Chapter Text
- The Princess -
Donning a threadbare cloak and worn boots, the Crown Princess of Grandyce slinks through quiet palace corridors. Careful footsteps take her from shadow to shadow, silent and catlike. She knows these halls like the back of her hand, every nook and unseen cranny used to her advantage, but the guards in this wing of the castle seem few and far between tonight.
Buffoons. All this effort to go unnoticed and it’s not even necessary. They’re losing their touch.
They must have been called away again to oversee other areas of the palace. In fact, now she has stopped in a dim alcove to listen, she can hear the uproarious commotion coming from the great dining hall on the other wing of the castle, even from here near the private royal chambers. Those uncouth ruffians from neighbouring Stonehaven have imposed themselves upon her father and his court for almost a moon and she’ll be surprised if there’s any wine left in the castle’s cellars by now. What they can be discussing for so long she has no idea, and no desire to know either. Straightforward as she is, she hasn’t the stomach for the schemes and plots of politics. None of that concerns her anyway, as she has been told many times. She sniffs, disgruntled.
Pulling the hood of her cloak closer to obscure the lower half of her face, she nears the entrance of the servants’ quarters. If she were to be caught it’d most likely happen here, as has happened numerous times since she began her nightly wanderings in recent years. She rounds the corner and slips through the wooden doorway, the smooth tiles of the palace floors giving way to rough-hewn slabs beneath her soles. Luckily the braziers lining the walls are burning low at this hour, casting weak pools of light down the narrow stone corridor. Just a handful of doorways to pass before she reaches the kitchens and she can make a break for it to the courtyard beyond.
She quickens her footsteps, anticipation bubbling up in her veins. She’s so close now that caution gives way to eagerness and in her hurry she almost collides with a small boy who steps through one of the open doorways at just the wrong moment.
Biting back the yelp that almost escapes she freezes in front of him.
Mutual recognition flares between them. He’s the young Lemurian boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years of age, who often squires during her swordplay lessons and helps around the stables. She doesn’t know his name.
He of course knows her instantly. Wide eyed and stock still he waits for her to make the first move, the cap all Lemurians wear to conceal their bald, scaly scalps knocked askew on his head.
She slowly brings a finger to her lips, a plea for his silence.
He nods emphatically, visibly relaxing.
She smiles, righting his cap and giving a quick pat to his head in thanks.
Pulling her cloak close around her again and with one backward glance she breezes past him, hastily closing the distance between her and the world outside. A rush of footsteps takes her through the bustling kitchens, the servants so busy clearing the remnants of tonight’s feast and preparing for the morrow they don’t notice the figure slipping past, through the stores and outer door and finally into the fresh night air.
It’s drizzling a little, the misty rain already soaking into the fabric of her cloak, but she couldn’t be happier. Relief washes over her with the chill night rain. Leaning back against the wall by the door, she closes her eyes and breathes deeply, savouring the scent and taste of freedom, however small and fleeting.
Her eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness and then she’s off, stealing through the moonlit streets and alleys of the city.
- - -
- The Lemurian -
Right on time, he sees the door in the distance open and a cloaked figure slink out into the night.
He scoffs. Predictable.
He’s been observing her long enough now that he knows her routine inside out. She leaves the palace most nights, usually just before the moon reaches its zenith, clad in a rough cloak he suspects she thinks makes her blend in. Then she makes her way to the market streets. At this hour most stalls are long vacated, but the taverns are thriving with activity. She buys a drink at a different tavern each night, sits off by herself seemingly to both observe the other drinkers and lose herself in her thoughts for an hour or so, before making her way back through the streets to the palace. He wonders what the point of it is, but can't deny it will make his task all the easier when the time comes.
He follows her tonight as usual, keeping far enough back and in the shadows that she never knows he's there.
Tonight she serendipitously visits the tavern run by his informant. He waits before entering a little after her and spots her already at a table in the corner with a tankard in front of her, removing the hood from her head but keeping the cloak hugged tightly around her, seemingly in an effort to make herself as small and nondescript as possible. Although she does this all the time, she never loses that apprehensive posture, never seems fully at ease.
He takes note of her position in the room and makes his way through the rowdy patrons to the bar.
“Evening,” the barkeep greets in a smooth baritone as the Lemurian leans against the solid oak counter.
Swiping a lock of black hair from his eyes, he greets in reply with a nod. “Thomas.”
The barkeep is a young man a few years older than the Lemurian with the same plant-dyed hair, blackened to obscure their shared heritage in these foreign, hostile lands. They too share similarly refined features and deep blue eyes tinged pink around the irises. They could almost pass for brothers.
“Full moon's out,” Thomas states nonchalantly, swiping his cloth along the surface of the bar, casually mopping up imaginary spillages. “The tide’s coming in.”
It's the signal.
The Lemurian’s eyes narrow slightly in response but other than that he makes no acknowledgement of what was said. He's been prepared for this since he arrived in the city on assignment over two moons ago, but the fact that it's finally time sends a shiver of… unease?... excitement?... through him. It's the culmination of his youth's years spent in training for this moment and the catalyst of the plans to secure the freedom of his people once and for all. The responsibility on his shoulders is immense, though he is but one cog in the greater plot, and he's never been prouder to be an abysswalker, one of the elites, even at the tender age of twenty-four. It’ll be a relief to finally set things in motion, and also to leave this hellhole of a city behind.
While the Lemurian is lost in thought, the barkeep sets a small glass of dark spirits in front of him. He goes over his instructions again and again, playing through every step of the plan in his mind as the firelight in the hearth dies down to warm embers and the chatter amongst the patrons becomes increasingly rowdy as the drinks continue to flow into the early hours. Every so often he steals a glance at the girl in the corner, noting how she takes intermittent sips from the tankard before her. Clearly her intent in being here is not to drown her sorrows.
He lifts the small glass of liquor in front of him and swirls the dark fluid around, watching how it catches the low light from the fire, like molten obsidian. At length, he downs it in one go, steeling his nerves as the fiery liquid slides down his throat and enflames his belly. He sets the glass down heavily with a dull thud.
Just then a commotion turns every head in the room, and the Lemurian cranes over the crowd to see the cause. The table in the corner is surrounded by three staggering drunkards, and the rest of the tavern erupts into lewd jeers as one of them grips the wrist of the struggling young woman, pulling her roughly from her seat.
Shit. This could ruin everything.
As he weighs his options, the girl manages to pull her hand free from the drunkard’s grip before punching him square in the belly. He doubles over in pain as she slips past the other two and makes for the door.
The Lemurian casts a glance at Thomas. Barely-concealed alarm widens the barkeep's eyes.
Careful, Thomas mouths amid the cacophony of the tavern as the two uninjured drunks shamble out onto the street in pursuit of the girl, and then bellows after the troublemakers in an effort to restore relative peace to his establishment.
His hand forced, the Lemurian melts through the crowd like a shadow.
- - -
Her heartbeat hammers in her ears as she runs in blind panic through the warren of back streets and alleys, trying to put as much distance as possible between her and her assailants. How typical that on the night she finally hears something of interest amid the inane babblings of inebriated tavern clientele, she somehow attracts the attention of that group of louts. She’s left reeling both by the need to run to safety and the absurd rumours - about herself - she heard tonight.
She’s hopelessly lost but she slows to a stop, catching her breath as she crouches in the shadows against the corner of a shack. There’s barely any light to be had beyond the slivers of candlelight that escape from the between window and doorframes of the slums, but the moon offers a little illumination now the rain clouds have passed. With her eyes adjusting to the dark she can almost make out some details of her surroundings.
The path underfoot is no more than dirt, hard packed by countless trampling feet over the years. Houses line either side of the narrow alley, their windows and doors locked tight as possible to fend off the elements and those nefarious fellows who work under the cover of darkness. Drips of water fall from the overhangs of roofs overhead, the last remnants of the weather earlier in the evening. It might be almost peaceful if not for the danger she has not yet escaped.
Heaving one last breath she rises and makes haste, heading in the direction she thinks the castle lies, only to have her blood run cold when a figure materialises in the dark up ahead. Petrified, she about faces only to be met with an identical scene behind.
She doesn’t know what to do. There’s nothing she can do. She’s paralysed by fear, as the figures steadily inch closer. Even half drunk, they know these streets better than her and are possibly armed.
“The little bitch thought she could ruin our fun tonight,” slurs the oaf behind her and she whirls back only to see him menacing ever closer, toying with her, smug in the knowledge they have her cornered.
“That pretty face’ll be unrecognisable by the time we’re through with her,” calls the other brute and she whips around once more only to find he’s close enough now that she can see the malevolent grin on his putrid face.
Gods preserve me…
Unbridled terror courses through her in the face of her almost certain demise and she glances helplessly above in the hopes that she can find something, anything, any distraction or means of escape over the rooftops. She prepares to stand and fight, unarmed as she is, hoping vainly her survival instincts will best the drunken, clumsy rage of the two villains.
Suddenly, rasping gurgles echo in the alley.
She didn’t see what happened but one of them is clutching his throat and making that terrible sound. A moment later he sways and falls heavily to the dirt, crumpled in a heap. A sob of disbelief sounds from the other ruffian.
“What did you do to him?!”
Still trying to process what happened to the first, she’s rooted to the spot as the remaining drunk lurches forward. Her disappointing life flashes before her mind’s eye and time seems to slow to a crawl as a surge of adrenaline electrifies every atom in her body, every muscle and sinew primed for flight from the scene.
Just as her body springs into action she’s knocked from her feet and crashes into the dirt. She can only look on in horror as the crazed drunk sways above her, his face contorted in rage, when a shadow drops from the rooftop above and engulfs him. He struggles, trying to wrest the dark figure off him in the dirt, then there’s the bright shing of a single, keen slice and the tussle ends with more hideous gurgling.
Her nerves in tatters, she’s rooted to the spot. Her heart hammers against her ribcage, shallow breaths panting as much air into her lungs as she can swallow.
The shadow stirs.
What fresh hell…?
She scrambles blindly backwards in terror as the shadowy form rises to his feet and sheathes a dagger at his waist. He follows after her, gracefully stepping over the body at his feet as she meets the lifeless corpse at the other end of the alley. She recoils, disgusted, her hand coated in a film of warm, sticky blood that oozes from the wound onto the dirt track beneath.
The dark-clad figure closes the distance in a few strides, before reaching down to retrieve the sharp, poisoned throwing star from the neck of the first assailant.
He's crouched close enough that she could reach out to touch him if she weren't frozen in place. She knows not whether he is friend or foe… but he did just save her from the violent advances of those two monsters so that must count in her favour…?
The weak moonlight casts an otherworldly hue on his features; pale, smooth skin framed by a black leather hood, and a mask of the same material that obscures the lower half of his face. His frame is lithe and agile, movements poised with graceful, deadly efficiency. He’s young, from what she can sense more than see, possibly no more than a few years her senior.
But it's his eyes that give her pause.
Rising to his full height again, he looms tall over her. Barely illuminated by the moon, his eyes appear like dark pools of pitch as he stares intently at her, unmoving. There is a terrible majesty to this would-be saviour or executioner that has her limbs locked and tongue bound, and once again she wonders whether her situation has gone from bad to worse with his appearance.
Surprisingly, he extends a gloved hand.
She doesn't take it.
Voice atremble, rather than questioning his identity, she first queries, “There was a third…?”
His face is unreadable, though his eyes maintain a cold aloofness.
“Not any more.”
His voice is low and commanding despite his apparent youth, tinged with an unfamiliar accent, and he relays the fact he has taken three lives this night, for her apparent protection, with no emotion whatever.
It shouldn’t, but the timbre of his voice sends a thrilling frisson unbidden along her nerves. She can only stare, dumb, into his half-obscured face. Something about his eyes still captivates her and if ever there were a night she needed a mysterious protector, it is this night.
She reaches tentatively for his still outstretched hand but is startled by the distant approach of the city guard, their shrill whistles and shouts from a few streets away cutting through the silence of the night. A few moments and they'll be upon the gruesome scene and the two left alive.
He grunts under his breath, frustrated, then huffs, “Go.”
With that, he leaps and pulls himself onto the roof of a nearby shack, disappearing into the night as abruptly as he had arrived.
With the guard fast approaching, their flaming brands about to cast light upon the corpses on the ground, she scrambles to her feet and flees towards the castle.
- - -
Exhausted in both body and mind, she finally finds herself back in the relative safety of the palace courtyard. As her pulse slows and the adrenaline wears off, it’s beginning to sink in now just how close she came to harm tonight. She’s had a few run-ins on these excursions in the past but never anything of the severity she just experienced. She’s sure she just fell prey to an unprovoked act of aggression rather than her identity drawing attention; she doubts there’s a soul alive outside the palace walls who knows what she looks like, or even her name.
Such is the cloistered life of the Crown Princess of Grandyce.
Still, she’s lucky to be alive, and untouched. Her life might be over now, if not for the mysterious black-garbed stranger with the eyes like—
“Halt! Who goes there?”
She’s startled from her reverie at sword point and realises she has walked right through the courtyard in plain sight rather than keeping to the shadows as she normally would. Cursing her lapse in concentration and error after error tonight she lifts the hood of her cloak, revealing her face to the palace watchman.
“Stand down. It is I.” She tries to imbue her voice with what command she can muster but this night has left her shaken.
“My lady...” The watchman sheathes his sword and steps closer to inspect her with an intrigued drawl, a nearby torch throwing light onto his face, and she realises with an inward groan that it is not just any watchman. It’s that odious knave Landon, vice-captain of the royal guard. She loathes him. “Why are you here at this hour?”
She supposes it’s his duty to question her given the circumstances but even his voice grates on her, all at once both coarse and mewling, as it has done ever since she begged her father to learn the sword along with the squire boys her age and Landon teased her mercilessly — until she bested him once. Then his teasing turned to outright antagonism, just acceptable enough that she was brushed off whenever she complained to the masters.
She considers ignoring him and shoving past but she knows that would just invite his ire and she just wants to return to her chambers and be done with this night.
“I was simply taking the air,” she answers plainly, her voice monotone so as not to arouse suspicion in an effort to get away from him as quickly as possible.
“Out in the courtyard?” he scoffs in derision, taking in her tattered cloak and dishevelled appearance with a slow sweep of his crude gaze. “Couldn’t you have done that from your balcony?”
His leer makes her skin crawl, but the snide comment about her chambers chills her to the bone. She’ll be talking to her father about the lack of guards outside her rooms lately - among other even more pressing topics - first thing in the morning. For all the good it will do.
She’s almost at a loss for a response, but she replies coldly, “I am of the royal family, I need not explain myself to you.” She pushes past him, irritated enough to abandon all caution, but suddenly a painfully tight grip seizes her arm, holding her fast.
“How dare you! Let me go—!” She struggles in vain to escape his vice-like hold but he pulls her roughly against his chest.
“Careful, Princess,” he sneers low through gritted teeth, sour breath hot against her ear as she strains away from him. “Wouldn’t want anything…” he inhales close to her skin and her entire body recoils in disgust, “untoward to happen to you out there.”
He releases her with a shove and she hastily scrambles across the rest of the courtyard towards the door to the kitchens without so much as a backward glance.
Landon sneers after her, then spits into the dirt at his feet before continuing on with his watch.
From the shadows, the Lemurian observes the entire scene.
Time is of the essence and there are too many variables.
He must act soon.