Everyone knows the legend of the missing princess.
On the Night of Screams and Tears, the royal family of the Damar dynasty was wiped out, and no one survived. Yet some say one of King Damar IV's children escaped the massacre. The last of his bloodline. And that one day, he would return to reclaim the throne from the usurper.
Today, he would be seventeen. Many await the return of this liberator: my parents, my best friend, even my boyfriend. Me? I don't believe it. It's just a legend. No one is coming to save us.
I was enjoying the quiet of early morning, scribbling a few lines in my journal. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the window, bathing the room in a soft, honeyed glow. A sly, cold breeze slipped through the cracks in the wooden boards, making me shiver. The scratch of the quill on paper punctuated the moment with a delicious serenity.
Today I dreamed of Elzenor…
We walked hand in hand on Mount Oboro, the snow sparkling under the last rays of the sun. His muscles showed through his white shirt, like the hero in Renza's epic, and his dark skin blended with mine. It was perfect. Romantic. I closed my eyes, savoring the dream…
Sena!
My mother shouted from her room. I knew exactly what she wanted.
Mom! I replied, just nonchalantly enough for her to notice.
"If you're awake, help me prep the goods! We're leaving soon."
I wasn't a fortune teller, but I saw that coming.
"Just a second, let me get ready," I murmured, pulling the covers closer. The warmth of my bed turned into a welcoming blaze, and the fur blankets whispered, stay… just a moment longer.
"You know what they say, my daughter…"
" Laziness is the worst vice for a woman of Khandara."
I sighed, exasperated and amused. She could be a fortune teller herself sometimes.
After a quick shower, I slipped into my favorite green dress slightly worn and faded, but perfect for my violet eyes, a rare trait. My leather boots completed the outfit. I finally headed downstairs.
"One second? That was forty-five minutes!" my mother teased.
I rolled my eyes, sighed, and grabbed an apple.
"Eat, my little princess, unless you want to stay skinny as a nail," said my father, coming down the stairs. His deep voice echoed his usual patience. The scars on his forearms told the story of a soldier's life. In the living room, his old armor rested on a mannequin, the helmet tilted slightly, a reminder of the days he served in the royal guard.
"Morning, Pa!" I replied, mouth full, which made my mother frown.
"Act like a grown girl and stop that nonsense!" she said, her face dusted with flour and chestnut strands escaping her bun. Her blue apron covered her dress. Deep down, she was kind but always bossy.
My father gave me a protective look. "Let her be, she's a teenager," he murmured.
"That's not how the ladies of Kamesah behave. When you're there, everyone will wonder who raised you!" Her voice trembled with conviction, and I wondered if she truly saw the future.
"Mom, you're exaggerating… anyway, see you later," I said, stepping out the door.
Behind me, my father murmured, "With all the highway robbers, no one can travel safely…"
I ignored his warnings and ran to the cart. Gutam, our old horse, gave me a tired look, his thin muscles betraying the years. I greeted the neighbors with a smile, though my heart wasn't in it.
The white stone bridge over the river soon came into view. Its smooth, worn stones seemed to tell centuries of stories, and I found myself whispering a silent prayer, as if to bless my crossing. The village houses, simple and charming, mixed thatched roofs with sun-dried clay jars, painted shutters, and birds hopping along the ledges.
I looked up and saw a group of sturdy riders. One horse seemed particularly arrogant, casting a mocking glance at Gutam. I frowned, amused and slightly irritated, but kept my cool.
"Watch where you're going, idiot!" shouted a rider, nearly crashing into us with his cart.
"Sorry!" I exclaimed, tightening the reins and refocusing.
Once at the stall, I carefully arranged the fruit, waiting for my mother to take over. I sat down with my book, The Epic of the Winter Hero.
Customers came and went, exchanging a few words. Mr. Nomak, the baker, always bought ten kilos of Minali apples.
"They're delicious," he said.
"Thank you!" I replied.
"Sena, your eyes are stunning."
"Thanks…"
Madame Mehra, always chatty, gave me a message for my mother: if she went to Kamesah, she should bring back some purple fabrics. Originally from Van'kori, a neighboring country, she had lighter skin and spoke with a soft accent. Yulan and Isara, both family friends, talked about the growing insecurity. Roads were often blocked by thieves, and one of them added:
"I'm telling you, Khandara's situation has been hopeless since the old king died."
Madame Yulan, wrapped in a colorful shawl threaded with gold, gestured animatedly as she spoke about the dangerous roads. Isara, more reserved, nodded quietly, her tight braids adorned with blue beads. Their voices rose and fell, interwoven like the threads of their embroidery.
A conversation caught my attention: apparently, the University of Kamesah would open its doors earlier this year. My heart tightened. I was going to miss all of this when I left the colorful market, the neighbors' laughter, the peaceful mornings with Gutam. Even Mom's scolding suddenly felt sweet. I absentmindedly stroked the cover of my book, The Epic of the Winter Hero.
The marketplace buzzed with life: the butcher's son had fought with the chief's son, the wood lady had drunk too much and was spilling household secrets, Mr. Utah had just bought a new cart… Sameda market square pulsed with rumors, stories, and human warmth.
I lingered for a moment, soaking in these fragments of life, when a shadow appeared behind me and my heart skipped a beat.
I was attacked by a demon.