Chapter Thirteen
I did not walk out of the palace.
I hid.
I had watched the delivery carts for weeks from my window in the service wing. I knew which ones carried grain and dried goods, which rattled loudly enough to drown small sounds, which had reinforced wheel frames meant to bear extra weight on rough roads. That knowledge saved me.
The night I left, I wore nothing that belonged to me. No silk, no crest, no colors anyone would recognize. I dressed in rough, plain clothing meant for servants — loose at the shoulders, dull, forgettable. I bound my hair tightly, wrapped cloth across my mouth and nose, and pulled a hood low over my face. If anyone looked twice, I would already be lost.
Since the bodyguard's death, the palace had learned to listen. Guards moved slower, their eyes sharper. Servants whispered, trying not to make mistakes. Every corridor felt like it was holding its breath, every torch burned brighter, every shadow watching.
I waited near the service wing as the carts were being loaded. The drivers argued softly, distracted, unaware of me crouched beside the largest wagon. The air smelled of oil and dust, and my palms were slick as I traced the wheels, testing the space beneath the axles.
I did not climb in. I slipped beneath it.
The space between the wheel and frame was barely wide enough to hold me, but I forced myself flat, knees pressed to my chest, my back tight against the iron brace that connected axle to frame. Cold metal pressed into my ribs and legs. I tucked my head down, pulled my hood tighter, and waited.
A boot stepped close. I froze. The hem of a guard's cloak brushed past the wheel. He leaned down briefly, checking the axle out of habit.
"Looks fine," he muttered.
The wagon lurched.
Every bump threatened to tear me free. Wood scraped my shoulder and arm. Pain flared sharply along my ribs and thighs. My teeth clenched, and I forced my breath shallow, careful, silent. My warmth pulsed instinctively, but I pressed it down. No flares, no sound, no attention.
The wheels turned. Stones rattled. Dirt sprayed my face. The palace walls fell away behind me, inch by inch.
When the wagon slowed near the market district, I waited until the driver climbed down and moved away. Inch by inch, I loosened my grip and rolled carefully into an alley. Pain shot through my body as I hit the ground, bruised and stiff, but the palace was gone.
I had escaped.
The city swallowed me immediately.
Lanterns flickered unevenly. Voices overlapped. Smoke and damp earth filled my lungs. This was not order. This was chaos. And I was utterly alone within it.
I moved deeper into the streets, hood low, face hidden. Everyone knew the princess. One uncovered glance, one careless gesture, could ruin everything.
I did not know where to go. The guardian had never left me instructions, never told me how to find him. The warmth beneath my skin pulsed faintly, uncertain, as confused as I was.
Then I remembered. The witch.
People whispered about her — that she could see patterns in chaos, truths where others saw nothing. If anyone could identify the guardian or tell me how to reach him, it would be her.
But I could not go alone.
I needed someone ordinary. Someone she would not measure.
That was when I saw her.
She leaned against a wall under a lantern, paint heavy on her eyes, lips dark. Her posture relaxed, her gaze sharp. A prostitute.
"I need directions," I said quietly.
She smiled, without warmth. "Directions cost."
I removed the bracelet from my wrist and pressed it into her palm. Gold, delicate, unmistakably valuable.
Her eyes widened. "This is royal work."
"It was my mother's," I said quickly. "She had connections."
She weighed it, then shrugged. "Fair enough."
She told me where the witch lived, tucked beyond the third market, past the burned chapel. I did not hesitate.
"Come with me," I said.
She frowned. "Why?"
"I need help speaking," I said softly. "If I go alone, she'll see too much."
Silence stretched.
I removed the second bracelet and pressed it into her hand. "Please."
She sighed. "Fine. But we disguise."
We did.
The witch's home smelled of herbs, smoke, and something older than the city itself. The moment I entered, I felt exposed. Her eyes were sharp, interrogative.
Why do you seek him?
Who told you of him?
What do you want from such a being?
I lied carefully.
"My grandmother instructed me," I said. "She told me how he appears. She said when the signs come, I must look."
When I described him — the quiet arrival, the way the air bent around him, the weight he carried — the witch's expression changed.
"That one," she murmured, "is not ordinary."
Then she named the price.
Gold and silver enough to feed a district.
Jewels worn by those of influence.
Rare oils and resins imported at great cost.
Gold set aside for silence.
All things money could buy.
All things I no longer had.
I stepped back into the street, hood low, the cold wind biting my face. The truth pressed on me like iron.
I had escaped the palace.
But the palace was the only place rich enough to pay this price.
If I returned, my father would ask questions. Guards would watch me. Another escape might be impossible.
If I stayed away, I would have to work for months among commoners to gather the wealth — six, seven months. By then, the mistress would have given birth. Everything would change.
I pulled my hood tighter as the city swallowed me.
Escaping once had been survival.
Returning would be defiance.
Escaping Again?
That would require something far more dangerous than power.
It would require choice.