behind him, their mounts restless, their armor faintly clinking as they awaited his word.
The cold didn't touch him — not beneath the heavy leather cape clasped over his shoulders. But even warmth couldn't comfort him now.
They were losing time.
"My Lord," one of his most trusted men said, stepping forward, his hand on the hilt of his blade. "We await your command."
Baelrik's eyes lingered on the tree line ahead, thick and black like the maw of a beast. Even seasoned warriors hesitated to enter those woods. Not without sanction. Not without magic. And certainly not chasing a girl who had never ridden a horse, never crossed the castle gates, never slept beneath a sky unsheltered by gold and glass.
Right now, she was no Princess.
She was a ghost in the wilderness.
"She's dead," one of the men whispered behind him. "Has to be."
Baelrik didn't respond. He couldn't.
Because deep down, some part of him feared it too.
"We ride east," he finally said. "She wouldn't go toward the cities. Not yet. She doesn't even know the world beyond the walls."
His voice was steady, sharp — though not as sharp as the Queen's gaze.
He felt her watching from the balcony above, wrapped in shadow and silk, her stare cold enough to freeze stone. Her disgust hung in the air like frostbite. She didn't need to speak. Her message was clear:
You failed.
He lifted his head and met her eyes.
No bow. No smile. Only a silent promise sealed between them.
I will bring her back. One way or another.
He turned his horse toward the trees.
"We do not return," he said, voice like thunder, "until the Princess is found."
The wind shifted.
The forest opened its arms.
And Baelrik rode into the unknown.