Lenora tied her worn cloak at the neck and glanced toward the hearth, where her father sat half-dozing beside the dying fire. His hands trembled when he reached for his cup, and the sight made her chest ache.
"Alright, Da," she said softly, brushing the curls from her brow. "I'm off for a bit. I'll pass by the tanner's — he still owes me a few coins for that bundle of marigold I brought last week. Don't you worry, I'll not be long."
She nodded toward the small table, where a crust of bread and a bowl of broth waited. "Your food's there, still warm. Eat while you can, before it cools, aye?"
Her father gave a faint hum of acknowledgment, and Lenora smiled — weary but gentle. Then she lifted her basket, the handle smooth from years of use, and stepped out into the morning air. The woods called softly beyond the fields, and though her errands were small and endless, the path between trees always felt like freedom.
Lenora stepped out of their small wooden cottage, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft creak. The air was cool and smelled faintly of rain, the kind that had yet to fall. She hummed a tune her mother used to sing, something wordless and bright, as her boots scuffed the dirt road.
The path stretched long and thin before her, winding between hedges and fields. She nudged a loose stick with the toe of her boot, sending it skittering along the ruts in the road, and laughed quietly to herself. The morning was still — save for a crow calling from the trees — and it felt good to be out in it.
After a few minutes' walk, the roofs of the village came into view. Smoke curled lazily from the tavern chimney, carrying the scent of ale and woodsmoke. She pushed open the door, the hinges groaning in complaint.
"Aye, Tanner," she called, spotting the broad man behind the counter. "Got my payment, have you? You still owe me for that last bundle."
She lifted her basket to show him the fresh cuttings within. "And I've more herbs here too, if you've coin enough to spare."
The tavern keeper wiped his hands on a stained apron and gave her a crooked grin. "Well now, Lenora, I've got your payment—just not all of it." He scratched at his beard, eyes darting to the few early drinkers hunched over their cups. "You know how mornings are. Haven't had but three customers yet. You can swing by later, eh? Don't go blamin' me for an empty till before noon."
He reached beneath the counter, produced a few copper coins, and set them down with a clink. "Take that for now. The rest once I've got it. Fair?"
Lenora arched a brow but took the coins anyway, feeling their small weight in her palm. It wasn't much, but it would keep her and her father fed another day.
Tanner grumbled as he bent over the small iron safe behind the counter, the old hinges whining in protest. His thick fingers fumbled through a handful of coins, each one seeming to pain him as he counted.
"And them tax collectors'll be rollin' through before long," he muttered, half to himself, half to the dust in the air. "Mark my words, they'll take what little a man's got left. King and queen, sittin' in their fine halls with gold plates and velvet gowns, and here we are, breakin' our backs just to fill a bowl."
He snorted, shaking his head as he dug deeper into the coffer. "Raise the taxes again, they did—like we've coin growin' in our gardens. It's madness, that's what it is. Folk can't breathe for the weight of it."
The last few words came out in a low growl as he fished out two more coppers and dropped them into Lenora's waiting hand. "There. That's all I can spare till evening, girl. If the collectors haven't stripped me bare by then, I'll make good on the rest."
Lenora gave a small nod, her expression unreadable. She'd heard this sort of talk more and more lately—the frustration, the quiet fear beneath it. And though she didn't say it aloud, she couldn't help but wonder if the royal halls were as bright and fair as the songs claimed.
Did you hear that, old man speakin' foul of the royals?" one guard muttered to his companion, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.
The other guard turned sharply toward the counter. "Old man," he barked, "you just say somethin' about the king and queen? You know what happens to folk who do, don't you?"
Tanner froze, the color draining from his weathered face. "I—I meant no harm," he stammered. "Just talk, is all. Hard times make a man foolish with his tongue."
"Foolish or not," the first guard sneered, stepping closer, "the law's the law. You speak ill of the crown, you pay for it." His gaze flicked toward Lenora. "And you, girl—were you part of this? You agree with the old man's words?"
Lenora's heart thudded against her ribs. She shook her head quickly, though her eyes betrayed a spark of anger. "No, ser. I only came for what's owed to me, not for trouble."
The guards exchanged a glance, then one of them chuckled darkly. "All right, Tanner. You can buy your silence if you've coin enough. Pay for your tongue, or we'll drag you to the square and let the magistrate decide what it's worth."
Tanner cursed under his breath, fumbling for his purse. The guards waited like vultures.
Lenora stepped back toward the door, shame and fury rising in her throat. She knew Tanner spoke truth—taxes had crushed the village—but truth had no place in a world ruled by fear.
She slipped outside as the argument grew louder behind her, the heavy door thudding shut. The morning light hit her face like a slap, cold and bright. Somewhere beyond the fields, the woods waited, quiet and unjudging. She turned toward them, basket in hand, heart still pounding.
"Well," Lenora murmured to herself, tightening her grip on the basket, "I should pass by the market for some bread, maybe a bit of cheese… then to the woods for herbs after."
She set off down the narrow lane, her boots crunching over pebbles and old straw. The village was waking fast now — smoke curling from chimneys, roosters calling, doors creaking open one by one. By the time she reached the market square, it was already thick with noise and color.
Merchants called out prices over one another, their voices mingling with the bleating of penned goats and the chatter of wives bartering for fish. The smell of baked bread mixed with the tang of tanned leather and horse sweat. Lenora moved through it all with practiced ease, eyes scanning the stalls for something she could afford.
She paused at a baker's cart, counting the few coins Tanner had managed to give her. Not much, but enough for a small loaf. Her stomach growled softly.
Still, her thoughts kept drifting back to the woods—the quiet she found there, the way sunlight filtered through the leaves. After the noise and heat of the village, the forest always felt like a breath drawn clean and deep.
"Aye, girl! What'll it be today?"
The baker called out over the clamor of the morning crowd, his grin wide and his teeth yellowed as old parchment. His apron was dusted white with flour, his hair wild beneath a sweat-stained cap.
Lenora smiled faintly, stepping closer to his stall. "Just my usual," she said. "A loaf of bread—and a bit of cheese, if it's still good."
The man let out a booming laugh that startled a pair of pigeons nearby. "Still good? Hah! You wound me, lass. I've got the finest cheese in all the market!"
His wife, round and rosy-cheeked, chuckled beside him as she wrapped the bread. "Don't listen to him, dear. It's not the finest, but it'll fill your belly well enough."
Lenora laughed softly, handing over her few coins. She tucked the bread and cheese into her basket and turned to leave—
—when the sudden blare of trumpets cut through the square.
"All bow before His Majesty, the King of Avelonne!" cried the royal announcer, his voice sharp as a blade.
The market froze. Merchants dropped to their knees; mothers pulled their children down beside them. Lenora's heart lurched as she ducked her head, clutching her basket tight against her chest. Dust swirled around her boots as the royal procession came into view.
Golden banners fluttered. Hooves clattered against the cobblestones. The king's carriage rolled through the crowd—a great polished thing of black wood and gilt, drawn by white horses with jeweled harnesses.
Then came the sound no one dared meet—the crack of a whip.
"You dare disobey the king?" barked a guard, his voice thick with contempt. Another crack, another kick—and a poor man, too slow to kneel, fell into the mud with a cry.
Lenora's stomach twisted. Around her, the people kept their heads down, trembling, silent. But she couldn't help it—something inside her made her lift her gaze, just a little.
Through the shimmer of dust and sunlight, she saw the carriage window—and there, seated beside the king, was a young woman.
A princess.
Her gown was pale blue, her hair catching the light like woven gold. But what struck Lenora wasn't her beauty—it was the expression she wore. Displeasure, quiet and restrained, as her eyes lingered on the man being beaten.
She hated it, Lenora realized. She hated the cruelty.
And in that small, stolen moment, the princess's gaze shifted—straight to her.
Lenora's breath caught. She ducked her head so fast her braid swung over her shoulder. Saints above… she saw me. She saw me looking.
Her pulse thudded in her throat. Please, don't have me punished… please.
The procession rolled on, the clatter of hooves fading slowly down the road. But Lenora remained kneeling long after the others had risen, her hands trembling, her mind caught on the image of the princess's eyes—eyes that, for a single heartbeat, had seemed full of pity.
Eleanor's POV
My head is full of thoughts as the carriage rattles toward the market. The horses' hooves strike the stones in a steady rhythm, but it only makes my mind wander faster.
I don't even know why Father insists I come to these things. He says it's good for the people to see their princess, but I know what he truly means — it's good for them to see him. To remind them who rules them.
He sits across from me, all velvet and gold, chin high, eyes distant. Mother calls it majesty. I call it vanity.
I turn my gaze to the window, letting the cool air brush my face. The market sprawls ahead — bright, noisy, alive. Merchants shout over one another, children weave through the crowd like quicksilver, and the smell of fresh bread drifts through the air. For a heartbeat, I almost forget who I am.
I smile faintly as I watch two children chase each other between the stalls, laughing freely — laughter that sounds like something I've been missing all my life.
Beyond the rooftops, I glimpse the faraway woods — dark and green, whispering at the horizon. My woods. The only place that ever feels real.
I'll go there this evening, I decide. When the sun dips low and the guards grow lazy.
Then, the sharp blast of trumpets tears through my thoughts.
"All bow before His Majesty, the King of Avelonne!" cries the herald.
The market falls into chaos. Merchants drop to their knees, mothers pull their children down beside them. Fear spreads like smoke.
Father's expression shifts — satisfaction curling his lips. He drinks in their obedience like wine. I feel my stomach twist. He enjoys this.
A man hesitates — too slow to kneel.
"You dare disobey the king?" a guard bellows. The whip cracks through the air, once, twice. The man cries out, crumpling into the dust.
I flinch. The sound echoes inside me, sharp and hollow. I glance at Father, but his eyes gleam with pride, not shame.
Then, through the dust and sunlight, I see her.
A girl at the edge of the crowd, clutching a small basket, her head bent low — until it isn't. For a breath, her eyes lift, meeting mine.
Copper hair catching the light, face freckled, fierce yet soft. Something wild in her gaze.
She's beautiful, I think, startled by the warmth that rushes through me.
Then she drops her head, vanishing among the others.
The carriage lurches forward again, but I keep staring at the empty space where she'd been.
And though the market fades behind us, that single look stays with me — the eyes of a girl who dared to lift her head when no one else would.
Return to the Palace
The royal carriage rattled back through the gates of Avelonne Castle as the sun climbed higher, its light flashing against the marble towers. The guards saluted. The trumpets sounded again — softer this time, more ceremonial than threatening.
Eleanor sat silent, her mind far from the road. The crowd's faces still swam behind her eyes — the fear, the silence, the man's cry, and above all, the girl.
"Did you see their faces?" the king said, his voice rich with amusement. "A single look from me and they were down on their knees."
Eleanor didn't answer.
He noticed. "You'll understand one day, daughter. A kingdom stands on respect — and respect begins with fear."
She turned to the window again, swallowing her words. If that's what a kingdom stands on, she thought, then it stands on sand.
---
The Queen's Chambers
By the time they reached the upper halls, Queen Isolde was waiting — graceful as ever, her silver hair braided with pearls, her smile polished to perfection.
"My dear," she cooed, sweeping forward to kiss Eleanor's cheek, "how splendid you looked beside your father! The people adore you, I could tell."
"They were too busy kneeling to look," Eleanor muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, Mother."
The queen studied her for a moment, then waved it away with a soft laugh. "You must learn to speak more sweetly, Eleanor. A sharp tongue suits no princess. Oh — and your posture! Heavens, straighten up. You'll ruin your spine before you're twenty."
Eleanor obeyed, though her smile was thin.
---
The Dressing Room
Her maids fluttered around her like sparrows, tugging at laces and combing through her hair.
"Careful, Milla," Eleanor said as one of them nearly yanked a strand free.
"Sorry, Your Highness! These knots could trap a squirrel."
The youngest maid, Pippa, snorted and dropped her brush in surprise, then scrambled to pick it up. The older one — stern-faced Greta — gave her a glare sharp enough to slice bread.
Eleanor bit her lip to keep from laughing. "It's fine, Greta. Let her breathe."
Milla grinned in relief. "Your hair's softer than it looks, Princess. What do you do to it?"
"Mostly ignore it," Eleanor said dryly, and that earned a ripple of giggles.
When they were done, they stood back to admire their work. Eleanor looked in the mirror — silk gown, jeweled hair, every bit the royal ideal. Yet the reflection felt like someone else entirely.
---
The Garden Balcony
Later, she slipped away to the balcony overlooking the gardens. Below, the courtiers strolled and gossiped like painted dolls. The air smelled of roses and heat.
She leaned on the railing, watching a pair of sparrows dart through the ivy. Even they're freer than I am, she thought.
"Princess?" came a voice behind her.
It was Pippa again, clutching a tray of fresh pastries. "Cook said to bring these. Said you haven't eaten."
Eleanor smiled faintly. "Thank you, Pippa. You're the only one around here who doesn't treat me like glass."
Pippa blushed and mumbled something about being scolded for crumbs on royal gowns before darting off again.
Eleanor took a bite of pastry and looked to the horizon — toward the dark line of trees in the distance. Evening wasn't far now.
---
The Dining Hall
Dinner was a spectacle, as always. Nobles draped in brocade, laughter that didn't reach their eyes, Father's booming voice filling the space.
Eleanor sat beside her mother, listening to talk of alliances and taxes, wars and wealth. She stabbed a piece of roast with her fork and whispered under her breath, "All this power, and still no one's happy."
Her mother hushed her with a pointed look, but the corners of Eleanor's mouth lifted.
A jester tumbled into the hall, performing tricks for the king — dropping his juggling balls twice and earning gales of forced laughter. When he bowed, his hat slipped off, and a slice of pie fell out.
Eleanor nearly choked trying to hold back a laugh. The king frowned, but her mother covered her mouth to hide a smile.
---
Later — Her Room
When the court finally dispersed, Eleanor returned to her chambers. The evening light streamed through her tall windows, painting the marble floor in gold.
She sat on the edge of her bed, unlacing her gown, her mind still restless.
The memory of that girl in the market tugged at her again — the flash of red hair, the fearless eyes, the way she'd dared to look up.
Eleanor moved to the window, watching the sunset burn over the hills. The woods waited beyond them, shadowed and still.
Evening, she thought. Soon.
She smiled to herself, for the first time all day.