But I need food. I need strength to run.
It is already hard enough to escape from here, to outrun them—and if I starve myself, I won't survive even if a perfect opportunity appears.
This time, I cannot afford to be emotional. I have to think logically.
If I don't eat, the only one who will suffer is me.
So… I convince myself to agree.
Yes. I will eat.
I reach for my plate, but just as my fingers are about to touch it, a sudden idea strikes me bringing a spark in my eyes.
I shouldn't eat from this plate.l should eat from the other one. That way, I can fill my stomach and still make him believe I haven't eaten at all—because my plate will remain untouched .
A slow smile curves on my lips.
Proud.
Satisfied.
Sometimes, survival requires a little cleverness too. I rush to the door and peep outside again, making sure they are still busy.
Yes… they are.
I turn slowly and tiptoe toward the shelf. My hands are still tied which is making things difficult, but hunger pushes me forward—I don't have the time to untie them now.
Carefully, I lift another plate . I am trying my very best to dobt make any sound . I creep towards the pot. My movements are slow and cautious, every step measured.
When I lift the lid, a warm cloud of steam rises—and the smell of the pottage hits me all at once.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes , and enjoy that delicious aroma rising from the pot.
I fill the plate as quietly as I can, holding my breath with every small movement.
I take my first bite. It is… incredible.
I stare at the plate in disbelief.
How can something so simple taste this good?
I take another bite, slower this time, and close my eyes. The warmth spreads through my mouth, the flavor melting on my tongue, sending a strange comfort through my body.
For a moment, I forget the ropes, the hut, and the danger outside. All that exists is this bowl of food…
and the relief of not being hungry anymore.
The sound of steel clashing outside make me open my eyes. I should hurry .
I start gulping it down quickly, hunger racing together inside me. Every swallow feels urgent, as if time itself is chasing me.
I finish the plate.
Now I have to wash it and return it to the shelf.
But… my tongue still aches for that taste. No. I have to put it back before they return.
Yet the thought creeps in—when will I get another chance to eat?.... I should eat a little more .
I swallow hard, torn between caution and craving, standing there with the empty plate in my tied hands—
knowing this stolen moment could vanish any second.
My hands hesitate. I move back to the door and peek outside once more.
They are still practicing.
Their swords flash in the sunlight, distant and unaware.
Good.
I take the plate again and refill it, my movements quick and careful. I gulp everything down before doubt can stop me. Then I move toward the washing corner. This is the first time in my life I am washing utensils.
My tied hands make it even harder—awkward, clumsy, unfamiliar.
Water splashes against the metal as I struggle to hold the plate steady. I scrub until no trace of food remains. At last, it is clean.
I carry it back and place it on the shelf, slow and cautious, making sure it makes no sound.
Everything looks untouched.
As if I was never here.
I smile appear on my face as I stand there satisfied .
My gaze fell on a big basket nearby filled with some fruits. Should I take few? If next time I don't get to eat like this , I will have fruits to eat .
I grab a few bananas and hurry back to my mattress.I need to hide them here.
But this thin mattress—how am I supposed to hide anything under it?
I separate each banana and arrange them in a careful line along the wall. Then I pull the mattress over them, covering them completely.
I stand up and inspect my work.I look from different angles—
from the door,
from the clay stove,
from the corner where Richard rests his head when he sleeps.
It looks normal.
Nothing seems out of place.
Amira, you are amazing. I keep staring at the mattress, feeling proud of myself.
Suddenly, the loud clash of swords snaps me out of my thoughts.
I glance down at my tied wrists. I need to find a knife or something sharp—so next time, it won't take this long to free myself, and I won't be stuck only loosening my ankles.
I move toward the shelves and start searching for anything useful.
Then I see it.
A knife set rests on the top shelf.
A slow smile curves over my lips as my eyes lock onto it.
I reach up slowly and slide a small knife from the set, careful not to make a sound.
But the moment the blade leaves its place, my tied hands brush against a metal jug.
It wobbles.
My breath stops.
Before it can fall, I lunge forward and catch it in midair. The jug stays in my grip—but my sudden movement sends my head straight into the shelf.
Crash.
Glasses rain down like falling stars.
They slam against the floor, their sharp clatter echoing through the room.
My heart nearly jumps out of my chest.
"Oh no…" I whisper, my voice shaking.
For a second, I stand frozen .
My hands tremble as I place the jug back in its spot. Then I drop into a crouch and start gathering the fallen glasses, one by one.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Each movement feels too loud.
Each tiny clink sounds like a scream in the silence.
I hold my breath every time glass touches wood, afraid the noise will travel through the walls and betray me.
Sweat trickles down my spine as I finish placing the last glass back on the shelf, my pulse pounding so hard it hurts.
The room goes still again. And I realize—I was one sound away from being caught.
"Done. I must tie myself back, or he will truly kill me."
I rush to my mattress, slip the knife under it, hiding it carefully beneath the thin mattress. Then I grab the rope and begin wrapping it around my wrists again.
One loop.
Two loops—loose enough to escape later.
I pause.
They should be here by now… if they heard the glasses.
My ears strain for footsteps. None come.
Maybe they heard nothing, I tell myself. Steel striking clay doesn't sound that loud anyway.
Still, I cannot risk it.
I tighten the rope just enough to look convincing.
It's not like I can run right now.
Not yet. For now, I have to tie myself and stay here in silence, waiting for the right moment.
I circle the rope around my ankles again and secure it with a knot.
When I'm done, I lean my head back against the wall and take a slow, shaky breath.
Thoughts starts racing in my head. What must be happening in the palace right now?
Did Sophie get what she wanted?
Father must have sent soldiers in every direction to search for me. He must be worried… desperate.
But what if ,they never find me?
Would they even miss me?
My mother—who always hated me.
Sophie.
William.
Stephan.
They would forget me in days.
Maybe only Henry… and of course my father… would care.
The rest wouldn't matter whether I return or die here.
No, Amira. I shake my head to break the chain of these thoughts. Don't think like that. I won't stay here forever.
I will run.
For myself.
For my father.
I will escape.
A stream of thoughts runs through my mind, and I don't even realize when sleep takes over.
.
.
After a while, the loud bang of the door snapping open jolts me awake.
Arthur has returned. He must have washed after practice—his hair is still wet, dark strands clinging to his forehead as water drips onto the floor.
Thin streams of water slide through his damp hair, tracing slow paths down his face , and along his neck.
His breathing is heavy, his chest rising and falling , as if the training still clings to him. The combination of wet hair, sweat, his heavy breathing and his powerful build makes him look dangerously imposing—almost unreal.
He lifts a towel and runs it through his hair, rough and careless. His sleeves are rolled halfway up his arms, exposing veins that stand out sharply against his skin, outlining the strength beneath. Every movement is effortless, as though he doesn't need to try to command attention—it simply happens.
He sits beside the door, resting his back against the pillar, one knee bend and still drying his hair. His neck tilts slightly as he rubs the towel over the back of his head, making the veins in his neck stand out.
The room seems smaller with him there. I don't mean to stare, but his presence , pulls my focus.
He is facing me.
His eyes flick toward mine, sharp and unreadable. I look away instantly, pretending to be looking at the wall instead. My heart beats faster than it should, and I shake my head slightly, as if that will knock some sense back into me. I am definitely not in my right mind.
"You still haven't eaten, huh?" he says.
Then, with that infuriating edge in his voice, he adds, "What are you waiting for? .... your chefs and servants , to bring hundred kinds of royal dishes in front of you?"
The coldness in his tone forces my gaze back to him.
He is still sitting there, one leg bent, his back resting against the pillar. His neck is still tilted slightly as he dries the back of his head with the towel, slow and careless. A few damp strands of hair cling to his forehead. Water still glistens faintly along his jaw.
He looks fine—until he opens his damn mouth.
I press my lips together and turn away again, folding my arms. Answering him would be worthless. So I ignore him.
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the soft sound of the towel against his hair and his steady breathing.
"So, you are planning to commit suicide ,by starving yourself?" he shoots at me in a mocking tone.
"Suicide? Huh… I have no plans of dying, mister," I reply, matching his tone.
"Well, the whole world believes food is essential for living," he says mockingly . "People die, you know, when they don't eat. But maybe it's different in your kingdom. Maybe you have some kind of special powers or something—maybe you don't die even if you stop eating."
"You—"He cuts me off, his voice turning sharper.
"Betraying others must be enough to feed you," he continues.This time, it isn't mockery.
His eyes darken, and something dangerous flashes in them.
"What are you even saying? Did you hit your head while practicing?" I snap. "What betrayal? huh ? Tell me—why do you call us traitors every time? WHO DID WE BETRAY?"
He says nothing. Instead, he turns his face toward the door as Richard steps inside.
"I'm exhausted—and starving too," Richard says casually as he walks to the shelves and started picking plates.
He has clearly washed up after practice. Water still drips from his hair and slides down his face and hands, darkening his clothes in small patches. His damp footsteps leave faint marks on the floor as he moves.
Richard starts gathering the plates. He picks up three of them and then glances toward me, his eyes searching for my plate—the one still sitting untouched.
He looks at Arthur, hesitating, as if silently asking what he should do now… whether he should take a plate for me or leave it.
"Are you going to eat now?" Arthur says coldly as he walks toward Richard, "or are you still planning to starve yourself to death?"
I do not answer him. I turn my face away, refusing to meet his eyes.
They are both tired now, too exhausted to argue.
But my mind races. Will they notice ,that the pot holds less pottage than it did in the morning? I eat two full plates. Of course it will be noticeable.
I watch them closely, silently praying they do not look too carefully.
They each take a plate and sit down beside the clay stove. Richard lifts the lid of the pot.
He pauses and so does my breathing.
I swallow hard. Oh no… he noticed. What would happen now. What if they ask me about it. What should i say, where did food go?
"What now ? " Arthur's voice break my chain of thoughts. "Why are you staring at the pot like that? Just fill the plate already. I'm starving," Arthur says impatiently.
Richard tilts his head slightly, still peering inside the pot. His brows draw together, his eyes narrowing as if the answer might appear if he looks long enough.
"There's… barely anything left," he says slowly. "I—I'm sure there was more food this morning."
His voice is uncertain, almost disturbed.
My chest tightens.I turn my face away at once, forcing myself to look calm. Food ?What food? They gave me a plate and I never touched it. So how could the food be missing? I didn't eat it and dont know who ate it. There food is missing which i have nothing to do about.
My fingers curl slightly against my skirt. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
If they look at me now… if they even glance my way…
I keep my gaze fixed on the floor, pretending I hear nothing, pretending I know nothing—
while every breath I take feels too loud .