The wheels of three carriages beat rhythmically against the stone road, lulling Daelith into a drowsy half-sleep. She lazily watched the landscape through the window, but soon her eyelids grew heavy.
The early ride at dawn left her sluggish, thoughts drifting like mist curling over the morning fields.
Praise the gods, at least she was dressed lightly for the journey, without a corset. The soft fabric did not press against her ribs, allowing for easy breaths, and her chest lifted lightly above the edge of the olive gown.
The air in the carriage was warm, scented with leather, pine resins, and faintly — expensive perfume. But even this comfort could not drown the realization: she was leaving.
She was leaving Stormar behind.
Her heart felt light, even though they had not yet crossed its borders.
No one had come to bid her farewell. Not even her brothers — it felt strange.
Only Gwynn.
The elderly governess wept, holding her tight in warm, comforting arms, whispering tender words of goodbye through sobs. She had always been the only one there for Daelith in the castle.
But now, it was all behind her.
The carriage jolted, and Daelith snapped out of her thoughts. They had stopped.
The servant offered his hand respectfully, helping her out. A gentle breeze brushed her cheeks, stirring long strands of hair. She tilted her pale face toward the sun, squinting against the bright light.
A maid immediately brought a hat, and after a lazy nod of assent, carefully lowered it onto her head, tying the ribbons neatly beneath her chin.
The air smelled of fresh grass and damp earth from the recent rain.
Nearby, a cool, sparkling brook gurgled, its sound drawing her forward.
But Daelith did not approach the makeshift table as expected. Instead, she walked slowly to the brook, slipped off her shoes, and plunged her feet into the icy water.
A flash of pleasure ran through her body—the fatigue vanished, blood quickened, and drowsiness melted away.
She closed her eyes. Exhaled.
How long had it been since she had felt such freedom?
"My lady, you will catch a cold and inconvenience His Grace, Prince Emmazuriel," came a calm, even voice.
Daelith turned her head slightly.
"Yes, Sir Mirul," she said lightly, smiling. "Give me a minute, and I'll come to the table."
"Your Majesty, I insist," tension crept into the courtier's voice. He remained in place, unwilling to step closer. "You must be reasonable."
Her good mood vanished instantly.
Reasonable?
She had heard that word her whole life.
A reasonable daughter must obey.
A reasonable woman must remain silent.
She clenched her jaw, suppressing irritation, and turned toward him.
"Sir Mirul," her voice remained soft, though steel threaded through it. "As I said, I'll come in a moment. Please… leave me."
"But, my lady—" he took a cautious step forward. "We must follow His Majesty's orders…"
"Leave me."
A warmth spread through her chest.
Mirul flinched, eyes widening, briefly clouded over. Silently, he returned to the table, as if nothing had happened.
Daelith exhaled sharply, pressing her hands to her face.
Foolish!
She felt the Gift surge outward. Her own words sliced through the air, charged with power. She had called the Voice.
The Gift of her line, alive in women.
Her head spun. She had not used it in a long time, and now her body protested, as though recovering from a lingering illness.
Her chest constricted, as if she had raced up and down the castle stairs without pause. Temples throbbed, stomach twisted. She gritted her teeth, refusing to falter.
The ability demanded effort, sapping her strength.
Her mother had warned them never to use it. That the Voice was a curse.
"To use it is a grave sin."
"We never raise the Voice against our family. Never."
She had whispered those words in the darkness of her chambers, when no one could hear.
"You don't want him to grow angry, do you?"
"You know you'll only make things worse."
"You have no idea what he is capable of, Daelith."
But she did.
The echoes of the Gift were faint in the men of her family. Yet that never stopped them from asserting their will to others — in far harsher ways.
Sliding a hand across her face, Daelith scooped up cold water, letting fingers trace her temples.
A deep breath. Exhale.
Mirul. Had he understood?
Carefully, without haste, she made her way to the table, casting a quick glance at him.
The courtier appeared concerned, but not afraid. He met her gaze briefly, raised an eyebrow — and then quickly looked away.
Let him think she had merely been rude. Far better than a complaint to the king about the Voice.
Her father remained far away, in Stormar. That thought brought a strange, fragile relief. She dared not fully acknowledge it, fearing it might shatter like delicate glass under the slightest touch.
Eating lightly, she barely noticed the chatter at the table. Then, unhurriedly, she rose and began to wander the surroundings.
More than two weeks on the road… alone with her thoughts.
Time to decide: should she fear the Gift? Or was it time to learn to master it?
She glanced back at the carriages, the busy servants, and the dark ribbon of road winding ahead.
Then a quiet smile curved her lips as she moved onward, flinging her hat aside and letting the wind play with the hem of her dress.
Stormar fell away behind them, and their path stretched into a rocky wasteland, dotted with sparse, scraggly trees. Crossing into neutral territory, a weight lifted from Daelith's shoulders. Here, no one cared who she was — her title, her history, none of it mattered.
Outside the window, the lights of a small, nearly colorless town flickered. She knew its name — Forgotten Ridge. Miners, stonemasons, and their families filled the streets. Peering from behind the curtain, she watched the townsfolk with quiet curiosity. Humans and sturdy, stocky dwarves wandered the evening roads, lovers walking hand in hand. Such a simple thing—it felt unimaginable.
The road stretched endlessly. She expected them to stop at a local noble's estate, a wealthy merchant's house, or at least an inn. She longed to sink into a warm bath. Yet, to her disappointment, the carriage did not pause—not in the town, nor after. The night beyond the windows was thick, as if the moon and stars had hidden behind a veil of clouds. Only distant flickers hinted that life still stirred somewhere nearby.
A prickling sense warned Daelith that someone—or something—might be trailing the carriage. Perhaps it was only shadows playing tricks, but with every passing minute, unease grew. The carriage pressed onward, and before she realized it, sleep had claimed her.
In the morning, the carriage came to a halt. Daelith awoke, finally free of the lingering headache, and opened the door to a fresh forest and the shimmering lake beyond. A lightness rose in her chest, and the anxieties of the night melted away.
"Good morning, Your Majesty!" Sir Mirul greeted, bowing low. "I hope the journey hasn't exhausted you. As you know, we must obey His Majesty's orders, which means minimizing stops whenever possible."
"Good morning, Sir," Daelith replied, offering her hand in its perfumed, satin glove to the attendant as she stepped down. "I would like to wash and have something to eat."
"Please wait, my lady," he said. "We'll set up the tent and prepare everything you need."
Daelith nodded and walked toward the lake, stretching tight muscles and shaking off stiffness. Long hours confined to the carriage had left her body sore. In Grey Castle, she had wandered the gardens, ridden horses, and even dabbled in swordplay — though not with much skill. The familiar ease of motion was gone.
The pace of travel puzzled her. They could have journeyed longer in the day but rested in towns or inns at night, allowing both her and the attendants to recover. But the king spared no one. With a sharp click of her tongue, Daelith picked up a smooth stone and sent it skipping across the lake. It danced twice on the surface before settling heavily at the bottom, carrying with it her fleeting hope that even a trace of care might exist on this journey.
Soon a wooden tub was set up, filled with steaming water, and as the princess stepped in, she felt an invisible weight lift from her shoulders. The rising steam caressed her face, soothing and loosening every tense muscle. The scent of fragrant soap and floral lotions masked the road's noise — only here, immersed in warmth, did her thoughts finally slow down for the first time during the journey.
Her hands leisurely selected the next bottle: sharp, fresh, cloyingly sweet… As if she alone set the pace of the day, even for just a few precious minutes. Gradually, the bustle receded, dissolving into the steam and scents — and she wished this hidden moment could last longer.
A maid helped her wash, and Daelith noticed the woman avert her gaze at the markings on her back. The princess did not blame her. She herself had never liked looking at them.
Her father said they were enchanted and helped enhance the Gift for heirs, but Daelith doubted it. Judging by her cousins, brothers, and other older relatives, it seemed to make little difference.
She was the last in whom the power had manifested. Her cousin Madeline, Darolt's younger sister, lacked any substantial trace of the Voice. But then, there was less expectation placed on her too.
After her morning wash, a careful choice of the most comfortable dress, and a quick breakfast, the carriage was on its way again. With a trace of irritation, Daelith thought how much simpler a portal would be — stepping into Kelen'Thir in an instant.
She had brought along her favorite books, though most she had already read more than once, using them as a shield against the stifling atmosphere of Grey Castle.
Trees streamed past the window, casting playful shadows. With the sun high in the sky, the princess leafed through the Tales of the Forest Elves in an attempt to stave off boredom, though she often paused to gaze at the bright vistas beyond the stained glass.
The sky's blue was already fading behind the forest, while forgotten songs of free birds drifted down from the branches. The carriage rolled past fields blazing with poppies and sprinkled with cornflowers. Swallows skimmed over the blooms, riding the wind — as if even they were celebrating the coming of summer, freedom, and the endless sky.
Absentmindedly, Daelith drew back the curtain, letting sunlight spill across her face. She squinted, as though she wished to hide within that warmth, within those dreams.
She longed to stop. To wander the forest, to bathe in a clear river, to gather armfuls of daisies and weave them into crowns. To hear songs by the fire, dance under the moon, and forget her father, the Voice, and all her duties.
Yet the golden fields only sharpened her longing, making those desires feel fragile — almost out of reach.
She believed that, with a forest elf, such dreams might come true. Perhaps they could love each other — and then one cage would not simply be traded for another, but at last the doors would open onto a summer night.
The sun sank behind the firs, their shadows stretching long across the fields as the carriage raced on without pause.
Daelith sighed wearily. Sir Mirul allowed no rest, driving them toward new duties. Summer — with its freedom, its songs, its celebration of life—remained somewhere far behind, beyond the window.
Through the rustle of pages she heard the world outside growing steadily quieter.
At first, birds still called to one another.
Then came only hooves and the creak of wheels.
And now… just hooves.
She glanced quickly past the curtain. The forest was too dense. Too dark, though the sun still shone. Something was wrong.
Daelith tried to steady herself, burying her eyes once more in the book.
But suddenly, the carriage lurched to a halt.
She struck her elbow hard against the wall and slid down. In the next instant she was pinned beneath the bench, wedged between the seat and the cold planks of the floor.