Being back in the kingdom she'd once wished to defend with her life tarnished something deep in her chest, a piece of her heart that hadn't gone completely cold just yet. Stepping into the tavern, Elena felt more out of place than ever before. Before that night, she'd only left Miria a handful of times. For the most part, she'd stayed at the palace, only to leave on visits to see the Salvatores in Zicon. But as a child, she'd never gotten the chance to actually explore her kingdom. Not that it was even her kingdom anymore. It'd been absorbed into Zicon. Still, it felt unfamiliar, this tavern she'd never been in, in a place that she'd once called home.
No one turned to look at her. The tavern was a large octagonal shape, with a bar that mirrored the walls in the very center. Booths lined the walls, with tables and chairs scattered around in any empty space available. Patrons focused on their drinks and their friends. Some customers sat face down with their arms on the table. One even had a steady stream of drool pooling on the wood next to their mouth and an empty glass.
Overall, the tavern, whose name wasn't displayed anywhere, had an undercurrent of misery. Darkness had never shifted away from Miria. Ten years had not been long enough for the people to heal. But if she asked, would they still call this place Miria, or would they refer to it by its new name, Zicon? Elena couldn't stand the idea of hearing her home's name washed away too. It was a great regret of the former princess, that she hadn't been able to help the citizens. Running away was not very knightly of her, but at the time it had been the only option—her parents' decision, and one she'd had no choice but to follow.
Elena took a seat at the bar, cloak pulled tight around her body. Despite her slight frame, she still had an ominous aura about her. But the tavern itself felt ominous in nature, so she didn't quite stand out, either.
A large, burly man approached her from behind the bar. Leaning over one elbow, he asked, "What can I get for you?" with a twang in his voice that reminded her of home. The man had a wide chest and strong, corded arms. He probably could have lifted a barrel of beer over his head without issue. This was not a man whose bad side she wanted to be on.
"Whatever's cheap," Elena said, keeping her lips tight. Showing emotion did not benefit her cause, nor the persona that had originally been a costume and now was a necessity. A mask she could not take off.
The barkeep nodded and grabbed a large metal mug, just as dinged as the armor she wore, and held it under the nozzle as he pulled the handle downward. She watched the stream of ale, trying to focus on the words of nearby patrons.
Just as he placed the mug in front of her, a figure sat down on the stool next to her, and the bartender began pouring another mug of beer. She didn't dare glance to the right, but she could feel their presence like a looming darkness. Taking a sip of beer helped, but didn't completely cure the stirring feeling in her chest. A combination of anger and sadness that she couldn't quite place or understand. Returning home should have brought her joy, should have warmed the place in her heart that had felt empty for ten long years. Instead, returning home to a place she was not welcome only carved that hole in her chest wider, taking chunks that fell away like they hadn't been properly affixed in the first place.
A piece of paper slid in front of her, guided by a black-gloved hand that her eyes lingered on until it pulled away.
The princess did not reach for the slip of paper immediately. She stared at it. Knowing that fate lay within that folded parchment made her reel, taking another long sip of the cold ale. As to not lose the chance placed in front of her, literally and metaphorically, she took the message and unfolded it.
King Salvatore is not available to meet at this time.
Her fingers clenched into a fist and it took everything in her being not to slam that fist against the bar top. Not only had he destroyed decades of political alliances, caused a blight to spread throughout the continent, had her family killed, and ruined her life in its entirety, but now he would not even deign to meet her face to face. Not only did he send a messenger to reject her, but the letter was in a plain script with no signature or seal. Had he even known that she asked after him? Would that change anything?
Turning to question the messenger, her anger only grew at the sight of an empty stool. Hope was a dangerous thing. She should have known better than to have any at all, especially when it came to a man who'd done much harm to people more important than she was. The King and the Queen. The Crown Prince—though he hadn't had a kingdom to inherit by the time Damon's people had gotten to him. Why they chose to spare her, she did not know. Being in hiding hadn't saved her brother, and she'd been far less careful than him. She wanted so badly to hope, to pray that maybe it was because there was still a man behind the killer, the kid who'd taught her how to hold a sword. But with each betrayal, that hope faded more and more until she was just a bitter false princess white-knuckling a pint of beer at a bar in a country that no longer belonged to her in any sense of the word.
Tears had not helped ten years ago, and they would not help now, either. It took a long time for her to move from the bar, to convince her legs and her mind to carry on. After two more ales that brought warmth to her cheeks, she tossed a few silver pieces onto the counter and stood.
Of course, it would have been too easy to speak to the king directly. Her brother likely would have called her a fool for even trying to get into contact with him, especially after all the work they'd done to stay off his radar. Maybe it was that same rotten hope mixed with a desperate desire to find answers no matter the cost. Because what was the worst that would happen to her? Death? It didn't seem such a cruel fate anymore, alone as she was.
The Mirian Princess coming out of hiding would have been at least a point of conversation five years prior. But they'd waited too long. While she still held a thread of misplaced hope, her kingdom and its people had lost the last of theirs years prior.
TEN YEARS AGO
Elena stared at her brother with mouth agape, which was not helpful given the situation and the flurry of movement around both of them. But the words did not register, not at first. "Stefan was poisoned?" she repeated the words, as if speaking them aloud made doubting the truth more difficult. Words caught in her throat and she stuttered, "Is he alright?" Her adolescent brain could not wrap around the fact that death was even a possibility. Poison could cause mild sickness too, right? Her friend could have easily been just fine. But Jeremy's eyes turned sympathetic, and she knew that was not the case. "Who?" she asked, courtiers and servants still rushing by them.
Jeremy's hand reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "We don't know, but—"
The young girl's impatience got the best of her, and she interrupted him before he could say anything more. "But what?" Her words were laced with anger and sadness. They'd just danced together the previous night, how could this be possible? If she just went to his chambers, certainly he'd still be there.
But Jeremy's eyes did not change, and the sympathy with which he looked at her only made her heart break more. Only a few years her elder, he'd always known exactly what to say to make her feel better. But that had been in times when her greatest pain was a fight with her Mother or an argument with Stefan. He stumbled over words that could fix the growing grief.
"The Salvatores are leaving. Immediately," Jeremy said, a calmness in his tone befitting of a future king.
Still, she looked at him with that same confusion. "Where are they?" she asked, hoping to speak with Damon before they left. She could at least express her shared grief, and extend her condolences. That was the right thing for a lady to do, was it not?
Jeremy looked briefly uncomfortable. He let out a long sigh, a breath he must have been holding. "You can't," he said, "speak to them."
Her brows furrowed together in a way her mother had often times told her did not fit a princess. She could barely think about that, now. Now, her mind was half grief, half confusion. There was no chance to answer the many questions stirring around in her brain, however. For Jeremy's lips pressed into a tight smile and he said, "Our parents are looking for us. They'll have more answers. We should go."
Even though she knew the castle like the back of her hand, or perhaps even better, she let Jeremy lead her back through the halls to the room where her father held council. The Gilbert's had never been at war before, so this room saw little action. King Grayson had spent many hours showing an even younger Elena maps of the region, their small continent dissected into eight smaller kingdoms, including both Miria and Zicon on the Southern border, facing the ocean. When they slipped into the council room now, however, it was more packed than ever. The King and Queen sat at the head of a long rectangular table full of solemn faces.
The Queen glanced up the moment they entered, and gestured for them to join the table. There were two seats free on either side of them. Jeremy took the one next to their father, and Elena next to their mother. But both were locked in conversation with those around them, explaining plans for their next steps. Underneath the table, Queen Miranda covered Elena's hand with her own and squeezed. For the first time, she felt as if tears might escape from her eyes. Unfortunately, that was not a proper look for a princess in the middle of an important meeting, so she chewed on the inside of her bottom lip instead.
The council of Miria was made up of noble representatives from the surrounding areas in the kingdom. Small towns surrounded the city, many of which Elena had never even heard of, let alone traveled to. One of the nobles, a man in a creamy white button up shirt and a deep green velvet coat, spoke to the king directly. "If you say the Gilberts had nothing to do with this assassination of the Salvatore prince, we believe you. We stand with you, of course." Down the line of different nobles, all dressed in similar finery echoed the same sentiment.
At the last endorsement, the king stood up and took in the room, eyes downcast in his own grief. He said, "As we said, we were not involved in the assassination of Prince Stefan Salvatore. We regarded him as one of our own. The ties between our kingdoms have been strong for decades, and we do not seek to do anything to jeopardize that. We do, however, take responsibility for not providing proper security and safety for the prince and his family while they were visitors in our palace. We will be taking proper measures to ensure any future visitors are safe here." There was a pause, where his gaze dropped to his wife, and then briefly to Elena. She smiled, if only slightly, to say I'm okay. I'm here, in the same reassuring way he would do when she needed it. It made her feel grown up in a way that she did not quite like.
He returned her sad smile and then looked at his audience once more. "Unfortunately, after meeting with King Giuseppe," he paused, letting out a sigh. "He believes that we were, in fact, responsible for the attack. The Salvatores have left the castle and are journeying back home to Zicon as we speak. I cannot say for sure what this means for our alliance, for the treaties we have in place—but I hope for the sake of our kingdom and theirs, that they are willing to hear us out once the dust settles."
This statement caused quite a bit of chatter amongst the nobles. Elena turned to look at her mother and would have said something if it wasn't for the stern look she immediately received.
The rest of the meeting droned on in the background as Elena replayed her final conversation with Stefan over and over again in her head. He hadn't known that it would be his last. No one had. She couldn't imagine what his final moments must have been like. Had he been in pain? Had he been alone? A single tear slipped down her cheek without permission, but she did not lift a hand to wipe it away.
At the meeting's end, the king continued to speak with many of the nobles in the hallway, leaving the queen behind with her children. She turned to Elena first, reaching out to hold her hand once more. "My sweet girl," she said, brushing a piece of hair behind Elena's ear with her free hand. The moment she did, Elena stood from her seat and lurched forward into her mother's arms. Her mother continued to stroke her hair, holding onto her so tight. "Everything is going to be alright," she said in a reassuring tone.
Though Elena knew the words were meant to be calming, she couldn't help the few tears that slipped out of her eyes. Maybe everything would be alright. They would be alright for her and her family, perhaps. But for Stefan, things were decidedly not alright.
Pulling away from her mother, she wiped her cheeks furiously, sniffling. She sorted through her thoughts, everything so jumbled and loud, the grief overpowering any of the intelligent thoughts she had on the matter. She hadn't skipped all of her lessons, she knew (deep down) how she was supposed to react in these sorts of situations, what she was supposed to say. Unfortunately, it felt impossible to compose herself in that moment. When she finally swallowed some of her grief, she sniffled again and said, "They don't believe us, do they? They think it was us? That we killed him?"
The queen nodded, a sadness in her eyes that mirrored Elena's, although tears did not fall. "They do. Giuseppe," she said, using the king's first name. That was how close they were, how close they ought to be in this moment, too. "Giuseppe especially, would not listen to reason."
"What does that mean?" she asked, some of her duty coming back to her in that moment.
The queen's lips turned downward into a frown for a split second. She shook her head. "I don't know."
A/N: I'm so blown away by the love on the first chapter of this story! I hope you all continue to enjoy it. There's much to come with this one. Thanks!