"Princess Melantha!"
The voice came in a whisper— dry, strained, and full of sorrow.
Melantha tilted her head toward Maelle, her neck stiff with pain. She'd been staring at the dark sky for a long time. Small raindrops slipped through the slats of the wooden cage, cramping them.
The chariot whizzed as it lurched through a rut, jarring her back against the wooden plank behind. In the stifling darkness, a cloying mixture of mud, sweat, and blood filled the air. The groaning of the crowd, coughs, and cries quietened as the hooves of horses passed by them; horror filled the place.
No one moved. No one breathed.
Maelle's warm hand found her frozen fingers.
"Princ—"
"Do not call me that!" Her voice was cold and firm, staring blankly ahead.
"The princess died with them."
Melantha closed her eyes, her body swaying with the jerking movement of the chariot, letting herself drift — not to sleep, but to a time before everything fell apart…
Days earlier:
Melantha's laughter echoed through the meadow like a melody. The wind swept across her rosy face, stirring her long chestnut hair as her white mare galloped through the blossoming fields. Spring roses bloomed in every colour, scarlet, violet, and golden, creating a breathtaking scenery.
She slowed down the horse as she observed the fields—a riot of life called Fellemere. Despite watching it many times, she could not stop being amazed every spring she visited.
"Princess, Princess."
Melantha frowned upon hearing Ysara's voice. She hopped off her white horse when a carriage stopped beside her.
"Ysara! I told you not to follow me!" Melantha said, annoyed.
"Princess! The queen ordered me to return you to the palace. Her Majesty was enraged by your escape from the gathering last night," Ysara explained, sliding away for Melantha to get inside the carriage.
Melantha scoffed and walked away with the reins in her hand. "I will return after spending a few days in the farmhouse," she said stubbornly.
"But—"
"No buts! This isn't the first time I've run off. I'll make it up to her when I return. Let me enjoy this time." She put on a mock-innocent face and fluttered her long lashes. "Who knows—maybe I'll never get to see this place again."
Ysara let a long sigh. "You solve it later with the queen."
Melantha's frown vanished, replaced by a bright smile. Getting her way always brought her joy. She hugged Ysara's arm and walked away, showing her around.
"Can you at least get inside the carriage? It must be tiring travelling by horse," Ysara insisted.
Melantha shook her head in disagreement, dragging Ysara with her.
"The princess is already nineteen," Ysara muttered. "This behaviour might be charming now, but the Queen is right. It is time for you to act like a princess. You cannot run from your duties forever. The princess should learn to take responsibility soon," Ysara replied with imposed words.
Melantha hummed in agreement to stop her maid from repeating the same words.
"We have plenty of time," she said, smiling at her maid.
The two exchanged a quiet look, understanding each other's thoughts.
"Let's go."
Melantha walked on, Ysara's words echoing in her mind. She knew her duty. But she hated the endless repetition of palace life—lessons in politics, etiquette, law, and diplomacy. Every day felt like a cage.
Remembering how her mother kept introducing her to noblemen while encouraging her to start a discussion made her frown. First was studying, then it arrived at her marriage! She liked her freedom and hated being imprisoned with palace duties or house management.
As they strode toward the farmhouse, field workers called out to her.
"Afternoon, young lady! It's been a while!"
"Busy with studies," Melantha replied with a grin.
She read a letter aloud for an old farmer, helped a young girl choose a name for her lamb, and left with a basket of apples in her arms.
Later that evening, after a hearty greeting from the steward and the servants and a big meal, Melantha collapsed onto her bed. The scent of jasmine and chamomile tea filled the room.
Exhausted, she drifted to sleep with a smile.
Days passed in peace. Melantha's smile rarely left her face. The farmhouse was alive with gentle voices, the chirping of birds, and the scent of roses drifting through the breeze.
"Weren't you planning to go back?" came Ysara's voice one morning, interrupting her quiet thoughts.
Melantha groaned. "There's no letter from the palace. Maybe they forgot about me. Isn't that a blessing?"
"Perhaps—"
Hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. The steward burst into the room, pale and breathless.
"Milady! T—the kingdom is under attack!"