prologue
The winter months are long and cold. You are glad for the fires that roar in each room, for the warm food prepared every night and day. It’s been stews, stews, stews and more stews – you long for the hot summer months where your meals consist of hot bread and salads and fruits and cheeses and smoked meat, though you know in the summer you will yearn for the winter.
Your father tells you that he has provided the kingdom and outlying villages with enough food to last two long frosts, but you can’t help but peer out of your window when your books don’t hold your attention. It is cold. The days are cold, and the nights are colder. Most crops shrivel and wither during these months, so every soul is depending on grains and vegetables stored from the summer.
On the fourth sennight of winter, your father draws you into the throne room where he and your mother await. The throne room had always been your favourite room when you were a child; long and wide, with marble floors and a long velvet carpet that led to the dais where three thrones proudly stood; one, grandly encrusted with gems and red velvet. Another of the same size sat beside it, engraved with gold and filigree and ruby studs. And the third, smaller than the other two, wrapped in golden vines and gilded flowers.
Behind the dais is a window that stretches from floor to ceiling, with a view of the sea in all its mysterious wonder. If one was brave enough to step on the ledge and peek their head out, they could see the kingdom spread out to the right. You knew from experience – and many nights locked in your room as a result.
Your father reveals that he’s made plans to send you and your mother to your eastern home by the Indigo Sea – so far east, in fact, that winter’s breath doesn’t reach it. It’s warmer.
And safer, your mind reminds you. Because that’s what this hasty getaway is for, isn’t it? The rebels.
You haven’t had the misfortune of encountering them, but you’ve seen the battalions of soldiers that have returned from fighting them. Bruised, bloodied, spirits broken. They look as if they’ve fought an entire army, and very nearly lost.
The rebels are a tyrannical, violent people whose sole purpose is to see your family removed from the throne. Led by one man only known as the Captain, they terrorise villages and murder mercilessly. Your father told you of the houses and crops they burned down, the public displays of terror that had one message and one message only; they’d see your father’s throat slit and your mother exiled. As for you…
Your father told you what they did to young girls like you.
The rebels had been an ever-present force ever since you were a girl. You’d never known true, delicious freedom – no frolicking in the streets and no long journeys bar the leisurely trips occasionally taken to your eastern home. You grew up hearing tales of the barbarians hiding in the shadows, of the bloodthirsty warriors who worshipped death – but the rebellion had never truly been serious enough to send you away.
Here you are, though, sitting opposite your mother with your respective handmaidens beside you, dressed in your finest winter gown that really does nothing for you in the cold.
The carriage you ride in is surrounded by what could possibly be a small army. Many would think it unnecessary but the road you travel down is treacherous in this weather. Wide, with thick forest on either side. Perfect for an ambush, you think to yourself. Any book on strategy could tell even a fool that.
The blanket of night doesn’t help, either, but your father thought it best for your transport to be as covert as was allowed, even if risk was increased. Only the people present and himself knew of the specific road you’d take and the time you’d take it, though it does little to calm your nerves.
The curtains are drawn, but you can almost feel the snowfall outside. You don’t know how far you’ve travelled, or how far you have left to travel – it could be minutes or hours spent in these four gilded walls with nothing to entertain you. One thing you do know, however, is that when the carriage jolts and shudders and stops in its tracks with no warning, something is wrong.
The silence that fills the space is, for lack of better wording, deafening. And then there’s rustling outside, and you lean forward in your seat, heart thudding in your chest and breath beginning to shake. You’re waiting for a sign – something, anything. A shout, a cry, some reassurance from the men sworn by sword and life to protect you.
Your mother and handmaiden exchange looks of equal fear, and you have no doubt you look the same, sitting stock still and ears poised towards the door, waiting, waiting, waiting…
“Rebels!"
And just like that, all hell breaks loose. The door is wrenched open, and you barely recognize the proud gold insignia of your family in the low light before you’re all pulled from inside. The thud of hooves against the dirt and shouts and bayonet shots mix into a cacophony of sounds that make your ears ring. You feel like you’re suffocating in the cold sting of the night.
"This way, Your Majesty!” The gruff voice of the soldier is the only thing that permeates the wall of sound, and so that is what you focus on. You hoist your skirt up and desperately continue after him, trudging through the thick snow, but you can’t help the glance you cast over your shoulder as you flee to the treeline; men, dozens of them on horseback, carrying torches and bayonets and striking down your men like they were bred to do so.
“Natalia!” You gasp, scream caught in your throat as your handmaiden is suddenly taken roughly by a rebel man, slung upon his horse as he rides past. She yells, kicks, bucks and wriggles, but he barely spares her a glance and continues wreaking havoc on your soldiers. “Nat–Natalia–!"
And then your mother’s handmaiden, a girl only a few years older than you, is struck down with the butt of a bayonet.
You don’t realise you’re crying out, sobbing, until the soldier grasps your wrist and tugs you along. "We’ve got to get ya back t’ the palace, missus.”
Your large embroidered skirt and laced corset are not fit for running through the forest, especially at night and especially when it’s been snowing; twigs and branches snag at the fabric, scraping your face and arms, but you can’t stop. You hear them running after you, their yells in the distance. If you squint and peek over your shoulder, you can see the dull glow of their torches. They’re gaining on you, they’re gaining on you, and your chest feels like it might cave in and crush your lungs if your panic continues to rise. Maybe you’re still crying, maybe you’re not – you can’t think straight enough to tell.
Your mother gives a sudden cry of pain and tumbles to the ground, and the soldier is crowding around her, hand on her leg, cursing under his breath. He props her up against the trunk of an old oak tree, and busies himself with ripping fabric from his shirt to bind her ankle.
“Will she be okay?” You cry, sniffling, glancing over your shoulder. They’re getting closer, closer, closer, and a strong cloud of dread drifts over your head. “Please, will she be okay?"
"She won’t be able t’ walk quick enough,” the soldier says, and your mother sobs. She knows her fate. If she can’t walk – flee –, and the rebels close in… “‘Nd we won’t be able t’ travel fast enough with the rate they’re gainin’ on us–"
But her fate does not have to be set in stone. Not if you have anything to do with it.
"I will go,” you say shakily, rubbing your weeping nose with the back of your palm. In a sickly humorous way, you think of what your governess would say if she saw you like this — dress torn and muddied and wet from snow, hair a frizzy, disheveled mess, face puffy and flushed with tears and cold alike. Not the image of a princess one would expect. Not the image of a princess you’ve been taught to be, evidently, though appearances don’t quite matter now. “I will lead them away.”
“No–!"
"You can’t, m'lady–!"
"No! I will go,” you argue, kneeling down beside your mother and seizing her hands in yours. “You are the Queen. Father cannot rule without you–”
“And you are my daughter,” your mother answers, face contorted in pain. You’ve never seen her quite so undone, though you suppose you’re a mirror image. “I can’t let you sacrifice yourself–"
"I will go–” The soldier begins.
“You can’t!” You cry, grasping his face in your hands. “Please, listen to me. You are the only one who knows the way back to the palace. If you go we will both be eventually caught, do you hear me?”
“I–I–”
“Find 'em! We want them alive, lads!"
You’re sobbing at this point. You’re scared, and cold, and your limbs are so weak from anxiety that you’re afraid you won’t be able to stand back up. But you do, you do, and you kiss your mother on the forehead once more before running back the way you came. You don’t look back to see if they’ve begun to hobble away. You’d turn on your heels and join them if you saw them once more, you’re sure of it, so you simply continue running.
The rebels come into view minutes later, all on their horses and wrapped in furs. In all your years, you’ve never seen anything more frightening; they stand like a massive wall, blocking out even the sky above with their torches. Their faces are fierce and determined, teeth bared and eyes focused. They are… terrifying, in every sense of the word.
What must be fight or flight kicks in; you give a shuddering gasp, and begin to run east.
The snow is biting at your toes. Your fingers and cheeks are numb. Your throat, raw with exertion and cold, and yet, you can’t stop sobbing, can’t stop panting. You don’t know how long you run for before it feels as if their horses are right at your ankles; but before they can scoop you up, you burst into a foggy clearing, feet slipping from underneath you and throwing you into the shocking cold.
Gasping for breath and teeth chattering, the rebels begin to circle you with their horses. Crowded on the floor, the night sky disappearing beneath their large, monstrous forms, your heart has never beat quite so quickly. You can barely catch your breath, eyes flitting about nervously, hands clutching at your wet dress.
"It’s the princess!” One calls, looking behind him. “What’ll we do with 'er?"
"Please,” you sob, chest tightening, “Please, please, I don't–"
The men split in one area to let another in; a horse as black as night, almost twice your size, carries a man equally as imposing. There is no doubt in your mind that this is the one who they call Captain.
His jaw clenches at the sight of you, disgust in his eyes, and he nudges his horse back again. "Deal with her restraints. She’ll ride with me.”
No. No, no, no–!