15. Chapter 14
Chapter 14
Lillith
T he sun sinks below the horizon as I slip through the castle gates, a cloak pulled tight around me to ward off the evening chill. Dusk's violet hues stretch across the sky, signaling the appointed time has come. Brimming with excitement, I hurry to the sheltering forest. Soon, the prince's enchanted emerald ring will be mine.
I have no doubts His Royal Highness will comply with my demands. The subtle implication of scandalous secrets has likely rattled his gilded cage enough to hand over a mere trinket to keep his sterling reputation intact. The fool probably thinks himself noble, making some trivial sacrifice for the greater good. Little does he realize he is simply my puppet, dancing to my strings.
The towering oak comes into view, branches draped like a cloak over the forest road. I scan the area, searching for any sign of the prince but see only an empty path stretching ahead. Good. He has sense enough not to linger.
Ducking under the curved boughs, I swiftly cross to the tree's far side where the designated hollow rests halfway up the trunk. Gripping ancient bark, I hoist myself up and reach inside, my fingers searching eagerly through dead leaves and moss. They brush not the hard cut of jewels, however, but the crisp dryness of paper.
Frowning, I extract the unexpected find, a sealed parchment addressed simply,
To My Friend .
Disappointment curdles in my stomach even as irritation prickles under my skin. I gave clear instructions—the emerald ring in exchange for discretion—and yet His Royal Stubbornness thinks to defy me?
The nerve. Does he take me for a fool? I should spread vicious lies from the highest rooftops and let his shining reputation crumble into dust. My fingers tighten around the sealed letter, prepared to shred it in fury.
Yet, some nagging curiosity stays my hand. What excuse has the high and mighty prince crafted to justify denying my demand? I ought to know his line of thinking before plotting my next move.
With a resigned huff, I drop to the ground and lean against the oak's trunk. Breaking the dark wax seal, I unfold the letter. The prince's elegant script curls across the page.
Dear Friend,
I understand you find yourself on difficult paths...
I scan ahead, scoffing under my breath at his condescending tone. Difficult paths, as though I am some misguided damsel who lost her way. I forge my own destiny through cunning and power. If the prince doesn’t understand that, then naivety and hypocrisy blind him.
Let go of bitterness and look to the good in human hearts...
A bitter laugh escapes my lips. He thinks me embittered? The darkness in my core holds no room for anything so impotent as bitterness. And human hearts hold far greater potential for cruelty than kindness. If this prince clings to cheery delusions, I will take pleasure in showing him the truth.
Know that you have potential for kindness and redemption, if you allow yourself to walk in light.
Redemption? The word puzzles me, stirring an unwanted pang deep within my chest. I have no need for redemption. Villainy runs in my veins, and I embrace it fully.
...I believe in you, my friend. Your choices define your destiny.
My fingers crumple the letter reflexively. How dare he profess such faith in me, as though my destiny is some unwritten story waiting for his heroic intervention. I alone dictate my fate, bending all things to my will, prince and kingdom included. His na?ve belief in my unseen "potential" means nothing.
Yet even as anger courses through me, I find myself smoothing out the letter's creases, unable to destroy it fully. Something unsettling stirs in my core, that silent pang deepening at this prince's willingness to see light in my darkness. I do not understand it.
No, it matters not whether he believes in redemption for a wayward soul. His cotton-cloud perceptions of the world will soon be torn asunder. I revealed a glimpse of myself by reaching out, and now, vulnerability nags at me, an unfamiliar feeling I do not care for. I must be more cunning if I wish to achieve my aims unscathed.
The prince assumes compassion can sway me, but he underestimates my resolve. I will use his precious faith against him, proving no heart stays untarnished forever, no matter how pure its intentions. Manipulation comes easily when someone thinks you worth saving.
Folding the letter neatly, I tuck it into my cloak—not destroying it but keeping it close. This is not an end but a beginning. I have my own beliefs to prove now, and I will see it done, no matter the cost.
** *
The splintered wooden bench of the carriage digs into my thighs as we jostle down the forest road. I grimace, shifting to try and relieve the growing soreness. You would think a prince could get us a better carriage than this. My roommates are crammed onto the hard seat with me, yet they don’t seem bothered by the uncomfortable transportation. Their incessant nattering fills the cramped space.
"Ooh, I can hardly wait to dance with the apprenticed blacksmith." Mairelle sighs dreamily, face flushed.
"You'll dance with everyone before the festival's end," Cherry teases. "Remember last year when you twirled about so much you collapsed in a dizzy heap?"
Mairelle's blush deepens as Cherry laughs. "Well, what about you, Cherry? Will you finally confess your love to the baker's son this year?"
Now it is Cherry's turn to redden and stammer. These foolish girls are consumed by thoughts of trysts with peasant boys and silly romantic fantasies. It is enough to make me retch.
Still, I plaster an indulgent smile on my face. "You all seem rather excited for this event," I remark. "Is it a special occasion? "
Mairelle nods eagerly, golden ringlets bobbing around her heart-shaped face. "Oh yes! The Willowsbrook Summer Festival is the highlight of the year."
"People travel from villages all around to join in the revelry," Cherry adds. "There's feasting, dancing, games—"
"And magic shows!" Mairelle pipes up excitedly.
Interesting. I file away that information for later.
Aloud, I say, "It sounds absolutely wonderful! And Prince Asher attends every year?"
Right on cue, the two sigh dreamily at the mention of the kingdom's favored son.
"He's the guest of honor," Cherry explains. "The festival is in celebration of when he saved Willowsbrook from destruction years ago."
This is news to me. I raise my eyebrows, inviting her to elaborate.
"Back when Asher was still a young prince, a deadly plague swept through Willowsbrook and most of the kingdom," Cherry continues. "The healers tried every remedy, but nothing could stop its spread. Thousands had already perished by the time Prince Asher arrived."
Mairelle chimes in, eyes distant as she recalls the tale. "They say he walked fearlessly among the sick, tending to them day and night. He poured all his strength and compassion into healing them, though many protested it was hopeless. "
"For a fortnight, he labored without rest," Cherry takes up the story. "Until finally, the last of the plague faded from Willowsbrook. The prince had saved them all through his tireless efforts."
Mairelle clasps her hands to her chest. "Ever since then, Willowsbrook has held a festival each summer to honor Prince Asher's selfless courage and sacrifice. People see him as their hero."
I hold back an incredulous laugh. Of course these foolish girls would swoon over such ridiculous sentimentality. No doubt they picture the noble prince tending helpless peasants while haloed in heavenly light.
The urge to retch returns. Prince Asher's insufferable goodness is even more deeply rooted than I realized. Clearly, I will need to dig deep to uncover any shadows in his past, but they are there. No one harbors only light within them. I simply need to find the cracks in his gilded armor.
In truth, I remember the plague well. It nearly killed me. I only survived by sheer luck. No prince to come in on his white horse and save me. Not that a hero would have cared enough to save someone born a villain anyway.
We continue on toward Willowsbrook, the maidservants chattering about the festival as my mind turns with possibilities. I learned long ago that surfaces can conceal rotten cores beneath. What worms might be eating away at the prince's golden image from the inside? I will lay him bare, one way or another.
At last, our carriages roll through an archway adorned with flowers reading "Welcome!" in bright colors. We pass quaint cottages and rustic buildings decked in strings of ribbons and banners. Townsfolk wave eagerly at any carriage coming through, their faces alight with joy.
How I despise their simple contentment. I can almost taste the richness their pain and sorrow would provide if unleashed from beneath this sickeningly cheerful facade. Perhaps a bit of chaos is in order, but I must be careful not to expose myself just yet. I need more time to analyze the cracks in their gilded veneer first.
After our carriage jerks to a halt, I follow the other maidservants out, collecting my satchel of belongings. My fingers brush over the carefully packed potions and artifacts nested inside. While the girls have sewing kits and perfumed handkerchiefs, I carry more... unique party favors.
Up ahead, the crowds part to form an aisle. Prince Asher rides up on his gleaming white stallion, looking every inch the storybook hero in polished silver armor. He waves and smiles benevolently at the adoring faces. I roll my eyes.
The maidservants around me practically swoon as he dismounts gracefully and approaches the village elder, an ancient bearded man hunched with age.
"Greetings, Tobias! I’m happy to be here for the festival once more." The prince clasps the old man's gnarled hands warmly.
The elder smiles, deep creases lining his face. "The honor is ours, Your Highness. All because of your selfless actions does our village remain thriving all these long years later."
Prince Asher gives an awkward laugh, rubbing his neck. "I only did what anyone would have had they the means. The credit belongs to your people's resilient spirit."
I narrow my eyes, searching for any hint of dishonesty or deeper motive behind his words, but as far as I can tell, the fool means it genuinely. Interesting. The more layers I peel back, the purer his golden image remains. An increasingly frustrating revelation.
Yet, I know better than most that light casts shadows. The greater the virtue, the deeper they lurk. I simply need to slip past his blinding righteousness to uncover what rots beneath, and I am not known for my patience.
The crowds disperse as festivities begin in earnest. Everywhere, villagers dance and laugh to the lively music of fiddles and pipes. The scents of roasted meat, fresh bread, and pies fill the air.
I maintain my pleasant facade, like a wolf moving unnoticed amongst lambs, handing out the small bags of candies and coins the prince tasked all of his staff to distribute. I feel no joy observing their revels. These simple country folk know nothing of true power. They fritter away their short lives distracted by frivolity. The whole thing makes me sick .
As I wander the thoroughfare, a posted notice catches my eye. It is a wanted poster with a rough sketch of a young woman. At the top, it reads, "Wanted—Lillith Shadowend," in bold lettering.
I scan the list of outlandish crimes and misdeeds attributed to my name then have to refrain from laughing aloud. Robbing caravans? Poisoning wells? Absurd. The woman depicted looks only vaguely like me, and honestly, I am a go big or go home kind of woman. None of that small weak-minded stuff. Well, when I can do it in my own name. The things done to the prince have to be small considering I can’t reveal my identity to him.
Before I can study the poster further, a deafening boom rends the air, the ground shuddering beneath my feet. Screams erupt as villagers begin fleeing from the thoroughfare in panic. I follow the tide, peering over heads to spot the source of the commotion. A large plume of dark smoke rises in the distance.
Making my way closer, I see that half of a barn has been reduced to flaming rubble. The fire roars, billowing thick black clouds into the sky. Townsfolk hurry to form bucket lines from the well.
That's when I notice two shapes seeming to materialize in the smoke high above. One is clearly a raven in flight, the other a name scrawled in looping script—Lillith Shadowend .
I cross my arms, eyes narrowing. Someone is trying to frame me for this infernal display, but why? The raven offers a clue, suggesting someone from my hidden past. I haven’t spoken to him in years, though, and even when we ran in the same circles, we rarely interacted. For what purpose? Regardless, he will find I do not take kindly to being someone else's patsy. If I am to have a reputation, I will earn it on my own terms. He is messing with my brand. This isn’t the kind of thing the most powerful villain would do.
The sounds of panic fade as I watch the smoking ruin, pondering this unexpected development. This could be the perfect opportunity to really put the prince to the test. If Lillith is already to blame for this event, it wouldn’t be surprising for my magic to appear elsewhere.
It is time they get a taste of real magic, a reminder that true darkness cannot be ignored with smiles and merriment. Let this obnoxiously cheerful celebration see that shadows exist even in sunlight.
I slip away unnoticed down an alley between cottages and move swiftly through the village outskirts, searching for anything I can use to introduce a bit of delicious chaos. These foolish villagers deserve to choke on their complacency.
Then I spot it—a barn stacked high with freshly cut hay. No animals are inside, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my magic to imitate the sounds of them or even a villager or two crying for help. Perfect.
With a muttered word, I send a spark onto the dry tinder. Within moments, crackling flames erupt, lighting the barn ablaze and sending acrid smoke into the sky.
Shouts ring out as villagers scramble to action, their cries of dismay like music. I watch hidden from the shadows, lips curling as fear replaces their earlier joy. Let their precious prince come save them from this.
But as the blaze strengthens, a light wind brushes my cheek carrying the scent of ash and... something else.
Before I can investigate further, a chorus of gasps draws my attention back to the flaming barn. Prince Asher comes galloping up on his white steed, gleaming armor dulled by a layer of soot. Murmurs ripple through the crowd at his sudden presence.
"But how...he was just..." I mutter under my breath, brow furrowing.
The prince had been clear across the village dealing with the other fire just moments ago. There is no way he could have ridden here so quickly, yet there he is, dismounting gracefully and striding toward the bucket line.
"Together now, pass them down!" he instructs, taking his place to help douse the flames. His assured voice strengthens the villagers' resolve as they work in unison.
Within minutes, the last smoldering embers are extinguished. Prince Asher clasps the shoulders of weary villagers, praising their efforts and ensuring no one is harmed after checking inside and finding it empty. They gaze at him with awe and gratitude, oblivious to the impossibility of his timing.
I stay hidden, watching the prince's soot-streaked face crease into a tired but satisfied smile. He shows no signs of exertion from presumably riding halfway across the village in the blink of an eye. There is more at work here than meets the eye.
As Asher confers with the village elder, my eyes catch on an ornate amulet hanging around the old man's neck, glinting in the sunlight. A teleportation charm, allowing the wearer to instantly transport to preset locations.
Comprehension dawns. The prince must have similar charms for times of crisis. That would explain his impossible punctuality. He hadn’t ridden here directly but teleported from the other fire. A clever solution, I reluctantly admit.
I watch Prince Asher clap the elder's shoulder affectionately before remounting his steed and riding off to continue his festival duties. Once again, the insufferably perfect prince manages to be in two places at once for his adoring people. Why does he have to be so irritatingly perfect all of the time?