Chapter 7 #2
I packed quickly and with brutal efficiency.
I took three pairs of denim trousers, a stack of plain cotton shirts, and the thick, woolen sweater my father had knitted for me five years ago.
I left the diamond necklaces, the pearl earrings, and the delicate silk scarves untouched in their velvet-lined cases.
I stripped myself of every item the crown had purchased, refusing to carry a single ounce of their wealth out the door.
I zipped the bag shut, hoisting it over my shoulder. It was light, carrying only the absolute necessities for survival.
I walked out of the bedroom and did not look back.
I descended the grand staircase, bypassing the primary entrance and navigating the narrow, utilitarian corridors used by the palace staff. I emerged into the damp, cold air of the northern courtyard.
The royal motor pool was housed in a massive stone garage to my left.
A line of polished black sedans and armored SUVs sat gleaming under the security lights.
I walked past them, heading for a small, weathered utility truck parked near the groundskeeper’s shed.
The truck belonged to the estate, used primarily for hauling soil and fertilizer.
It was scratched, dented, and entirely invisible to the press corps.
I tossed my duffel bag onto the passenger seat and climbed into the cabin. The interior smelled of stale coffee, old leather, and damp earth. It smelled like reality.
I turned the ignition, the engine sputtering before roaring to life with a loud, aggressive mechanical growl. I slammed the gearshift into drive and pressed my foot hard against the accelerator.
The truck lurched forward, bouncing over the cobblestones of the courtyard.
I steered toward the service gates, bypassing the fortified primary checkpoint.
The lone guard in the security booth looked up, startled by the sudden noise.
He raised a hand, stepping out of the booth, opening his mouth to issue a challenge.
I did not slow down.
I kept my foot pressed to the floor, my hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn my knuckles white. The guard realized I had no intention of stopping. He jumped back into the safety of the booth, hitting the electronic release button at the very last second.
The massive iron gates swung open, the metal groaning against the strain of the sudden movement. The truck shot through the gap, the tires screaming in protest as I took the sharp turn onto the main coastal highway.
I drove north.
The manicured lawns and towering stone walls of the palace estate vanished in the rearview mirror, swallowed by the darkness of the evening. The smooth, illuminated asphalt of the city gradually surrendered to a narrow, winding road that hugged the jagged edge of the coastline.
The transition was abrupt. The sterile, controlled environment of the capital city faded away, replaced by the raw, untamed power of the northern sea.
The wind howled against the chassis of the truck, buffeting the vehicle with brutal, unpredictable gusts.
The sky above was a churning mass of black storm clouds, obliterating the stars and plunging the world into total darkness.
I rolled the window down an inch. The freezing air rushed into the cabin, carrying the sharp, bitter scent of salt water and rotting kelp. It was a harsh, unforgiving smell, stripping away the lingering memory of jasmine perfume and polished marble.
The road began to climb, ascending the steep, treacherous cliffs that bordered my home village.
The tires lost their grip on the wet pavement for a fraction of a second, sliding toward the sheer drop before finding traction again.
I did not flinch. The danger felt incredibly grounding, a sharp reminder that the physical world demanded respect and offered no polite fictions.
I navigated the final series of hairpin turns, the headlights cutting a narrow path through the driving rain.
A small cluster of stone buildings emerged from the gloom, clinging stubbornly to the edge of the cliffs.
The village was completely dark, the residents locked tight inside their homes to weather the gale.
I drove past the harbor, the turbulent surf crashing against the stone breakwater, throwing plumes of white spray high into the air. I turned onto a steep dirt track that led away from the village, climbing toward the highest point on the cliffs.
My father’s cottage sat at the end of the track, an isolated stone structure built to withstand the fury of the sea. It was small, weathered, and entirely unpretentious. It possessed no grand archways, no portrait galleries, and no protocol.
I slammed on the brakes, the truck skidding to a halt in the muddy driveway.
I threw the door open and stepped out into the storm.
The wind hit me instantly, a physical blow that knocked me back against the doorframe.
The rain drove into my face like tiny needles, soaking my clothes and plastering my hair to my skull.
I reached back in, grabbed my duffel bag, and slammed the truck door shut.
I walked toward the cottage, leaning my entire body weight forward to fight the resistance of the gale. I reached the front porch, the wooden planks slick and treacherous beneath my feet.
I pulled a heavy, rusted iron key from my pocket.
I shoved it into the lock of the thick oak door, twisting it with a sharp, decisive crack.
I pushed the door open, stepped into the dark, freezing entryway, and slammed the heavy wood shut behind me, throwing the deadbolt into place with a loud snap.