The harsh clang of iron against iron echoed through the desolate slave caravan as dawn broke over the horizon. Princess Althaea Dawnstorm, chained like an animal, stumbled forward under the weight of exhaustion and despair. Her wrists, raw from the iron manacles, bore the cruel evidence of her captors' lack of mercy. The crescent moon tattoo on her left shoulder, once a symbol of her royal heritage, was now hidden beneath layers of dirt and torn fabric.
Eryndor, her homeland, was gone—razed to the ground by the northern invaders who had claimed victory. She had fought alongside her people until the end, her bowstring singing death in the final hours of resistance. But it hadn't been enough. Now, she was a trophy of war, her defiance earning her a place at the feet of the western kingdom's rulers.
"Keep moving!" barked one of the guards, shoving her forward with the butt of his spear.
Althaea didn't flinch. Her grey eyes, fierce and unyielding, met the guard's with a defiance that hadn't dimmed, even in captivity. The man hesitated, unnerved, but quickly recovered and averted his gaze.
Ahead loomed the gates of Luthadel, the capital of the western kingdom. The city was unlike anything Althaea had ever seen its towering spires of white stone glimmered in the morning light, and the streets bustled with life. To her, it was a gilded cage, beautiful on the outside but rotten at its core.
As the caravan entered the city, the jeering of the crowd intensified. Children threw stones, and merchants paused their bargaining to sneer at the slaves. Althaea ignored them, her gaze fixed on the imposing palace at the heart of the city.
In the palace courtyard, Prince Alden Roderic stood with his arms crossed, his golden hair catching the sunlight. He surveyed the arriving slaves with a critical eye, his expression unreadable. At twenty-four, Alden was every bit the picture of a future king tall, broad-shouldered, and commanding. But beneath his stoic exterior lay a growing discontent with the kingdom's practices.
"Another group from Eryndor?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with disdain.
"Yes, Your Highness," replied Lord Magnus Treynor, his uncle and chief advisor. Magnus was a man of sharp features and sharper words, his cruelty masked by an air of sophistication. "The spoils of war, as it were. You'll find them… useful."
Alden's gaze landed on Althaea as she was dragged forward. Her posture, though restrained by chains, radiated strength. Her eyes locked onto his, a storm of anger and defiance meeting his cool, assessing stare.
"Her," Alden said abruptly, gesturing to Althaea.
Magnus raised an eyebrow. "The wild one? She's trouble, Your Highness."
"Exactly," Alden said, his tone clipped. "Trouble is often the best teacher."
Althaea was unshackled and brought before Alden. She didn't bow, didn't lower her gaze. Instead, she stood tall, her chin tilted upward in silent rebellion.
"Do you understand me?" Alden asked, his voice firm but not unkind.
Althaea didn't reply. The language of Luthadel was foreign to her, its lilting syllables like the babbling of a brook unintelligible and distant. But his tone spoke volumes. She held his gaze, refusing to cower.
Magnus chuckled. "Perhaps a whip will loosen her tongue."
Alden's jaw tightened. "That won't be necessary," he said sharply. He turned back to Althaea. "You'll serve in the palace. Under my watch."
Magnus's expression darkened, but he said nothing, though the set of his jaw betrayed his displeasure.
That night, Althaea sat in the servant's quarters, her chains replaced by a simple iron cuff around her wrist. The other slaves whispered in hushed tones, casting wary glances at her.
"Who is she?" one murmured.
"A warrior from Eryndor," another replied. "They say she killed a dozen men before they captured her."
Althaea ignored them. Her mind was already racing, plotting. She needed to escape, to return to Eryndor—or what was left of it. But for that, she needed to understand her captors, their language, their weaknesses.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a young servant girl, no older than twelve. She carried a tray of bread and water, her hands trembling as she placed it before Althaea.
"You'll need your strength," the girl whispered in Eryndorian, her accent thick but understandable.
Althaea's eyes widened. "You speak my tongue?"
The girl nodded quickly. "Quietly," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "They'll punish me if they know."
"Who are you?" Althaea asked.
"Calla," the girl replied. "I was taken years ago. I'll help you… if I can."
Althaea studied her, searching for signs of deceit. But the girl's wide, fearful eyes held nothing but sincerity.
"Thank you," Althaea said finally, taking the bread. She would need allies if she were to survive and escape.
In his chambers, Alden sat by the fire, lost in thought. His encounter with Althaea had unsettled him in ways he couldn't quite articulate. She was unlike anyone he'd ever met fierce, unyielding, and utterly unapologetic.
"She's dangerous," Magnus had warned him earlier.
Alden smiled faintly. "Yes," he murmured to himself. "But perhaps that's exactly what we need."