The Princess
The candle on Eliane’s desk was almost spent, a low flame licking at the last of the wax. She unfolded the letter carefully, her fingers brushing over the seal—a discreet mark they had agreed upon. Her pulse remained steady, keeping hope at bay until she saw the words.
Plain parchment, uneven ink—just a few lines about the supplies reaching their destination, the structure holding strong. Most importantly, progress was better than expected.
The message was deliberately mundane. To anyone else, it seemed routine.
But to her, it meant everything.
Progress. She didn’t need to know the details—didn’t dare hope for anything more. Just knowing he was holding on was enough.
She brought the letter to her chest, eyes closing as the crackle of the dwindling flame softened the room’s edges.
A year. A whole year since she hid him away from the world.
They had planned every detail, down to the last whisper. Failure was not an option.
The hospice wasn’t guarded, not properly. The court had abandoned Justin to his fate—left him in the same dim, cold room at the far end of the hall, marked with a single warning carved into the wooden frame: Cursed.
Eliane slipped in after dark, her steps silent. The corridors were quiet, the few attendants gathered at the front. No one wanted to deal with the cursed man—least of all the ones who had been ordered to let him die quietly.
When she eased open the door, Sira and Vaeril were already inside. Sira stood by the cot, her dark eyes calm but alert, while Vaeril traced a rune on the floor, his magic coiling through the air like a low hum.
“He’s stable for now,” Sira murmured. “The sleeping spell is holding.”
Eliane brushed her fingers against Justin’s cheek. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, but he was alive. “Let’s begin,” she whispered.
Vaeril finished his mark and straightened, giving a brief nod. They had already decided—teleportation was too taxing, too risky for Justin’s fragile state. Moving him manually was the only safe option.
They had no time to waste.
Sira began the levitation incantation, her hands moving in fluid patterns. Justin’s body lifted slowly, as if cradled by invisible hands, his limbs suspended with a weightless grace.
Vaeril moved his hands in a precise, controlled motion, weaving the concealment spell around them. A soft shimmer enveloped the group, bending light and shadow to obscure their presence.
Eliane checked the hallway, confirming the path was clear. She gave a slight nod.
They moved in sync, Sira guiding the levitation field while Vaeril ensured it stayed balanced. Eliane kept close, one hand lightly resting on Justin’s shoulder, more to reassure herself than out of necessity. The shimmer warped the air around them, bending light, muffling sound.
When they slipped out the back door, a small, enclosed cart was already waiting—just as Eliane had arranged. Covered with thick, dark cloth to obscure any view from outside, it was pulled by a sturdy draft horse.
Eliane approached the driver first, keeping his attention with a few quiet words about the route and the pace they needed to maintain. The driver, a trusted contact who knew nothing beyond his task, gave a curt nod, focused on her instructions.
While the driver remained engaged, the dragons moved in near silence, settling Justin into the cart. Once Vaeril finished securing the interior wards, he gave a faint, deliberate tap on the side of the cart—the signal they had agreed upon. Eliane, hearing the soft knock, climbed inside and pulled the cloth door closed behind her.
“Move slowly. Stick to the back routes,” she instructed through the small window to the driver.
The driver flicked the reins, and the cart eased forward, taking the quieter paths through the city. To him, it seemed like Eliane was simply traveling alone in the covered cart. Inside, Vaeril kept the concealment spell active, while Sira maintained the levitation to minimize strain on Justin’s weakened body.
After about fifteen minutes, when they reached a secluded alley where the streets were entirely empty, Eliane leaned toward the small window behind the driver’s seat and tapped it lightly.
“You can leave the cart here,” she said quietly, offering a brief, reassuring smile. “You did well. I’ll take it from here.”
The driver gave a brief nod and climbed down, unhitching the reins before stepping away. Eliane waited until he disappeared into the narrow side path, then slipped out of the cart and moved to the driver’s seat, adjusting her cloak as she took the reins.
With the driver gone, she drove the cart through the winding alleys, keeping her pace measured and unhurried. Now alone, they could take more liberties with speed and avoid riskier crossings.
After another cautious fifteen minutes, they arrived at the discreet safe house on the outskirts—a quiet place, just outside the city walls, surrounded by thickets and low stone walls. Eliane pulled the cart to a stop in the sheltered area behind the house.
She opened the door as Vaeril eased the concealment spell, the shimmering distortion fading. Together, they guided Justin’s weightless form inside. Sira settled him on the bed while Eliane adjusted the pillow, her hands steady despite the tension in her shoulders.
“Still stable. Pulse remains weak, but steady.” Sira leaned in to check more closely.
Vaeril moved to the doorway, tracing protective runes around the frame, reinforcing the wards that would keep them hidden. Eliane stayed close to Justin, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
“We did it,” she whispered, not sure if she believed it herself.
Sira did not reply, already kneeling beside Justin, hands hovering just above his chest, faint light tracing the edges of the raw, unhealed wounds.
Eliane forced herself to breathe more slowly, a hint of relief softening her voice. “I’ll deal with the fallout. The hospice will discover he’s gone by morning.”
Vaeril stayed by the doorway, his attention fixed on the runes. “That’s your matter to resolve.”
She gave a grim smile. “That’s the easy part. They’ll be relieved.”
The next morning, Eliane took control of the story before the rumors could spread.
Sir Justin de Laurant died of his injuries during the night.
The court didn’t question it. They’d expected as much. The official record marked him as a casualty, the curse too much for his body to endure. As precaution, the body was burned at dawn—the only way to ensure the curse wouldn’t linger.
She spun the tale with precision—citing his final struggle, his wish to have Tomas freed from duty. She summoned the boy, putting on a stoic face while delivering the news.
“He would want you to live well,” she’d said, placing the pouch of coins in Tomas’s hands. “His last request was to make sure you could choose your own path.”
Tomas had been too stunned to protest, his hands shaking as he took the money. Eliane couldn’t stay to watch him cry. She gave his shoulder a firm squeeze before making her way to the corridor, pausing just long enough to collect herself.
Once she was sure her voice wouldn’t break, she returned and pulled Tomas aside, voice low but firm. “There’s one more thing,” she said, keeping her tone brisk. “I’ve arranged a place for you to stay for a while. Away from the court. You’ll be safe there.”
Tomas looked up, eyes still red, clutching the pouch tightly. “Why—”
“Because it’s what he would have wanted,” she interrupted, not giving him a chance to question it. “Pack your things. Someone will take you there before nightfall.”
He didn’t argue, just nodded numbly. Eliane kept her expression calm, even when the guilt knotted tighter in her chest.
After he was gone, she set out to finish what she’d started. The coins were just the surface—enough to give Tomas a sense of stability, but hardly all that Justin had left behind. Eliane had spent half the night writing letters, twisting the paperwork, funneling the rest of Justin’s savings through quiet channels to ensure it would reach Tomas without raising suspicion.
She had to make it look simple—a dying knight’s wish for his squire. No one questioned it. Few cared enough to notice.
Justin would never know. Tomas wouldn’t understand yet, but when the time came, she would explain. For now, it was enough to make sure Justin’s finances were secure—enough to ensure Tomas would have the means to take care of him when it mattered. Eliane wasn’t about to let them take even that away from him.
By evening, she had arranged for a quiet escort to the safe house, instructing Tomas to listen to the ones guiding him—and to trust them, no matter how strange it seemed.
“Just… follow what they say,” she told him, forcing a smile. “And take care of yourself. That’s all you need to do.”
Tomas gave a hesitant nod, and Eliane didn’t look back as he was led away. It was better that way. Better not to see the confusion in his eyes—or the hope that maybe, somehow, his lord wasn’t really gone.
By the next morning, the news had settled. Sir Justin de Laurant was gone, and the court moved on as if he’d never existed.
She opened her eyes, the letter still pressed to her chest. The flame had burned low, shadows stretching longer against the walls.
Time had left her with nothing but unanswered thoughts—worries she couldn’t share with anyone. In the silence, they grew roots, winding deeper with every day he was gone.
In his absence, the southern front had only grown weaker—not that anyone would admit it. To the court, Justin’s fall from grace had been quietly accepted, his fate a forgotten whisper. They didn’t see what was missing. But Eliane did. She knew the kingdom needed men like him—the kind who didn’t bend, even when they broke.
Now—with the letter still in her hand—she could finally breathe.
Justin was healing.
And despite everything—the guilt for making choices on his behalf, for keeping him alive when he might have chosen otherwise—she didn’t regret it. Knowing he had made it this far, that he was reclaiming himself, was worth every risk and every lie.
A knock at her door pulled her back to the present. One of her attendants appeared at the door, looking hesitant. “Lady Eliane, the council is waiting.”
She took a slow breath, folding the letter carefully before tucking it into the hidden drawer of her desk. “I’ll be right there.”
As she closed the drawer, she allowed herself a brief, private smile.
The world could think him gone. Let them.
She would guard this truth like a precious flame, keeping it safe and hidden, even if it meant holding it alone until her last breath.
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The Guest