Chapter sixteen
The palace no longer felt like a home.
It felt like a cage—ornate, gilded, meticulously maintained, and impossible to escape without consequence.
The princess felt it the moment she stepped beyond the threshold of her chambers. The corridor stretched before her, long and gleaming, its marble floors reflecting the lantern light above. Everything looked the same as it always had—polished stone, carved pillars, silk-draped archways—but the atmosphere had shifted. The air itself seemed to watch her.
Guards stood at attention outside her door.
Not one. Not two at a distance. Four.
They straightened when they saw her, expressions unreadable, hands clasped behind their backs. As she moved, they moved. As she slowed, they adjusted. Their presence pressed in on her from all sides, close enough that she could hear the subtle rhythm of their breathing.
She was never alone anymore.
Once, the guards had been ceremonial—symbols of tradition, of protection, of the unbroken lineage of the crown. They had stood at corners, at entrances, at distances that allowed the illusion of freedom.
Now, they followed her.
Openly.
The reason was simple, though no one dared to speak it aloud.
She had left the palace.
Not drifted into the gardens. Not lingered in forgotten corridors. She had crossed the gates and vanished beyond the walls—successfully, deliberately, and without permission. When she returned, unharmed and silent, the king's relief had been immediate and overwhelming. But it had lasted only a moment.
Then came the questions.
Where did you go?
Why did you leave?
Who helped you?
He had asked calmly at first, as a father. Then again, more firmly, as a king. Advisors had been present the third time. Guards the fourth.
She had answered none of them.
Silence unsettled the palace more than rebellion ever could. It left too much room for imagination, for fear, for doubt. The king no longer knew whether his daughter was reckless—or strategic. Loyal—or hiding something that could fracture the throne itself.
Until he knew the truth, he trusted nothing.
So he watched her.
Not directly—he was too cautious for that—but through constant presence. Through tightened routines. Through guards instructed to observe, not protect. Orders delivered as concern. Surveillance disguised as care.
She felt it everywhere.
As she walked the corridor, servants bowed deeply, their eyes lowered, their movements precise. Whispers followed her steps, hushed but persistent. Everyone knew something had happened. No one knew what. And in the palace, ignorance bred speculation faster than truth ever could.
She kept her face composed, her posture relaxed. She did not rush. She did not hesitate. Fear would have been noted. Defiance would have been punished.
Inside, her thoughts were sharp and restless.
I will not run again, she told herself.
Not beyond the walls. Not into open land where pursuit was inevitable and questions multiplied. That path had been taken once, and it had changed everything. This time, she would not flee the palace.
She would outmaneuver it.
Because she needed the chamber.
The restricted family chamber was not merely a vault. It was a declaration—of lineage, of control, of power passed down through blood and guarded through secrecy. Even she, a princess by birth and by right, was barred from it unless the reason was critical, undeniable, and approved by authority greater than her own.
Inside it lay what she needed.
Treasures accumulated across generations. Jewels untouched by time. Artifacts whose worth extended far beyond gold—objects steeped in history, ritual, and influence. Resources meant for inheritance, for alliances, for emergencies that threatened the realm itself.
But desperation had found her before permission ever would.
The Witcher's voice echoed in her memory, low and deliberate, every word precise.
The Guardian does not answer empty hands.
The incantation requires offering.
Blood alone is not enough.
The ritual demanded sacrifice—real, tangible, costly. Materials rare enough to prove intent. Payment worthy of summoning something ancient enough to bend fate.
Without the offerings, the incantation would fail.
Without the incantation, the Guardian would not appear.
And without the Guardian, everything she had risked—everything she continued to risk—would collapse into nothing.
She reached the inner corridor and sat on a marble bench carved with symbols older than the kingdom itself. To the guards, she appeared weary. Her shoulders dipped slightly. Her gaze softened, unfocused, as though the weight of scrutiny had finally taken its toll.
Inside, her mind calculated relentlessly.
They will not leave me, she realized. So I must make them believe they never did.
Guards were trained to notice disruption—sudden movement, deviation, fear. They reacted to chaos and urgency. But they trusted authority. They trusted routine. They trusted hierarchy when it spoke calmly, confidently, without spectacle.
That would be her opening.
She rose slowly and turned toward the guards flanking her.
"I need to inspect the family wing," she said evenly.
The response was immediate.
"That area is restricted, Your Highness," one guard replied, respectful but firm. His hand shifted slightly on the hilt of his weapon—not a threat, but readiness.
"I know," she said calmly. "That's why I'm going."
The guards exchanged glances—brief, sharp, uncertain. Refusing her outright would require authority they did not possess. Questioning her too deeply risked appearing insubordinate.
"There has been a discrepancy," she continued, lowering her voice just enough to suggest confidentiality. "Something connected to my personal allocation. A matter brought to my attention privately. It requires immediate review."
The word immediate carried weight.
"I was advised not to escalate it," she added. "And not to draw unnecessary attention."
Silence followed.
Protocol warred with hierarchy. Finally, one of the guards nodded.
"We will escort you."
"Yes," she replied smoothly. "To the west corridor first."
They moved.
She adjusted her pace deliberately—steady, unremarkable, predictable. She spoke little, allowing routine to settle. The palace responded as it always did, unfolding its corridors and arches without resistance.
Then disruption came.
A servant hurried past, arms full of folded fabrics. One bundle slipped, then another, spilling across the floor in a cascade of color. The sudden chaos drew instinctive attention. The guards stepped forward at once, issuing commands, scanning for threat.
The princess did not run.
She stepped sideways—into a narrow passage concealed behind carved stone, a corridor built long before vigilance had names. Darkness swallowed her instantly.
She pressed herself against the wall, breath controlled, heart pounding. Voices rose behind her—confusion, orders—but alarm had not yet formed. She moved swiftly, silently, guided by memory and instinct.
The hidden corridor twisted through forgotten veins of the palace. The air was cool, stale, untouched by lantern light. Her fingers brushed stone as she navigated turns by feel alone, counting steps, recalling every detail she had studied in quiet observation.
At last, the corridor opened.
She emerged before the chamber doors.
The restricted family chamber loomed—tall, sealed, heavy with authority. She paused only once, steadying herself, then reached forward. Her hands moved with practiced precision.
The lock yielded.
The door opened.
Warm light spilled out, illuminating gold, gemstones, relics steeped in history. The scent of polished metal and cedarwood filled the air. Relief surged through her—sharp, intoxicating, fleeting.
She stepped inside.
And stopped.
Someone else was already there.
Young. Poised. Familiar.
The mistress' daughter.
Shock sliced through her triumph, disbelief tightening her chest. Her voice emerged low and sharp, stripped of caution.
"What are you doing here?"