ISLA
The kitchen reeked of sour ale and desperation. My father sat slumped at the table, a half-empty tankard clutched in his gnarled hand, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. The hearth had long since gone cold, but I didn’t dare light it again. The last time I had, he’d thrown the fire poker at me for wasting wood.
“Useless girl,” he muttered, his words slurred. “What good are you, huh? Can’t even find a man to take you off my hands.”
I kept my head down, my hands busy scrubbing the same patch of floor I’d already cleaned twice. My knees ached against the hard stone, and my fingers were raw and red, but I didn’t stop. It was safer this way—to give him no reason to notice me.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
His voice cracked like a whip, making me flinch. Slowly, I raised my head, meeting his gaze for the briefest of moments before lowering it again.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
He scoffed, slamming his tankard onto the table. The sound echoed in the small room, making me jump. “Sorry doesn’t feed us, does it? Sorry doesn’t keep the roof from leaking. You’re nothing but a burden, Isla. Always have been.”
His words cut deeper than I wanted to admit, but I bit my tongue. Arguing would only make it worse.
“Worthless,” he spat, rising unsteadily to his feet. He stumbled toward me, his shadow looming over me as I knelt on the floor. My heart pounded in my chest, the familiar ache of fear settling in my ribs.
He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back so hard I gasped. “Look at you,” he sneered. “Skin like a peasant, scarred like a thief. Who’d want you, huh? No man with sense, that’s for damn sure.”
The tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. My skin was darkened from years spent under the sun, tending the market stall and gathering herbs from the wild. It was rough, calloused, marred by scratches and scars from accidents and punishments alike. A long, jagged scar ran across my forearm, a reminder of the time I’d slipped and broken a jar of oil. My father’s belt had ensured I never forgot that mistake.
“You should’ve been a boy,” he muttered, his grip tightening. “At least then you’d be worth something.”
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, willing myself to stay silent. This wasn’t new. This was routine. But it didn’t make it any less painful.
He let go of my hair with a shove, and I fell forward, catching myself on my hands. My palms stung against the rough stone, but I stayed where I was, head bowed, waiting for him to leave.
“Get out of my sight,” he barked, stumbling back toward the table. “Go sell your damned herbs and stop embarrassing me.”
I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my basket from the corner of the room. My hands trembled as I fastened my cloak around my shoulders, but I didn’t dare hesitate. The sooner I left, the safer I’d be.
As I stepped outside, the cold air hit my face, sharp and biting. I drew in a shaky breath, the sting of it grounding me. My body ached, and my scalp throbbed where he’d pulled my hair, but I pushed it aside. There was no time to wallow, no time to feel sorry for myself.
The sun was just beginning to rise, its golden light spilling over the rooftops. I glanced down at my hands, at the calluses and scars that told the story of a life spent working, surviving, enduring. My skin, darkened by labor and hardship, was a stark contrast to the soft, pale hands of the wealthy women I saw in the market. Women who had never known hunger, fear, or pain.
I clenched my jaw, forcing the thoughts away. Self-pity wouldn’t change anything. This was my life, and I had to live it.
But as I made my way toward the market, the memory of her—of the woman who sat on the throne, commanding the adoration of a kingdom—burned in my mind. Her skin was smooth, unmarked by scars. Her hands had never scrubbed floors or bled from hard labor.
And yet, she wielded power I could only dream of.
It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.
But fairness didn’t matter in this world. Survival did. And I would survive.
****
The sun hung low in the sky, its warm rays casting long shadows over the bustling market. The scent of baked bread and roasted chestnuts mingled with the sharp tang of sweat and soil. My back ached from standing all day, my fingers sore from tying herbs into bundles, but for once, I didn’t mind.
I had sold everything.
Every sprig of chamomile, every stalk of lavender—gone. My basket was empty, and my purse, though small, was full of coins that jingled with promise. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to buy food for the week, maybe even repair the torn hem of my cloak.
As I packed up my stall, I allowed myself a small smile, a rare moment of satisfaction. For once, it felt like I was winning, however briefly.
The streets were quieter now, the market beginning to thin as vendors packed up and buyers returned to their homes. I slipped my purse into the folds of my cloak, clutching it tightly as I made my way down the cobblestone path.
But the moment of peace didn’t last.
A sharp shove sent me sprawling forward, my palms scraping against the rough stone. Before I could react, I felt a sudden lightness in my cloak, and when I turned, I saw them—two men, rough-looking and quick, darting through the crowd with my purse in hand.
“Stop!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet. My voice cracked with desperation as I bolted after them, weaving through the throng of people. “Thieves! Stop them!”
No one moved to help. Heads turned, but the crowd quickly resumed its business, unwilling to get involved. My heart pounded as I pushed myself to run faster, my lungs burning with every breath.
“Please!” I cried, tears stinging my eyes as I stumbled over the uneven stones. My bare feet, already raw from a day of standing, began to bleed, leaving crimson smudges in my wake.
The thieves were fast, their laughter mocking as they darted around a corner. I pushed myself harder, my legs screaming in protest, but they were slipping away. My vision blurred with tears as despair began to creep in.
And then, just as they were about to disappear, it happened.
The sound was sharp and wet, a sickening thunk that echoed down the alleyway. I froze, my breath hitching as I saw the two men crumple to the ground. Their heads… gone.
Red liquid pooled around their bodies, dark and glistening in the fading light.
I didn’t have time to process the horror before I saw her.
A horse emerged from the shadows, its hooves striking the cobblestones with deliberate, ominous rhythm. Atop it sat the king.
Her dark hair was loose, wild strands framing her sharp, unforgiving features. Her golden eyes gleamed with something cold and unrelenting, like a storm contained within her gaze. She held a sword in her hand, the blade slick with blood, its edge catching the light like a cruel smile.
Her lips curled in disgust as she looked down at the bodies, then shifted her gaze to me.
I couldn’t move. I was still on the ground, trembling, my hands and knees scraped and bloodied. Her presence was suffocating, a force that pinned me in place as though she had physically pressed her will upon me.
“Stand up,” she commanded, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip.
Her tone brooked no argument, but my body betrayed me. My legs were weak, shaking too much to obey.
Her eyes narrowed, and her expression darkened. “I said, stand.”
I forced myself to move, my limbs sluggish and uncooperative as I staggered to my feet. I kept my gaze low, unable to meet her piercing stare.
“Look at me,” she demanded, her voice sharper now.
I swallowed hard, my chest tight with fear.
“Speak,” she said, her tone turning dangerously soft. “Or shall I let you bleed as they did?”
Her words sent a shiver down my spine, and my lips parted, though no sound came. I clenched my fists, trying to steady myself, but the weight of her gaze was unbearable.
I didn’t know if it was the fear, the exhaustion, or the cruelty in her voice, but in that moment, I knew one thing: there was no escape from her.
And I wasn’t sure if I hated her more for saving me… or for making me feel so powerless.
****