Chapter Nine: Worlds Apart
The sun blazed high in the sky as Draven surveyed the group of fifty men he had carefully selected. Each soldier stood tall, their faces grim with determination. With Levi by his side, Draven had spent hours scrutinizing the ranks, ensuring every man chosen was skilled, loyal, and prepared for the journey ahead.
"Are you certain about these men, my lord?" Levi asked, his sharp eyes scanning the soldiers.
Draven nodded, his expression stoic. "These are the best we have. This mission requires precision, not numbers."
Levi adjusted his leather gauntlet and smirked. "Well, if they fail, we'll know it wasn't your selection that was at fault."
Draven allowed himself a faint smile at his right-hand man's humor, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Despite his focus on the mission, he couldn't shake the image of Elara from his mind. Her timid yet resilient presence lingered like a soft echo in his chest.
"She must be wondering why I left so soon," he muttered under his breath.
"What was that, my lord?" Levi asked.
"Nothing," Draven replied quickly, straightening his posture. "Let's move out."
As they began their march toward the neighboring village, Draven found himself glancing back toward the castle, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirring within him.
---
Meanwhile, back at the castle, Elara was jolted awake by the icy shock of a bucket of cold water. She gasped, sitting up abruptly as the chill seeped through her thin nightgown.
"Get up!" a stern voice barked.
Elara blinked through the water dripping down her face and saw the head maid, a stout woman with a permanent scowl etched into her features, standing over her.
"Sleeping in like a lady of leisure is over," the maid snapped. "You're no longer a princess here. You're a servant now, and you'll act like one."
Elara's heart sank, and her body trembled—not from the cold, but from the weight of her new reality. "But—"
"No buts!" the maid interrupted, tossing a rough cloth into her lap. "Dry yourself and get to the kitchen. You've been assigned to prepare the king's meal today."
Elara stared at the woman, wide-eyed. "I… I don't know how to cook."
The maid crossed her arms and sneered. "Then you'd better learn quickly. The king won't tolerate incompetence."
As the maid turned on her heel and left, Elara sat frozen in disbelief. Her fingers clenched the cloth as frustration and fear welled up inside her.
---
In the grand, bustling kitchen, Elara stood among the seasoned cooks and servants, feeling completely out of place. The scents of roasting meat and simmering sauces filled the air, and the sound of knives chopping and pots clanging created a chaotic symphony.
A grizzled cook shoved a tray of raw ingredients toward her. "Start with this. The king likes his meat seasoned perfectly."
Elara hesitated, staring at the unfamiliar herbs and spices. "I don't know how to—"
"No excuses!" the cook barked. "Get to work, or you'll be cleaning the stables by nightfall."
Swallowing her pride, Elara tentatively picked up a knife and began chopping the vegetables. Her fingers trembled as she worked, and more than once, she nicked herself on the blade. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away, determined not to show weakness.
As the hours dragged on, Elara found herself fumbling through the tasks, drawing the ire of the cooks around her. The harsh words and glares stung, but she pressed on, knowing she had no other choice.
---
In the late afternoon, Draven and his men made camp near a river. Levi approached with two bowls of stew, handing one to Draven.
"You've been quiet all day," Levi remarked, settling down beside him.
Draven stared into the flames of the campfire, his expression unreadable. "It's nothing."
Levi chuckled. "You're thinking about her, aren't you?"
Draven shot him a sharp look, but Levi's smirk didn't falter.
"It's only natural," Levi continued. "She's your wife, after all."
Draven sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I just hope she's… managing."
Levi's tone softened. "She'll be fine. She seems stronger than she looks."
Draven didn't respond, but deep down, he hoped Levi was right.
---
As the sun set over the castle, Elara finally finished her tasks in the kitchen. Her arms ached, her feet throbbed, and her spirit felt drained. She trudged back to the servant quarters, her mind clouded with thoughts of Draven.
Despite the hardships, she found herself yearning for his presence, his quiet strength, and the kindness he had shown her. She clung to the hope that he would return soon, and that this ordeal would pass.
For now, all she could do was endure—and find strength in the promise she had made to herself: to survive, no matter what.
---
As the final preparations for the king's meal were made, Elara stood at the edge of the bustling kitchen, her hands trembling as she wiped sweat from her brow. The head cook had inspected her work with a gruff nod and quickly plated the dishes for the king's dining table.
Elara's heart pounded in her chest as she watched the servants carry the trays away. She had done her best, but doubt gnawed at her. She didn't even know if the seasoning she had used was correct.
"Let's hope he doesn't notice," the cook muttered under his breath, throwing a scornful glance at Elara. "Or it's your neck on the line, girl."
Elara said nothing, her lips pressed into a thin line as she wrung her hands nervously.
---
In the grand dining hall, the king reclined in his chair, his piercing gaze scanning the table as the food was served. His advisors and attendants stood silently nearby, awaiting his reaction.
Lifting a forkful of the spiced meat to his lips, the king chewed thoughtfully. A moment later, his face twisted in displeasure. He slammed his fork down, causing the room to fall into a tense silence.
"Who prepared this?" he demanded, his deep voice reverberating through the hall.
The head butler stepped forward hesitantly. "Your Majesty, the kitchen staff—"
"Find the one responsible!" the king bellowed, his eyes narrowing. "This is an insult. The seasoning is overpowering, the spice intolerable. Bring the culprit here immediately!"
---
Back in the kitchen, Elara was scrubbing a cutting board when the doors burst open. A pair of guards stormed in, their expressions grim.
"The king demands to see the one who prepared his meal," one of them announced.
Elara froze, the blood draining from her face. The head cook turned to her, his face twisted in a mix of anger and pity.
"It's you," he muttered.
Before Elara could protest, the guards seized her by the arms and dragged her through the halls.
---
In the dining hall, the king's gaze fell upon Elara as she was shoved to her knees before him. His brows furrowed in confusion.
"You?" he said, his tone laced with disbelief. "What is the meaning of this?"
The head maid stepped forward quickly, bowing low. "Your Majesty, the girl is no longer a princess. She has been reassigned to serve as a maid due to her… lack of contribution to the household."
The king's frown deepened, but he seemed to accept the explanation. "Very well," he said coldly. "If she is a maid, she will be treated as one."
He turned his glare to Elara. "You insult me with this pathetic excuse for a meal. Ten lashes for your incompetence, and you will be denied dinner tonight."
Elara's heart sank as the words left his mouth. She bit her lip to keep from crying, her body trembling as the guards hauled her to her feet and led her away.
---
The courtyard was quiet as the punishment was carried out. Elara gritted her teeth, her hands gripping the wooden post tightly as the whip cracked against her back. The pain was searing, but she refused to cry out, determined not to give the onlookers the satisfaction of seeing her break.
By the time it was over, she could barely stand. The guards unshackled her, and she collapsed to her knees, her body wracked with exhaustion and agony.
"Get up," the head maid snapped. "You have more work to do."
Elara forced herself to her feet, her vision swimming as she stumbled back toward the servants' quarters.
---
Later that evening, as the castle quieted for the night, Elara lay curled up on the thin cot in the servants' quarters. Her back throbbed with every breath, and her stomach ached from hunger.
She stared at the ceiling, tears streaming silently down her face. The pain, the humiliation, and the isolation were overwhelming. For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder if she would survive this life.
But then, the image of Draven flashed in her mind—the way he had looked at her with quiet understanding, the small kindnesses he had shown her. She clung to that image, using it as a lifeline.
"I have to endure," she whispered to herself. "For him… and for me."
With that thought, she closed her eyes and let sleep claim her, hoping that tomorrow would bring a glimmer of solace in the darkness.