The crown of Aethelgard was made of white gold and ancient starlight, crafted by the first smiths of the Dragontooth Mountains. It was a masterpiece of art, a symbol of absolute authority, and the most beautiful thing in the kingdom.
It was also, Erika decided, incredibly heavy.
She sat at the mahogany desk in her private study, the crown resting on a velvet pillow beside a stack of parchment that looked tall enough to rival the city walls.
"Grain tariffs for the southern duchies," a voice droned from the shadows. "Followed by a petition from the Merchants' Guild regarding the tax on imported silk from Mirage. And finally, the approval for the Festival of Light's security budget."
Erika rubbed her temples, her fingers smelling faintly of ink. She looked up at the man standing across from her.
Lord Blake, the Royal Advisor, smiled. It was a practiced expression, smooth and sharp, like a dagger wrapped in velvet. He was a tall man with slicked-back black hair and eyes that always seemed to be calculating the cost of everything in the room, including Erika herself.
"Blake," Erika said, her voice sounding tired even to her own ears. "It is past sundown. Surely the merchants can wait until morning to argue about silk?"
"The Crown never sleeps, Your Majesty," Blake bowed, though the movement felt mocking. "Instability is growing. There are whispers of unrest in the lower districts. A strong ruler must be vigilant."
"A strong ruler needs sleep," Erika countered, pushing the parchment away. "Leave the budget here. I will review it. You are dismissed."
Blake hesitated. For a second, his smile faltered, replaced by a flash of annoyance, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "As you wish, my Queen. But remember... heavy is the head that wears the crown."
He turned and glided out of the room, his black robes trailing behind him like a shadow.
As soon as the heavy oak doors clicked shut, Erika slumped in her chair, letting out a groan that was entirely un-queen-like. She was eighteen years old. In any other life, she would be dancing at the upcoming festival, or falling in love, or simply looking at the stars without worrying about the security budget.
But she was the daughter of Alaric. The last of her line.
She stood up and walked to the balcony. The city of Aethelgard stretched out below her, a sea of flickering torches and lantern light. She could hear the faint music of lutes and drums drifting up from the taverns. People were laughing. Living.
"It looks fun down there," she whispered to the cold wind. "Maybe—"
She looked back at the crown. Then at the door.
A mischievous glint sparked in her sapphire eyes. It was a look that would have terrified Lord Blake had he seen it.
Twenty minutes later, the Queen of Aethelgard was gone.
In her place stood a girl in a simple brown tunic, oversized trousers tucked into worn leather boots, and a heavy gray cloak. She had tied her golden hair up under a rough woolen cap, hiding the distinct shimmer that marked her royal blood.
She cracked open the hidden panel behind the bookshelf—a secret passage used by servants and, occasionally, bored monarchs. She moved with a grace that wasn't taught in court etiquette classes, slipping into the dark stone corridor.
She emerged into the cool night air of the Castle Gardens, near the servants' gate. She took a deep breath, tasting the pine and earth, free of the scent of old parchment.
"Going somewhere, My Lady?"
Erika froze. She groaned, closing her eyes. "Conrad."
She turned around. Leaning against a statue of a weeping angel was a mountain of a man. Conrad, the Last Guardian, looked less like a knight and more like a bear that had learned to wear armor. He had a sword strapped to his back that was nearly as tall as Erika, and a face scarred by a thousand battles.
He wasn't wearing his helmet. His gray eyes twinkled with amusement.
"Just the usual Erika night, Conrad," she said, crossing her arms. "And just Erika tonight. You won't try to stop me, right?"
"The city is crowded," Conrad rumbled, pushing himself off the statue. "Strangers from every corner of Gaia. Thieves. Drunks. Not a place for a... fragile flower."
Erika snorted. "I can handle a drunk, Conrad. You taught me how to break a nose when I was twelve."
"I did," Conrad chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound. "Blake nearly had a stroke when he saw the bruise on the Duke's son." His smile faded slightly, replaced by a protective seriousness. "Lord Blake has doubled the patrols. He claims it's for your safety, but his men are everywhere. If they find you like this..."
"They won't," Erika adjusted her cap. "They will be looking for a Queen in a carriage. Not a peasant girl looking for a drink tonight."
Conrad studied her for a moment. He saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the desperate need for just an hour of normalcy. He sighed, knowing he couldn't stop her—and perhaps, knowing she needed this to survive the suffocating weight of the throne.
"Go," Conrad nodded toward the gate. "But I'm sending a shadow detail. Three guards. Plain clothes. Fifty paces back."
Erika rolled her eyes. "I'll spot them in five minutes."
"Then you better move fast," Conrad smirked. "Be back before the moon hits the highest tower. Or I'm coming to drag you back myself."
"Deal."
Erika slipped through the gate and vanished into the night.
The city was alive.
Erika moved through the crowds, intoxicated by the anonymity. No one bowed. No one offered her a cushioned chair. A baker shouted at her to "watch where you're walking, girl!" when she bumped into his stall.
She smiled and apologized. It was the most honest interaction she'd had all month.
She weaved through the Grand Market, dodging fire-jugglers and dancers. She bought a skewer of roasted meat with a copper coin she had swiped from a vase in the hallway, savoring the greasy, salty taste.
But Conrad was true to his word.
She felt eyes on her near the Hero's Plaza. She glanced into the reflection of a shop window. Two men in roughspun cloaks were lingering by a fountain, pretending to watch a puppet show but clearly tracking her. A third was on a rooftop to her left.
"Amateurs," Erika muttered, suppressing a grin.
She waited for a massive cart filled with hay to rumble past. As soon as it blocked the sightline of the men at the fountain, she moved.
She didn't run—running drew attention. She blended. She matched the pace of a group of laughing mercenaries, using their bulk to shield her from the rooftop watcher. She dipped into a narrow alleyway known as the "Smuggler's Cut," a place she had discovered on a map in the royal archives years ago.
She climbed a stack of crates, vaulted over a low wall, and dropped into a completely different street, startling a stray cat.
She waited. One minute. Two.
No footsteps. No shadows.
She had lost them.
A bubble of pure, childish laughter escaped her lips. She was alone. Truly alone.
The noise of the market was overwhelming now, and she felt a sudden need for quiet. She looked up toward the northern district. There was a hill there, just inside the outer wall. It was an old place, untouched by the city's expansion, crowned by a massive, ancient Cherry Blossom tree that bloomed even in autumn—a remnant of some forgotten magic.
"Perfect," she whispered.
She pulled her cloak tight and began the climb, unaware that beneath the falling pink petals of that very tree, a boy from Oakhaven was currently sleeping on a rock, dreaming of burning castles.