Chapter 3
three
. . .
Lirien
Freedom tastes like honey wine and wood smoke. It feels like rough-spun cloth against my skin instead of silk. It sounds like laughter without protocol, music without ceremony. I can't stop smiling as I move through the crowded streets, my hood pulled low enough to shadow my face but not so low that I can't drink in every detail of this vibrant, messy, glorious world I've been denied for twenty-three years.
My heart pounds with the thrill of my escape, still amazed I managed to slip past the guards. Years of eavesdropping on palace staff, months of planning, weeks of gathering courage—all leading to this moment of perfect, stolen liberty.
The night market sprawls before me, lanterns strung between stalls casting golden light over vendors selling everything from roasted meats to intricate jewelry. No one bows as I pass. No one watches their words or adjusts their posture. I am gloriously, magnificently invisible.
I pause at a stall selling fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, the scent making my mouth water. The palace kitchens could produce any delicacy I requested, but somehow I know this simple street food will taste better than any royal feast.
"How much?" I ask, then blush when I realize I have no idea what constitutes a fair price. Palace tutors taught me economic theory, not practical commerce.
The vendor—a woman with laugh lines etched deep around her eyes—looks me up and down. "Two copper for you, love. You look like you could use something sweet."
I fumble with the small pouch of coins I brought, careful not to reveal how much it contains. My fingers close around what I hope is the right amount, and I place it in her weathered palm.
She counts it quickly, then hands me back a piece. "That's too much."
"Keep it," I say, surprising myself with my boldness. "The smell alone is worth it."
Her smile shifts from professional to genuine. "First time in the city?"
"Is it that obvious?"
She laughs, a rich, uninhibited sound I immediately envy. "You've got that look—like everything's new. Country girl?"
"Something like that." I accept the paper-wrapped dough and take a bite. The crisp exterior gives way to soft, warm insides, the sweetness exploding on my tongue. I can't help the small moan of pleasure that escapes me.
"Good, ain't it?" She winks. "Be careful out there. City folk can spot newcomers, and not all are as honest as me."
I nod my thanks and continue through the market, licking sugar from my fingers in a way that would horrify my etiquette instructors. Each step takes me further from the palace, from duty, from the weight of a future not of my choosing.
A group of street performers has drawn a crowd up ahead. I join the circle of onlookers, delighting in the acrobats who flip and tumble with impossible grace. When they pass a hat for coins, I contribute without hesitation, rewarded with a flourishing bow that makes me giggle.
It's strange how quickly I'm adapting to anonymity. All my life I've been the center of attention—Princess Lirien Vellara, heir to the throne, subject of constant scrutiny. Now I'm just another face in the crowd, and the freedom is intoxicating.
I continue my exploration, passing through quieter streets where couples walk arm in arm, then noisier ones where taverns spill light and music onto the cobblestones. The guards at the gates warned me against this area, but curiosity pulls me forward.
One establishment seems less raucous than the others—a tavern with a painted sign depicting a crown made of wheat. The Crown and Sheaf. Appropriate, given my circumstances. I hesitate only a moment before pushing open the door.
The interior is warm and wood-paneled, crowded but not chaotic. A musician plays a stringed instrument in one corner while patrons talk, laugh, and drink at scattered tables. I make my way to the bar, trying to project confidence I don't feel.
"What'll it be?" The barkeeper barely glances up from the mug he's drying.
"Whatever you recommend." My voice sounds steadier than I expected.
He eyes me more carefully now, taking in my plain clothes and probably noting my accent, which I can't quite disguise despite my best efforts. "First time here?"
"First time anywhere," I admit, then bite my tongue. Less information is safer.
Something like sympathy crosses his face. "Try the honey mead. Gentle but sweet."
The drink he slides toward me is golden and fragrant. I take a cautious sip and find it surprisingly pleasant—nothing like the watered wine I'm permitted at state functions. I turn to survey the room, leaning against the bar as I've seen others do.
That's when I notice him.
A man sits alone at a corner table, partially shadowed but with eyes that catch the light. He's watching me. Not in the leering way of the drunk nobles I avoided earlier, but with quiet intensity that feels both familiar and unsettling.
When our eyes meet, he doesn't look away. Instead, he raises his glass slightly, a gesture somewhere between a salute and an invitation.
I should ignore him. I should finish my drink and continue my exploration. The last thing I need is an entanglement with a stranger.
But there's something about him that draws me. Something I can't quite place but that makes my pulse quicken. Before I can reconsider, I'm crossing the room toward his table.
"Is this seat taken?" I ask, surprised by my own boldness.
Up close, I can see him better. Older than me by at least a decade, maybe more. Broad-shouldered beneath a simple black tunic. A beard shadows his jaw, partially obscuring features that seem strangely familiar, though I'm certain we've never met. I would remember those eyes—blue as a winter sky, observant and guarded.
"It is now." His voice is low, controlled. He gestures for me to sit.
I slide into the chair across from him, setting my mead on the rough wooden table. "Do you make a habit of staring at women in taverns?"
The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile. "Only the interesting ones."
"And what makes me interesting?" I ask, taking another sip of mead to steady my nerves. I've never flirted before, never had the opportunity, but something about this man makes me want to try.
"You don't belong here." It's not a question.
I stiffen. "What makes you say that?"
"You carry yourself differently. Your eyes take everything in like it's the first time you're seeing it." He leans forward slightly. "And you're not afraid, though perhaps you should be."
"Should I be afraid of you?" The question comes out softer than intended.
That almost-smile again. "Not in the way you think."
There's something oddly comforting about his presence, despite the cryptic responses. The tavern bustles around us, but it feels like we're in our own private world.
"What brings you to the Crown and Sheaf tonight?" I ask, attempting normal conversation.
"I followed someone." His directness startles me.
"A lover?"
"No." His eyes never leave mine. "Someone I'm sworn to protect, whether she wants it or not."
A cold shock runs through me. The timbre of his voice, the set of his shoulders, the intense focus of his gaze—how did I not recognize them immediately?
"Dain," I whisper, the name falling from my lips before I can stop it.
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those blue eyes—acknowledgment, perhaps even approval that I've solved the puzzle.
"Princess." He inclines his head slightly, the gesture achingly familiar despite his altered appearance.
My exhilaration curdles into fury. "You followed me. You're spying on me." I move to stand, but his hand shoots out, fingers closing around my wrist.
"Sit down," he says quietly. "Unless you want everyone in this tavern to know they're drinking with royalty."
I sink back into my seat, anger making my cheeks burn. "I ordered no guard tonight."
"And yet, here I am." His thumb brushes over my pulse point, sending an unwelcome shiver up my arm before he releases me.
"How did you know I'd left?" I demand, keeping my voice low.
"I know everything about you." The simple statement hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to examine. "Your breathing changes when you're planning something rebellious. You've been collecting information about the city gates for months. Your lady's maid left your chambers looking confused tonight because you dismissed her early."
My mouth goes dry. Has he been watching me that closely all these years? And more disturbingly, why does the thought send heat pooling low in my stomach instead of frightening me?
"So what now?" I force myself to meet his gaze. "Are you going to drag me back to my gilded cage?"
"If I wanted to do that, we wouldn't be having this conversation." He takes a drink, throat working in a way that draws my eye. "You have until dawn. Then I return you to the palace."
I blink, not having expected any compromise. "Why?"
"Because you'll go willingly at dawn, or I'll carry you back over my shoulder like a sack of grain." His voice is matter-of-fact. "And because I'd rather you experienced the city with protection than sneak out again without it."
"You're not in uniform," I observe. "Won't you be punished if we're discovered?"
Something dark crosses his face. "Let me worry about consequences."
I should be outraged at his presumption, at the way he's infiltrated my one night of freedom. Instead, I find myself studying him with new interest. Without his guard's uniform, with the beard shadowing his jaw, he looks different—more human, less the impassive sentinel who's shadowed me for years.
The scar along his jaw—my scar, as I've always thought of it—seems more pronounced in this light. I have a sudden, inappropriate urge to trace it with my finger.
"You changed your appearance," I say instead. “Your beard..."
"Easier to blend in. Harder for anyone to recognize me as your guard."
"You planned this."
A slight shrug. "I suspected you might try something foolish eventually."
"Freedom isn't foolish." My fingers tighten around my mug. "It's necessary. Especially when—" I stop myself.
"When what?" His eyes narrow.
I shake my head. He doesn't need to know about the marriage negotiations, though if he's as observant as he claims, he probably already suspects.
"Nothing." I drain the last of my mead, making a decision. "Fine. You can accompany me, but don't hover. And don't speak to me as if I'm a child needing supervision."
"As you wish, Princess." There's a hint of mockery in the title.
"Don't call me that. Not tonight." I stand, steadier this time. "Tonight, I'm just Lirien."
"Lirien," he repeats, and something about the way my name sounds in his deep voice makes my skin prickle with awareness.
Our fingers brush as he rises to follow me, and I feel a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless. For a moment, we're frozen, connected by that small point of contact, by something electric and dangerous passing between us.
Then he steps back, gesturing toward the door. "After you."
I move past him, feeling his presence at my back like a physical touch. My night of freedom has become something else entirely—a dance with my shadow, a game with rules I don't fully understand.
But as we step back into the night air, with the city spread before us and Dain a solid presence beside me, I can't bring myself to regret it.