Joya ran as fast as her legs could go;
She ran not just to protect herself but to get help.
If she could get help, Omelia might still make it right?
She kept running, the sound of her feet tapping the floor, her dress in the wind, and her hair flapping behind her.
She felt tears sting her eyes.
Why was she crying?
She had just watched Omelia get pierced by a knife! She was more than shocked; she was petrified. How did the intruder get past the walls of the castle?
Joya felt guilty, guilty for betraying her mistress. Aren't maids supposed to risk their lives for their mistress? There is a possibility she could be beheaded for this.
Joya ran towards the direction of Vagor's chamber. She got to the door and was about to push it open when she heard a voice shouting in exasperation.
The double door was slightly opened; she peered into the little space, and from where she stood, she could see what was happening in the chamber.
"You can't do anything right! Vagor screamed at the incompetent man he had told to do a single job but couldn't carry it out successfully.
"Forgive me for my lack of discernment, my lord. How was I supposed to know I didn't kill the right maid? There are a lot of them in the palace." The man pleaded, not daring to meet Vagor's gaze.
"Silence! Vagor shrilled, covered up the space between them, and then gripped the man by his neck.
Raising the head of a dead maid in the air, which was cut off from the body, he glared at the man with disgust.
"This is not the maid. Her name is Joya; she ruined my life! Exposing the very secrets I have tried to keep for many years, I want her dead before the break of dawn, do you hear me?!
Vagor questioned, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets, and the man he was talking to nodded breathlessly.
Joya was astonished. She couldn't believe her ears; she took some steps backwards, her hand pressing against her chest, as if she was finding it hard to breathe.
She wasn't the one who exposed Vagor's taste for men, but she was going to bear the consequences. She was the only one he told, after all; he wouldn't believe her if she denied saying a word.
Forgetting what she had come here to do, Joya instinctively turned around, her hair catching the wind. This time she wouldn't run because she was going to get help; she would run because her life was on the line.
Her days in this palace had definitely come to an end. The countdown had begun long ago, but she just wasn't aware of it. If she doesn't flee before the break of dawn…she will be killed, murdered in cold blood.
Once again tears stung Joya's eyes, but now wasn't the time to cry. As she made her way through the corridors, she saw some guards making their way to Omelia's chamber.
It has been discovered that Omelia was attacked…dead.
Joya tried to act normal; she wiped her tears away and composed herself in a way a maid should behave. As her steps quickened, she heard the loud cry of the queen.
Queen Friya…she must be weeping for her daughter. All hell broke loose in a split minute; the maids and guards began to whisper, and quick steps of knights taking position in strategic points in the palace were heard.
Joya couldn't walk at this moment… She began to run. By the time she found herself outside, the king had already given orders that the palace gate should be shut to prevent the intruder from escaping.
"Close the gates! Close the gates!
A guard screamed from the watchtower; Joya's pulse raced. She was already outside the building but still within the vicinity of the castle. She looked around, her head snapping in all directions; she spotted a white house attached to a cart loaded with goods, just by the corner.
"I don't know how to ride a horse! Joya ran her hand through her hair as she bit her lips bitterly.
But she still made her way towards the horse, and as she did, flashes of her memories began to fade in.
Not exactly her memory, but Katie's memory.
She had a dream about Katie riding a horse through a forest once, accompanied by other queens and a king.
Joya quickly detached the horse from the cart, focusing on the memories in her head. She climbed on the horse the same way she had remembered Katie mounting the horse in her dreams.
The iron bars of the gate were beginning to pull down. Joya didn't think this time; she immediately kicked the horse, and the horse sprang to life, throwing its forehands in the air.
Joya gasped in horror but held the reins firmly, turning the horse in the direction of the gate.
"Hey…what are you doing? One of the guards who ran out of the palace to keep check on the intruder screamed.
Joya kicked the horse, and it sprang faster, heading to the iron gates that were slowly pulling down. When the guard at the watchtower realized a maid was trying to escape with one of the king's horses, he became alarmed.
"She must be an ally of the intruder." He thought. Then he immediately screamed.
"Don't let that maid get away!
But it was already too late. Joya had just dived out of the castle gates still on the horse, which was galloping at a fast pace.
She didn't look back; she kept riding the horse, and as she did, memories of Katie riding a horse flashed through her head, and slowly she was able to fully control the horse.
She couldn't tell it was Katie in the dreams she had; she thought it was herself. She felt she had another life before now. She couldn't even explain what was happening to her.
Joya continued to ride the horse on a lonely road. At a point she lost focus, and the horse stumbled on a rock. The horse didn't lose its balance, but the reins faltered from Joya's hand, and she fell with a thud, her face kissing the dust.
Her head began to throb with pain, and her forehead was bruised.
She felt like crying; she wanted to curse life itself, but she didn't. Instead she steadily rose to her feet; she was about to mount the horse again when something crossed her mind.
The horse! Wherever the horse was, the guards would know that is where she would surely be. Joya blinked her eyes a few times before taking some steps backwards.
She turned away from the horse, diverting to another road, and continued the rest of her journey on foot.
Night pressed down like a burden as Joya continued to walk without direction of where she was heading. She stumbled down the cracked, empty road, the soles of her shoes flapping with each step, barely holding together. Dirt clung to her torn clothes.
Her breath came in shallow, broken gulps, and her eyes flicked back now and then—haunted, watching the dark.
She didn't know how long she'd been walking. Hours?
Her legs moved on instinct now, driven only by the raw edge of survival. Somewhere behind her were the people who had wanted her gone. Dead. But she was still breathing.
Morning crawled in slowly, the rays of the sun rising from the east, settling in. Joya was still walking non-stop, refusing to give up. But her pace was now terribly slow; she was exhausted.
She took a sharp bend in the road that led to a break in the trees—and the faint sound of trickling water. Her head snapped up.
She pushed through the underbrush. Branches scraped her arms, but she didn't care. The sound grew louder. Clearer. Real.
Then, suddenly, there it was: a stream, silver under the glow of the morning sun.
She collapsed at the edge, not kneeling, just falling, catching herself on shaking hands. Her reflection stared back—wild eyes, disheveled hair, and a smear of dried blood across her forehead.
She cupped the cold water in both hands and drank greedily, gasping between gulps. The water spilled down her chin and soaked into her dress, but she didn't stop. It tasted like life.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the last of the stream's cold water dripping down her wrist. It had steadied her just enough.
She pushed herself to her feet—slowly, unsteadily—her legs aching from the journey.
She walked on, through low brush and open fields, until the world began to stir ahead.
For a moment she paused and gazed ahead; she saw a village bustling with life, a short distance from where she stood. She sighed in relief, a bit thankful she made it alive.
By the time she reached the outer edge of the village, she felt she would faint from exhaustion. Smoke rose from small chimneys, and the air carried the scent of woodfire and fresh bread.
Market stalls lined the cobbled path, canopies fluttering in the breeze. Vendors arranged fruits and vegetables in neat piles, while children chased each other barefoot between baskets and crates.
Chickens clucked lazily in the dust, and the clustering voice of villagers filled the air.
She stepped into the flow, blending in, or trying to. Her clothes were torn, stained with dirt and the memory of last night. Her face was drawn, pale, eyes ringed with sleeplessness. But no one stopped her. No one asked where she came from.
She moved through the market unnoticed.
She wandered deeper into the market, her eyes scanning the stalls without focus. The scent of baked bread hit her hard, warm, and fresh from the oven. It made her stomach twist painfully.
A loud growl escaped from deep within her gut. She winced and placed a hand over her stomach as if to quiet it.
Her eyes landed on a stall where a man stood behind neat rows of bread loaves, steam still rising from a few of them. He was thick-shouldered, with flour dusted into his sleeves and sweat shining on his forehead.
He moved quickly, handing loaves to customers and collecting coins in return.
She moved closer to where the throngs of people gathered around the man's stall.
Somehow she managed to push through the crowd and found her way to the front row.
The man looked up, startled—then scowled when he took in her appearance: the tangled hair, the ragged clothes, and the bruises she hadn't noticed forming. She didn't look like a customer. She looked like trouble.
"Please, sir, just a loaf. It will go a long way." Joya shamelessly pleaded, stretching her hand out.
"I do not run a charity business; I have nothing to give." The man sidestepped Joya's pleas. He focused his attention on other customers.
"I…don't have money," she added, voice cracking. "But I haven't eaten—"
"Then leave," he snapped, slamming a wooden crate shut beside him.
She flinched.
"You think I bake this for beggars?" he said, raising his voice. Joya was about to plead more, but the man shrilled.
"Get out of here!
Joya's shoulders dropped, and just as she turned to leave, she spotted some palace guards parading the market streets.
Her eyes twitched; she quickly made her way out of the crowd and went to a secluded corner.
She lowered herself onto the cold stone steps of a shuttered doorway, clutching her dress around her. She palmed her face and was buried in her thoughts for a while.
Her trembling hands slipped from her face, and her gaze fell on a shard of green glass half-buried in the dirt. A broken bottle, sharp-edged and glinting faintly in the dim light.
She picked it up carefully, testing its edge with her thumb. The reflection staring back at her in the glass was unmistakable—too familiar, too close to the sketch clutched in the guard's hand.
She knew they would come for her; they won't stop until her head is hung on a spike. She had to do the needful to change her appearance, even if it meant sacrificing one of the features that made her beauty strikingly prominent.
Joya's eyes became distant; without thinking twice, she palmed a fistful of her dark hair. Using the broken bottle, she sliced off her hair, and the length shortened.
The first slice was clumsy and uneven, with strands sticking to her fingers as they fell into her lap. She hissed when the sharp edge of the bottle shard grazed her skin but didn't stop. Handful after handful, she hacked away her hair, leaving the cobblestones littered with black hair.
When at last she let the shard fall, her hair was short, ragged, and uneven around her face, but her reflection was no longer like that of her former self.
She now looked like a whole different person, stung by the instinct to survive.