1. The Prisoner Princess and Her Parade of Princes #3
“I don’t know who you think you are with that smart mouth,” Cedella snaps, tugging harder at Sapphira’s ear.
“You think because you’re the princess, everyone should bow and cater to you just like when we were children.
‘Everyone, look at Sapphira. She’s acting out again,’” she says mockingly.
“‘She might just throw a fit and throw herself off the balcony.’”
The memory flashes in Sapphira’s mind. Jumping into the frigid, angry waves below her balcony. A foolish plan to swim to Nasaur and disappear. She was so desperate for escape. For freedom. That she nearly ended it all.
Or, maybe I’ll throw you off the balcony, Sapphira thinks. She glares at her cousin who laughs and mocks her.
Ines stands up straight. She sighs, tiredly, “Let her go, Ella. We have to finish getting ready, and Mother will be mad that you’ve marked her up on her birthday. She has to be presentable for the princes, remember?”
Sapphira takes a breath, wiping her ear when she’s been released. Her hands clench at her sides, anger welling up inside her. That same anger that drove her to jump into the sea.
A desire to escape at all costs.
She lets the emotion burn up her veins, sharp like ice as she tries to call magic to her hands.
The same magic that saved her from a watery end.
Nothing happens. The command to strike her cousin down goes unanswered, and she deflates with a sigh.
The magic has never listened to her. She’s never been able to use it on command, and she’s begun to think she dreamed up the power and that it doesn’t exist at all.
The only hope she has is the memory of being propelled toward the shore by an icy blast.
Aunt Agath told Sapphira that when she was born, she cried a storm and froze the entire nursery. Ice crystals hung from the ceiling like diamond-tipped daggers, and frost climbed up the curtains of her bassinet like silver stars.
The woman said that was why Sapphira had to be locked up like a dog. That she was dangerous .
“Why wasn’t it you?” Agath asked Sapphira when she was twelve.
It was right after her parents’ funeral.
She was standing out in the hall, too afraid to see her parents lying cold in their fancy boxes and suffocated by the number of people—strangers—who came to mourn and pay their respects.
“Dansui is a place for humans,” her aunt sneered. “Not monsters.”
The woman, so unlike Sapphira’s lovely mother despite their shared blood, had trapped Sapphira in Jagun Castle before the king’s and queen’s bodies had gone cold.
“Move,” Cedella says, pushing Sapphira from the memory. “Get back to your room, or we’re telling our mother.”
Sapphira doesn’t wait for another warning.
She runs, her knees burning from the sting of carpet and laughter bubbling up from behind.
Don’t you know I could hurt you? she thinks bitterly.
If Sapphira could get her magic to work, her cousins would be human icicles.
But, she keeps her head down and hurries to her room.
There’s a flurry of activity in Sapphira’s room when she arrives, slamming the door behind her. The maidens rush to her, quick to make up for lost time and bemoaning her defiance.
“Down you go, Princess,” a maiden says.
“Watch it! Don’t slip,” huffs another.
“Be gentle,” Sapphira grouses as they push her into a scalding bath and scrub her from head to toe. Her tender head is tugged this way and that, and small hands style tiny braids into a fan.
The girls make small talk as Sapphira is squeezed into a pearlescent orange-and-pink silk dress that fits her curves perfectly and cascades into a flowy train at her feet. Their oohs, and awws make her blush. She looks like a flaming siren with frills that shimmer like scales.
“You look like her mother.”
Sapphira looks up and meets her nanny’s eyes in the mirror. The woman, Allura, steps forward, placing a crown on Sapphira’s head. Her stomach drops. Tears prick at her eyes. Don’t cry. You will never cry.
“Let’s go,” she says, and turns away. Nerves turn her stomach like the night tide as she’s ushered through the castle.
She stops around the corner from the courtyard, voices from the party filtering up the stairs.
Her dewy makeup and the gelled hairs tugging at the back of her neck, bead with sweat.
She tucks her hands into her armpits and takes a deep, steadying breath.
Allura tries to reach out, but her arm falters when Sapphira looks away. If she lets the woman touch her, she will lose it. All of her carefully arranged parts will collapse like a tower of cards.
After her mother passed, Allura stepped up her nanny duties. She became like a mentor for Sapphira, who was treated cruelly by her aunt, though the princess didn’t make it easy. She wanted to be independent. She didn’t take orders. She didn’t show emotion.
Even outside of the castle, she became known as the ice princess. Fitting. The rumored, reclusive princess with a heart of ice.
Sapphira can feel them down there, circling like sharks, curious to find out the truth about her.
She’s terrified of what they will find.
“I can’t do this.” Sapphira turns to flee, wanting anything else but to be here right now. A sharp whistle stops her. She turns to find Dorian sauntering down the hall. The clop of his heavy boots reach her before he does.
“You clean up nice for a woman who can best me in a duel,” he says, a smile turning his lips.
“I could best you two on one,” she corrects. “Done it more than once.” She trained with Dorian and Fein for years, and the aging Captain has since conceded her skill.
Dorian shrugs. His locs are tied at the ends with golden cuffs that match the accents on his blue-green ceremonial armor. He cleans up well too, when he isn’t sweaty in his training pads.
“You look beautiful,” he says, squeezing Sapphira into his arms. She tries to fight it, but loses that battle, melting into his familiar touch.
He’s the only one she allows to hold her like this.
He’s done it many times over the years, picking her up after her aunt or her cousins have beaten her down.
“I can’t do this,” she whispers against his skin.
“You can.”
She shakes her head. “You can,” he repeats. “You’re stronger than you think.”
A throat clears behind Sapphira. Dorian’s eyes harden as he looks over her shoulder. “Lady Regent,” he says stiffly, giving a short bow. The gesture is strained, every muscle in his body appearing taut.
Sapphira freezes similarly. She turns slightly, peering at her aunt over her shoulder. The regent towers over the pair of them, looking down her nose at her niece with contempt, and her bosom spilling from the square neckline of her dress.
She’s a hefty woman, with curves in all the right places. Sapphira has seen men come and go, none of them deemed worthy or capable of standing at her side.
They should count themselves lucky.
“Auntie,” Sapphira says, her voice coming out a whisper. The regent swings her hips like weapons, cutting the space to reach her niece. She sucks her teeth as she fusses over Sapphira’s sleeves and plucks at her hair, muttering about the incompetence of Sapphira, and her maidens.
Dorian is stiff beside Sapphira, standing at attention. When the three pigs arrive, he slips away, and she doesn’t blame him. She wishes to do the same. Turning to her cousins, she nearly snorts a laugh at the eyesores they make.
Giselle looks like a duckbill, her skirt flaring wide at the hem. There is too much fabric.
Cedella is already sweating at the collar, wetness puddling the hem and darkening the garish shade of pink.
“No fair,” Giselle whines with pouty red lips. “Why did you give her that dress, mother?” Like the spoiled girl she is, she stomps her foot.
The regent smiles and pats her daughter’s shoulder placatingly.
“It was made special for her, from the tailor,” she says through tight lips, the false smile pulling at the wrinkles by her eyes.
Her eyes rake over Sapphira and the princess feels small.
“It isn’t the dress I asked for, but it’ll do.
She is meant to make a match afterall, and she’ll need all the help she can get. ”
Giselle and Cedella cackle at that.
Sapphira’s stomach twists sharply at the reminder of what this night is for. It isn’t to celebrate her, or her coming of age. It’s an audition. A play, of sorts. And her aunt knows all of the parts.
The regent wants more power than the Kingdom of Dansui can offer her, so she will use Sapphira to get it. By cracking, and jumping from her balcony to escape, Sapphira played right into her aunt’s hands. She holds all of the power.
“Just make sure you stay away from the Prince of Neptor,” Cedella sneers, passing Sapphira.
She turns down the hall and down the steps into the party, and her sisters follow.
Giselle bumps Sapphira on her way past, nearly knocking her over.
Her aunt grabs her arm in a fierce grip, appearing to steady her. The grip turns tight.
“Your swords,” Agath hisses, holding out her free hand, palm up. “Don’t try to look confused. I know you keep them on you.”
Sapphira reluctantly parts with them, gritting her teeth as the maidens rush forward to help her lift her skirt.
She savors the kiss of cool metal against her skin before she drops them into her aunt’s waiting hands.
It feels like a piece of her is being ripped away as Agath hands them off to a terrified maiden.
“And don’t you dare use that power of yours,” Agath spits, her breath hot and wet against Sapphira’s ear. “No prince will marry you if he knows you’re a witch.”
If only.
Sapphira swallows back the retort. Her hands are sweating, her heart beating wildly as Agath’s nails dig into her arm. It feels like there’s an anvil sitting on her chest. She can’t breathe.
“Yes, Auntie. Er—Lady Regent,” she says, breathy. Obedient.
The woman’s breath is moist against Sapphira’s skin. It makes her shiver. “If you ruin this night for me, I’ll see that you never leave this castle. Do you understand? I’ll lock you up and throw away the keys. Forever.”
A horn blows, saving Sapphira from a response. The Captain of the Guard slams his trident down to silence the party guests. Sapphira is pushed out of the corner where she hid, and she steadies herself at the top of the steps. All eyes turn up to her.
You don’t get a choice. This is your fate, Sapphira. She closes her eyes, shutting out the den of colorful plumage. Don’t think.
Jump.