Snowflakes drifted lazily through the gray sky, settling on the roofs of Eldenmere like scattered ash. The villagers stopped their work to stare as the royal carriage rolled through the muddy street—its black horses gleaming, their breath fogging in the cold. Such splendor had never passed through their worn lanes, not since before the war. And inside that gilded carriage sat Alaric Thorne, son of a knight… and nothing like one.
He sat stiffly on the opposite bench from the princess, his cloak damp and boots caked in frost. The wooden wheels creaked beneath them as the carriage jolted over frozen ruts. Outside, villagers bowed—or pretended to, more out of curiosity than respect. Alaric caught a few familiar faces in the crowd: the blacksmith, the baker’s boy, old Mira with her basket of apples. They looked at him as though he were someone else entirely.
The princess turned her gaze from the window. Her eyes—clear, blue-green like river ice—met his for a fleeting second before drifting away again. “Is this your home?” she asked softly. Her voice was melodic, but there was a faint tremor of curiosity, maybe even pity.
He cleared his throat. “Aye, Your Highness. Eldenmere.”
“It’s… smaller than I imagined.” She didn’t mean it cruelly, but her words hung in the air like frost. She turned back to the glass, watching a child chase the carriage barefoot through the slush. “They look happy,” she murmured, “despite everything.”
Alaric hesitated before answering. “We make do with what we have.”
She smiled faintly at that, her red lips curling with something that looked like respect. Her hair shimmered even in the dim light—deep copper waves bound with a jeweled clasp, a few loose strands brushing her cheek. The emerald gown she wore seemed to glow in the gloom, gold embroidery catching every flicker from the carriage lantern. She looked untouched by the world—like something sacred moving through a land that had forgotten beauty.
He forced himself to look away. “The river to the east,” he said, gesturing toward the fogged glass, “is where the village trades. Fish, hides, a few herbs. The forest beyond belongs to no lord—so the people hunt there, though they’re not supposed to.”
Her head tilted slightly. “And you?”
“Me?” He blinked. “I’m here because most knights are fighting in the north.”
She studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp and assessing. “No. I meant before this.”
He hesitated. “My mother and I live near the edge of the village. I… fix things, mostly. Doors, tools. Whatever’s needed.”
Something softened in her expression. “Your father was Sir Caelum Thorne, wasn’t he? My tutors used to speak of him. They said he was one of the finest swordsmen in the realm.”
Alaric’s jaw tensed. “He was.” A pause. “Until he wasn’t.”
The princess seemed to sense the weight in his voice and didn’t press further. For a while, silence filled the carriage. The only sound was the rhythm of hooves and the soft crackle of snow against the windows.
Then she said quietly, “I think it’s cruel, what the court does to memory. They decide who is honored and who is forgotten. Sometimes I think the truth is buried under titles.”
Her words startled him more than any royal command could. He turned to look at her fully. Her gaze was distant now, her gloved fingers tracing the condensation on the glass. There was sorrow in her tone—a loneliness he hadn’t expected from someone draped in silk and gold.
“You see things as they are,” he said softly.
She glanced back, her lips curving into a faint, almost wistful smile. “And you speak like someone who’s seen too much.”
Before he could reply, the carriage slowed. The driver shouted, and the horses’ breath billowed in thick clouds. Through the window, Alaric saw the outline of the old bridge leading out of the village, its planks frozen over. A few men ran ahead to clear the way.