The Petulant Princess

23. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

I sent for Gilead that night, the only one I trusted near my friends. She entered, her voice a soft murmur as she dimmed the lantern, casting a warm, flickering glow around the room. The scent of herbs clung to her robes, and she gave Ethyan plenty of space until he calmed.

The darkness along his arm I’d been concerned about revealed deep bruising, but no internal bleeding. When asked if he would regain full range of movement and control, Gilead pressed her lips together, and told us it depended on the gods.

With her assistants kept at the door, I helped set his arm. The sharp tang of antiseptic stung my nose as we cleaned him and bandaged his wounds. Once he was mended, we started on Lyana.

Her refusal of anyone’s touch tore my heart. We couldn’t honor her wish. She lay in bed for days, too traumatized to rise and relieve herself. The sight of her, pale and trembling, made it impossible for me to leave her like that.

Ethyan understood the need. Tears streaked his face, mingling with sweat as he grimaced in pain, helping me tend to his sister. The metallic reek of blood and bodily fluids was hard to stomach. Gilead kept her distance, only stepping forward to examine the cuts on her sides and inner thighs.

Ethyan threw up twice, adding the stench of bile as we struggled to care for her. She fought and kicked, her screams piercing the air, teeth bared as she bit at our fingers.

Sainte stayed near the door, arms crossed, hands away from his daggers, gaze fixed on the wall. Now and then, his eyes met mine, sharing in my misery.

I pushed the horrors of that night to the back of my mind, ignoring the sight of her deep cuts, the dark bruises, the burns tarnishing her legs. The acrid stench of her state lingered in my senses, even now. I buried those memories, letting them resurface in quiet moments, when silence echoed with her faint haunting cries.

When I departed for the council meeting, Ethyan stayed with his sister under Urien’s watchful eye. He made no apology for stabbing the Wynterian, but accepted his presence. Apparently, when Lyana left to meet my brother, Urien faced ten guards to intercede. When more arrived, she begged him to let her go, and he released her to them. I didn’t hold him any more accountable for what happened than I did Sainte.

I scanned the table, my face a rigid mask, examining the council members’ expressions. They allowed this to happen within their walls, hiding behind the pretense of her willingness, claiming no laws were broken. How many of them watched her torture, choosing silence over intervention?

Anderz withheld the names of the few witnesses he knew, but their power was evident—no one would question their word.

What sickness lurked within this castle that men would stand by, witnessing such horrors, only to speak of them later? What kind of fiendish ruler did they follow, someone capable of such heinous acts who strolled freely, as if untouchable by vengeance?

Leihim lounged in his chair, his gaze locked on me with a subtle intensity. His proposal still hung between us, a delicate thread connecting our ambitions. His backing in exchange for information regarding the Dire Wolf. Yet, my path to the throne stretched far beyond passing the next Rite, an event ordained by divine whims. I needed to garner support from the nobles. Though the common peoples’ superstitions would sway many to my cause, if I would end my brother’s life, I required a widespread alliance. And Leihim Hinyte held the key to persuading the majority.

As the high court droned on about trade routes, my finger tapped against my temple. Anderz’s advice lingered in my thoughts—he urged me to stay attentive, to make a spectacle of interest even when my mind wandered. The charade of caring was crucial—but the only thing I cared about was removing my brother’s head from his shoulders.

“And what of the merchants traveling through Gladiers?” someone asked.

“They’re moving with confidence,” Leihim said. His gaze slid along the counselors until he found who spoke. “There’s tension, and the Glades are wary, but Wynterians are traveling without hesitation. It appears our princess has not only taught King Reid a lesson, but our citizens as well.”

“You have won the faith of the people, Your Highness,” said Aliea, the slender noblewoman to my left. “When are the God Stones to arrive?”

“Careful, Counselor,” Reuthland warned.

Her rigid posture mirrored the hard lines of her dark, malicious stare. Her gaze roamed the table before settling on me, my demeanor deliberately nonchalant. She posed no threat to me—a pawn of Adastrus—one I would banish when given the opportunity.

“The people have faith in the gods, not only in the princess,” Aliea retorted, her chin lifted in defiance as she spoke. “We should be ready for the coronation that will follow the next Rite.”

Despite my victories in two Rites and the widespread acknowledgement of my status as the Gods’ Chosen, everyone played along with Adastrus’ game. The staff, the servants, even the high court, all deferred to the Rite of Favor, as if my brother stood a chance.

“We should .” Reuthland’s lips twisted into a slow, unsettling smile, hinting at knowledge beyond my grasp. “Preparations are underway.”

“We should send invitations to our allies and neighboring kingdoms—a symbol of goodwill.”

“Dignitaries are already arriving,” Hinyte supplied. “The lull in the Howl means the stones should be arriving soon.”

Aliea nodded along. “The entire world will witness the gods’ favor bestowed upon their chosen.”

I shut my eyes, clenching my teeth as the council continued their deliberations. The divine were absent throughout my entire existence. When my brother sought my demise as a child, did they intervene? No. I lived in the slums, unwanted and unloved. Did they care? No. Sainte forced me back into this world of politics and intrigue unprepared. Did the gods dare rouse themselves when my loved ones, those who actually believed in them, were hurt and abused?

No.

I didn’t believe in the gods any more than I believed I would sprout wings and fly. My success in the previous Rites stemmed from a mix of sheer luck and an unstable mind. The upcoming Rite of Favor boiled down to a mere coin toss—a fifty-fifty chance they’d glow when I formed my question. Failure would pave the way for Adastrus to wield Grimm against me.

When I stood, I nudged the chair back with my knees, drawing the attention of those who paused their conversations, expressions perplexed by my interruption.

“My apologies, but I wish to retire to my chambers,” I stated, lips pressed into a thin line. I had no energy left to indulge in their political maneuvers.

“You must be weary from your travels to Gladier,” Anderz provided.

Or, I was weary of pretending everything was fine while my friends suffered halfway across the castle, and my brother, a tyrant in his own right, reigned as regent.

“Yes, rest. When the God Stones arrive, you will be tested,” Aliea added. “We must prepare, regardless of the outcome. ”

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and offered a demure nod instead. Sainte pulled my chair aside, clearing a path for me to navigate around the table.

When I left the hall, I slipped down a side corridor, rubbing the bridge of my nose. To be honest, I dreaded visiting my friends. Lyana’s glare of animosity softened over the past few days, replaced by a defeated resignation whenever we approached her to wash up. She finally mustered the strength to attend to her basic needs, though eating still required persistent encouragement.

Whenever I entered that room, a tidal wave of guilt engulfed me, drowning me in self-disgust. For a few breaths, a few fleeting moments, I didn’t want to feel like a rotten excuse for a human.

Sainte snagged my arm, then shoved me into a cramped closet. I let out a startled yelp as he squeezed in after me, easing the door shut with a soft click that plunged us into darkness. The whiff of oil from the stored lanterns cut into my senses, mingling with the musty reek of aged wood.

“What are you–”

His large hand slapped over my mouth, muffling my words as he pressed in close, crushing his body against mine.

“Shh!”

I squeaked and bit his finger, eliciting a hiss as he tightened his grip, silencing me. My head jerked back, slamming into a low shelf. The impact sent a jolt of pain through my skull, but before I could reprimand him, voices snared my notice.

My brother.

“—set to arrive within the week?”

I trembled, blood boiling as my rage returned like a flood during a monsoon. Sainte cradled my face against his rough cheek in an attempt to still my temper.

“That is our prediction, Your Highness,” someone replied.

My fingers traced the contours of his sides until they reached the hilt of his dagger. I gripped it tight.

His hand left the back of my head, sliding down my arm to cover mine, squeezing it in silent warning.

“The Priests of Fiera are prepared?” Adastrus’ voice resonated just beyond the closet door.

Lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed anyone coming down the corridor. I kept my promise—I hadn’t sought him out. And now here he was, mere paces away.

Ready to end him, I gripped the dagger, tugging it free of the sheath, prepared to strike—when Sainte’s teeth sank into my ear. Pain lanced through me, and I jerked my head to the side.

He bit me!

Fury ignited, and I snapped forward, biting down on the first thing I found. His sharp intake of breath confirmed I latched onto the curve of his neck, and I held firm, not letting go as the voices faded down the hall. My fleeting chance passed me by.

Sainte growled low in his throat and wedged his fingers between my teeth and his skin. At the same moment, I yanked the dagger free.

“Togamar’s light, Ellie! He’s gone!” he hissed, his breath teasing my hair.

I muttered a slew of foul curses and snared a fistful of his tunic. I wanted to hit something— hurt something. Preferably my brother, but I could settle for Sainte.

“Come,” he urged, then guided my hand to return the dagger to its place.

A frustrated growl crawled past my lips. Rage and helplessness churned within me, that angry, vengeful creature gnawing at my insides.

He pressed against the door, giving me much-needed space. He glanced down the corridor before yanking me out, placing my hand firmly on his forearm. Without a word, he moved with quick strides, dragging me along. At first, I thought he was taking me to Lyana’s room, but relief washed over me when we passed it. He opened the door to my chambers, startling the maids inside.

“Oh! We’ll be heading out–”

“You, stay,” Sainte commanded a girl covered in soot from the hearth.

Her jaw dropped, not just from shock at his order, but because he singled her out to remain behind. Her fellow servants cast worried glances her way before bowing and darting out the door.

He latched it after them and turned to the girl, her soot-streaked hands clasped nervously in front of her dress. Her wide eyes pleaded with me for salvation or, perhaps, feared damnation. I almost laughed at her silent anguish. Sainte wouldn’t harm a dock cat without cause, but she didn’t know that.

“Strip.”

I spun on him, shock evident on my face. “You order my servants about now?” I asked, voice pitched high. What was he playing at?

He waved me off. “You as well. She’s about your size. Trade dresses.”

Providing no further explanation, he headed to my sleeping chambers. I turned my frown on the maid, who watched him with her jaw still hanging open. She was thinner than me. Royal food added some cushion to my frame, something I would have appreciated in the slums. Now, staring at her dress and imagining myself squeezing into it, I grimaced.

“I’d be happy to fetch you a dress!” the maid offered, her voice urgent.

“The one you’re wearing!” Sainte called from the other room.

A small thrill ran through me, and a smile tugged at my lips. “Best we do as he says,” I said with a shrug.

My Valahant was promising an adventure.

Soot covered me from head to toe.

Not just my clothes, but every inch of my skin. Sainte gathered fistfuls of ashes and rubbed them into my hair, dulling its blue sheen. He smeared it across my face with rough strokes and made my hands look filthier than the maid’s.

We left the poor girl in my rooms, with strict orders to bar the door and not leave until our return. Practically in tears, she sat draped in my pale green silk dress.

Sainte wore an aged and tattered tunic, paired with brown trousers. His armor and ax remained behind, replaced by a single, wicked-looking sword at his hip. Draping a dark cloak over my shoulders, he led me through the halls to the servants’ quarters. There he pilfered a servant’s cloak with a flawless skill that sparked my jealousy.

We hurried out of the castle, hoods low and heads down. My peridot green eyes, an unmistakable mark of my lineage, were a constant risk of exposure, so Sainte insisted my hood stayed up to avoid unwanted attention. I followed him across the bridge and into the city proper. After an hour of walking, we reached a quiet tavern.

The inhabitants of Wynterborne worked by daylight, and so in the winter months, when twilight fell sooner, villagers sought refuge in the warmth of the taverns. Though, being midday, the sun lingered high in the sky, covered by clouds, but it offered enough light for laborers to continue their tasks.

Sainte shoved the heavy door open, letting it swing shut just in time for me to catch it before it collided with my face. The air within, while warm, was stale, tinged with the lingering scent of ale and old hearth smoke. The faint crackle of embers added a subdued calm to the space. I kept my stare fixed on his broad back, squinting against the feeble light filtering through the windows.

I stuck close to his heels as he nodded a greeting at the barkeep. His weathered face betrayed a hint of suspicion as he observed us with a cautious gaze. We chose a secluded table, far removed from the only other patrons. The young men were armed to the teeth with an arsenal of unfamiliar blades and weaponry. They sipped at their mugs, dipping their chins to show they noticed my stare.

I pulled my hood lower, concealing my features, then leaned closer to Sainte.

“Oi, well there! First to the cup is first to the fun!” a buxom tavern wench called, her laughter echoing through the space as she sauntered our way. A confident grin lifted her cheeks as she propped her large hip against our table. “What will it be, then? A meal for weary travelers? An ale to start the party?”

“Bane’s Tonic.”

“Oh, you mean our Baneberry Tonic? Few ask for that. Cost ye a pretty coin, it will.”

“Wolfsbane. ”

“‘Tis the same, so it is.” She placed her clean hands on the table’s worn wooden surface. “I’ll have to pop in back to see if we have any, though. Might not be in yet.”

“Check. We’ll be here,” Sainte rumbled, sliding a gold coin her way.

My lips pressed tight. That was more wealth than I could’ve hoped to steal over a year’s time in Landing’s End.

She raised an eyebrow, her gaze shifting between us and the coin. “We don’t just give that out to stranger folk,” she remarked, her tone cautious yet curious. “‘Tis a secret recipe. The master keeps a close eye on who be partakin’ of it. Give me yer names and I’ll be passin’ them along to him.”

“Nytestorm,” Sainte said.

“And yer friend? Suppose they want the tonic too?”

“Aye.”

“Well, who are ye? Speak up, now.”

She leaned forward, attempting to peer beneath my hood, but Sainte intervened, wrapping his arm around me, pressing my body against his side. I curled into his embrace, burying my face into his shoulder.

“She’s my lass,” he said, “under my protection. That’s all your master needs to know.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ll see. I’ll check if we have it in stock. Just wait here a minute.” With that, she walked off.

Sainte released his grip, and I glanced around the table, realizing the wench had taken the coin.

“Are we meeting–”

“Shh.” He quieted me with a finger to his lips, his arm settling at my waist.

I cleared my throat and adjusted my hood, pulling it back slightly to get a better view of the room. The tavern, with its narrow windows, allowed glimpses of the dusky evening outside, where the overcast sky bloomed with soft hues of lavender and gray. Inside, the space carried the scent of aged wood and faint traces of herbs from the kitchen, mingling with the murmured conversation of the two patrons.

The wench leaned over the counter, speaking to the barkeep, who turned our way with a skeptical squint. He shook his head and said something, jerking his chin. At that, she slipped into the back room, shutting it behind her.

Sainte shifted, dropping his hand across his body to rest on the hilt of his sword. He nudged his thigh against mine as we waited, and I smiled to myself at the warm contact. I wondered if ‘lass’ meant I was playing as his daughter or something more exciting.

Moments later, the wench returned, leaning against our table. “We’ll have a delivery soon, if ye don’t mind waitin’. The master says he’s heard ‘bout ye ‘round these parts. Ye’r trustworthy enough. Not goin’ to steal his recipe. ”

“We will wait,” Sainte agreed.

“Would ye like a bite? Midday meal came and went—by the looks of ye, doubt ye had anythin’ where ye came from.”

Her judgemental words hardly fazed me. My years on the streets thickened my skin to such assumptions.

“Bread, if you have it.”

“Coming up!” she said, then sauntered off.

When she was a safe distance away, I gave Sainte a nervous glance. He arched a brow, amused, but kept his features void of expression. I wasn’t a fan of being left in the dark, but if her comment didn’t bother him, maybe I could relax. Learning to rule meant learning to trust—a lesson I still struggled with.

She brought over steaming bread and a small pat of butter. The aroma had my mouth watering in seconds. It wasn’t castle fare, but it reminded me of my childhood. Simple fresh loaves were as fancy as the meals at Landing’s End got. It was my comfort food. When Sainte and I reached for the last portion, I realized I’d eaten more than my share.

A small smile quirked the corner of his lip, and he shook his head, placing the slice in my hand. Never one to pass up an opportunity, I grinned and shoved the bread into my mouth, savoring the warmth and taste.

The wench returned some time later, collecting the plate. “The master says the delivery came, but he asks that ye take yer tonic in the next room. Worried ‘bout others seein’ it, I’d wager.”

We stood, and I tugged my hood lower. He kept his hand on the small of my back, guiding me along. The woman knocked on the same door she disappeared through earlier, then stepped aside, allowing Sainte to open it and usher me inside.

The space, lit by a single lantern, remained cloaked in shadows. I craned my neck, trying to see the figure at the table. The door shut behind us with a click, and a jolt of panic surged, hearing the lock latch in place.

“Wolf,” he ground out. His tone held steady, his hand on my back a calm anchor. He stood firm, unfazed by the eerie room or the fact that we were locked inside.

“The only Nytestorm I know of has completed the velebond to none other than our Lost Princess, Elspeth the Second Born.” A low, feminine chuckle filled the eerie space. “Come, come, Princess. You have words for me, I imagine.”

My body tensed, caught in a moment of indecision. Trapped within these walls, facing off against an uncertain foe, awareness pricked my skin. The truth of my identity lingered like an unspoken secret. Sainte’s touch grounded me, a firm presence at my back. His thumb traced soothing patterns against my spine, a silent reassurance amid the tension.

“You’re the Dire Wolf,” I said, voice raspy with intrigue .

“Ah, someone’s been telling you stories,” she mused. “Come into the light so I can see these fabled eyes everyone speaks of.”

I inhaled a slow breath, composing myself before I stepped away from Sainte’s reassuring presence. My cloak fell back as I moved, and I struggled to conceal the rush of revulsion that swept through me upon seeing the figure seated at the table.

Underneath a deep hood, a wolf’s skull grinned. Her posture relaxed with her fist propping up her chin, as if awaiting a game of cards. Bleached by the sun, the bone gleamed bright and pristine, evidence of meticulous care in its upkeep.

Cloaked in black, the woman behind the mask remained shrouded, her form obscured by the folds of her attire. The lantern’s glow danced in her irises, reflecting off their golden hue—reminiscent of a wolf’s gaze. As I drew nearer to the table, those eyes seemed to hunger, adding a layer of anticipation to the already charged atmosphere.

“Marked by the gods.” She gestured toward the lone chair opposite her. “I heard tales of a goddess’ touch upon your skin, yet it seems some blessings fade with time.”

“I returned from the second Rite with handprints on my face, be they Togamar’s or not, I don’t know.”

“One who doubts the gods?” Her tone carried a hint of mockery as she sat straighter, feigning surprise. “You are in good company, then! I, too, doubt the things I’ve seen.”

Her words hung between us, shrouded with uncertainty. She leaned back, her eyes narrowing as she studied me. “A princess, believed dead, emerges on the very day of her brother’s coronation. The people hail you as the Gods’ Chosen, yet your disdain for them is palpable.”

The room seemed to shrink with the sharp edge of her words, the tension thickening. I shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, feeling the weight of expectations press down on me.

“I’ve heard the whispers of your deeds,” she continued, her voice measured. “Riding to confront the Glades, seeking retribution for your own. Yet, I find myself asking, why? Why return unprepared to stake a claim to a throne you know nothing about? Why provoke conflict with Gladier if not for war? What drives a free spirit to embrace the chains of politics and morality?”

Her questions echoed in the silence, each one a dagger aimed at the heart of my resolve.

“You assume I had a choice.” I spoke without emotion, my expression a challenge in itself.

The room grew still as she scrutinized me, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features.

Then she laughed .

She threw herself back, howling at the ceiling as she clutched her belly. The sound was wild, untamed, like the call of a distant wolf. As she composed herself, she tilted her head in a very canine way.

“So, who brought you? Who’s the puppet master pulling your strings? I would say Adastrus, who I’ve heard recently puppeted your friend about–”

I snarled, slapping my hands on the table. “Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” A haughty smirk crept beneath her mask. “That my information is false? That I wasn’t there?”

“You couldn’t–”

“He called for witnesses. Do you believe he cared who saw your friend splayed out like a–”

Rage erupted within. I snapped, shrieking as I flung the table. It was heavier than I expected, and the lantern went flying. She lashed out, catching it before it hit the ground.

“Don’t you dare speak of–”

She lunged, cutting my threat short as she crashed into me. Breath rushed from my lungs as I collided with the hard floor, pinned by her weight. The Wolf’s skull mask leered down at me, its hollow sockets mocking my struggle. I strained against her, desperate to free myself.

“Oh, you weren’t there,” she growled. “You have no clue what happened.”

“You’re sick!”

“No—your brother is,” she said, voice cold and calculating. “Now, I want to know how he plans to use this to manipulate you—pull your strings.”

Beneath her weight, I froze, teeth gritted in fury, but also pondering her words. What drove him to such cruelty beyond mere spite? What end did it serve?

“Ah, there it is. Now she’s thinking like a player, not a pawn,” she crooned. “Adastrus acts with madness, but he’s guided by many sane minds.”

“You use his name—not his title?”

“He is no regent of mine,” she grumbled, displeasure evident. “Nytestorm, your princess is in no danger. Remove your sword from my neck, if you please.”

His shadowed silhouette moved behind her, and she pushed herself upright, straddling my hips. Her hood slipped back, revealing a cascade of light brown hair falling over her shoulder.

“I’m pleased you sought me out, Princess. It’s good to know madness doesn’t poison you both.”

“I came to discuss your attacks on the merchant convoys, not to argue my sanity,” I snapped.

“Hinyte’s caravans?” She smirked, as if proud of herself .

I shoved at her until she moved off my lap. “You’re stealing from hardworking families.”

When she stood, she offered her hand. I stared at her with unveiled skepticism, then glanced at Sainte, who blended into the shadows, sheathing his sword.

“Negotiations belong at a table, conducted by civilized individuals,” she said.

I scoffed, accepting the gesture. “Says the woman in a wolf mask.”

She chuckled, hauling me upright. “Tip for the future,” she mused as we settled in our places, “only throw a lantern when fire is acceptable collateral damage.”

“At the time, it seemed acceptable.”

She barked a laugh and crossed her arms, slumping into her seat. “So, you’re in Hinyte’s pocket, then?”

“No, of course not. We–”

“Hard to believe, Princess. You need allies, and he would be a fine one.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You say that, but you raid his caravans.”

“Only the ones that benefit Adastrus.”

“So my brother is the target, not Hinyte.”

“Sharp as a tack, you are!” she jeered, amusement flickering in her gaze.

“He doesn’t feel the pinch,” I said. “He’s unaffected.”

“Are you certain?” she asked. “Leihim came to you… but who’s pulling his strings?”

Was she insinuating that my brother directed Hinyte to manipulate me? It made sense. He could exploit my influence to draw out the Wolf, positioning himself to strike against the bandit that plagued his working class.

“Ah, there it is.” Something glittered in her eyes. “It’s all coming together, isn’t it?”

I drew in a short breath.

Ruling involved knowing when to trust—but also when not to.

“I’m not here for Hinyte.”

“No?” She reclined, head tilted in curiosity.

“I’d like to negotiate on my behalf,” I said, a mischievous smirk playing on my lips.

“Oh, do tell.”

That afternoon I stepped out of the tavern, inhaling the crisp winter air. It stung my lungs and nipped at my flushed cheeks. I welcomed its bite with a smile. I may not have been raised in this world of rulers and noble deceit, but I was adapting.

With a grin plastered to my lips, I linked my arm through Sainte’s. This had been just the push I needed to get through the day.

Yes, my friends suffered, and my heart throbbed with pain and conflict. But my brother would pay. Alliances were falling into place, allies joining my cause.

As Sainte said, I had no power yet…

Yet.