Chapter Fourteen
I had made my choice. I could not linger in the city, pretending to be a commoner, scraping by with menial work for months. By the time I had enough money to meet the witch's demands, it would be too late. The child would already be born, the queen's plans advanced, and my chance to confront the guardian, to gain control of the power within me, would have passed. No — I had decided. I would return to the palace, gather what I needed, and make the sacrifices.
But the decision did not make the plan any less dangerous. Every step would be a risk, every moment a test. I spent the day watching the palace from a safe distance, hiding behind crumbling walls, abandoned shops, and dark alleys. I memorized the guards' patterns, their shifts, the momentary lapses in attention that could be exploited. The city around me seemed alive with whispers and shadows, each footstep, each rustle of cloth potentially betraying me.
That night, I curled up beneath the cold stone of a deserted archway, my cloak drawn tight, hood pulled low, scarf over my face. The wind cut through the thin fabric, biting at my skin, but I could not afford warmth. I could not afford a roof. I had to stay hidden, invisible. Hunger twisted in my stomach, gnawing relentlessly, but I reminded myself that patience and careful planning would feed me better than any stolen bread. The warmth beneath my skin pulsed faintly, not fierce yet, a companion whispering, reminding me that I was alive, that I could still control the shadows of my own body.
I scavenged for food the next day, visiting a small, smoky restaurant on the edge of the city. I washed dishes, scrubbed pots, dried glasses — small tasks, but they earned me enough coins to quell the sharpest pangs of hunger. Each coin I earned felt heavy in my hand, small but precious, a reminder that the world outside the palace demanded labor, cunning, and patience. I kept my hood low, scarf tight, cloak pressed to my body. The city might be full of strangers, but eyes were everywhere, and the princess, even disguised, could be recognized.
By nightfall, I moved toward the delivery wagons stationed on the outskirts of the palace. I crouched in the shadows, observing, counting each step of the guards, noting the unguarded moments, the small gaps in their vigilance. The wagons were loaded, canvas doors lifted, and crates arranged. My pulse raced as I calculated the exact moment to slip inside.
I pressed myself against the side of the wagon, sliding beneath the canvas. The sacks of grain, crates of linen, and dried vegetables became my refuge. My body flattened, muscles tense, heart pounding in sync with the rattling wheels. The smell of the goods was strong, earthy, and suffocating, but it was a small price for the chance at freedom, for the treasures I needed. I could feel the warmth beneath my skin stir faintly, alert, almost approving of my careful stillness.
The wagon jolted and rattled as it moved through the streets. Each bump made me flinch, each creak of wood a potential threat. I could barely breathe, pressing my body closer to the crates. My thoughts darted to the palace: guards shifting in the dark, torches casting long shadows across the stone walls, the consequences of being caught. I forced my mind to focus, to remain perfectly still, letting the shadows carry me closer to my goal.
Time stretched unbearably. The wagon slowed as we neared the palace gates. My chest tightened, every nerve alert. The guards were vigilant, their eyes sharp, batons tapping against the gateposts. I pressed my back into the crates, holding my breath, trying to blend into the shadows.
Then the inspection began.
"Open the canvas," a gruff voice ordered. "Check the goods."
My heart leapt. I had rehearsed every movement, every escape, but now the moment of truth had come. Fingers probed the crates, sacks were shaken, wood tapped sharply. My back pressed against the grain, body flattened, silent. The canvas flapped in the night air.
A hand suddenly grabbed my arm.
"Who is there? Show yourself!" the voice demanded.
I remained silent, holding my breath.
The guards exchanged glances, puzzled and suspicious. They yanked me out of the wagon. I tried to struggle, but their grip was firm, inescapable.
"Answer me!" one barked.
I stayed silent. My face was hidden beneath the veil and hood.
"Remove the veil! We must see your face!" another demanded.
I refused.
They pulled harder, the canvas snapping violently. The driver shouted, struggling to defend himself.
"I swear, I didn't know—" he began.
"You brought someone inside! You're a spy!" one guard accused.
"I—No! I was only delivering goods!" he protested, hands raised.
The guards dragged him aside, shouting, threatening to punish him. My chest tightened, my stomach twisted. The warmth beneath my skin pulsed anxiously, demanding escape, urging me to flee, but there was nowhere to go. I was trapped, exposed.
Then it happened — one guard yanked the veil from my face.
Time froze.
Recognition struck instantly. Their eyes widened, disbelief and shock evident. The shadows stiffened around us.
"She is—" one whispered.
"The princess!" another shouted.
The driver gaped, mouth opening and closing, unable to speak. The guards scrambled, shouting, pointing, the courtyard filled with sudden chaos. Every feature, every movement, every subtle sign of royalty was exposed.
Voices rose, sharp and urgent, echoing across the palace yard:
"We… we have found the princess!