Isla trudged through the dirt roads of the lower city, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders to shield her from the biting chill of the early morning. The hem of the garment dragged through the filth that coated the ground, a mix of mud, refuse, and the stench of despair. Her mind raced with the memories of the night before—of the dark-haired woman in the king’s chambers, her piercing eyes, her mocking words.
“You’ll find that I am not so easily slain.”
The voice haunted her, weaving itself into the anger that simmered beneath her skin. She should have killed her. Should have plunged the dagger into that cold, commanding heart. And yet, she hadn’t. The revelation—that the king was a woman, mysterious and untouchable—had shaken her resolve. Now, it left her feeling raw and exposed, as though the world had shifted on its axis, and she was scrambling to find her footing.
As Isla approached the crumbling shack she called home, the weight of her reality crashed down on her. The rich continued to feast and laugh behind their gilded gates, while people like her withered in the shadows. The city streets were filled with hollow-eyed children begging for scraps, women clutching their shawls tightly against the chill, and men drowning their sorrows in whatever vile concoction they could afford.
The disparity was stark, suffocating. Isla had grown up in this poverty, molded by its unforgiving hands, but she had always believed it could change. That belief had been the spark behind her decision to fight back. Yet here she was—returning to the same broken life, empty-handed.
The door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing the single-room dwelling she shared with her father. The air inside was stale and heavy, the faint scent of alcohol mingling with the dampness that never seemed to leave. Her father sat slumped at the table, his broad shoulders hunched, a half-empty bottle of ale clutched in one hand.
“You’re late,” he grumbled without looking up. His voice was rough, worn by years of shouting and drinking.
“I’m here now,” Isla replied curtly, pulling off her cloak and hanging it on a rusted nail by the door.
Her father’s bloodshot eyes flicked to her, narrowing as he took in her disheveled appearance. “Where were you?”
“I was working,” she lied smoothly.
He snorted, the sound filled with disdain. “Working? What kind of work keeps a girl out all night, looking like that?”
Isla’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t in the mood for one of his tirades, but she knew better than to snap back. “The kind that puts food on this table,” she said, gesturing to the near-empty cupboard.
Her father slammed the bottle down, the sound reverberating through the small room. “Food? You think you’re doing us a favor by scraping up crumbs? If you were a proper daughter, you’d have found a husband by now—someone to take care of us. Instead, you’re running around, playing at being a man.”
The words cut deep, as they always did. Isla clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms to keep herself grounded. “I’m not interested in marriage,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You’re not interested?” He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “Of course, you’re not. No man in his right mind would take you. Too stubborn. Too wild. You’re no good for anything, Isla. Just like your mother.”
The mention of her mother stung like a slap. Isla turned away, unable to meet his gaze. She had heard it all before—the same venom, the same accusations. Her mother had been a free spirit, a woman who dreamed of more than this wretched life. Isla liked to believe she had inherited that fire, though her father called it a curse.
“I’m trying,” she muttered, though the words felt hollow.
“Try harder,” he snapped. “Or don’t come back at all.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the sound of her father taking another swig from his bottle. Isla stared at the floor, the weight of his words pressing down on her like stones. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but what would be the point?
She grabbed a stale piece of bread from the cupboard and left without another word.
The streets were no kinder to her now than they had been the night before. Isla kept her head down, weaving through the throngs of people who filled the marketplace. The wealthy strolled by in their fine clothes, their laughter grating against her nerves. They didn’t spare a glance for the beggars who reached out to them, didn’t hear the cries of the children who starved in their shadows.
She paused near the edge of the market, her eyes drawn to a woman in a crimson dress. The woman was beautiful, her hair coiled into an elaborate style that sparkled with jewels. Beside her, a servant knelt, scrubbing at the woman’s shoes with a cloth.
“Faster,” the woman barked, her voice dripping with contempt.
The servant—a girl no older than sixteen—nodded frantically, her hands trembling as she worked. Isla’s stomach churned. This was the world they lived in. A world where people like her were treated as less than human, where cruelty was rewarded, and kindness was a weakness.
The girl’s hands slipped, smearing dirt across the pristine leather of the shoe. The woman’s face twisted with rage, and she raised her hand, striking the girl across the cheek.
Isla’s blood boiled. Before she could think, she was moving, stepping between the woman and the cowering servant.
“Leave her alone,” Isla said, her voice cold and steady.
The woman recoiled, her eyes narrowing as she looked Isla up and down. “Who are you to speak to me?”
“Someone who’s had enough of people like you,” Isla shot back.
The woman’s lip curled, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she turned on her heel and stormed away, her servant scrambling to follow.
Isla watched them go, her heart pounding. The girl at her feet stared up at her with wide, tear-filled eyes.
“Thank you,” the girl whispered.
Isla nodded, though the gesture felt hollow. What had she really done? One act of defiance wouldn’t change the world. It wouldn’t stop the king or the rich from crushing those beneath them.
But as Isla walked away, her thoughts returned to the woman in the midnight-blue gown. The king. That haunting gaze, those mocking words. Isla had failed to kill her, but perhaps she had seen something else in that room—a crack in the foundation, a thread to pull.
She clenched her fists, her resolve hardening. If the king thought she could dismiss Isla so easily, she was wrong.
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
****