"Oh, gods," Alaric said, placing a hand over his mouth. Then, unexpectedly, he started laughing. "I knocked out our Princess." His laughter ceased, and he lowered his head in a show of respect, a smile still clear on his face. "I hope you can accept my apologies, your highness. I should have recognized you."

Our princess. "That's wholly unnecessary. Besides, I haven't really been a Princess since I was fourteen." Saying the words aloud made them real. How had it been so long? Certainly, all of her royal mannerisms had gone out the window. Not only that, but her appearance had changed drastically as well, obviously with age, but also in grief. The roundness of her cheeks never returned, and while her body was strong, her features were sharp. She'd been well-fed while holed up with Jeremy, but the last few months after his death resulted in a quick loss of weight as food became more difficult to come by and less appetizing. She must not have looked very princess-ly at all, not to mention the dented breastplate discarded somewhere, the hole in her shoulder, and the tangles in her hair. Taking care of herself hadn't exactly been a priority lately. Staying alive had been a challenge all on its own, and having to face anyone as the Princess was unexpected.

There were many questions in Alaric's eyes. But how much could she tell him? If he was relieved to find her alive, he couldn't possibly be on the side of the Salvatores. Besides, why would Bonnie have patched her up, let loose knowledge of his Royal Majesty's army, if they were not against him? She didn't let him get any of his questions in. "What exactly is this place?"

Alaric sat up straight and said, "We're the survivors of Miria, all the ones who don't wish to give in to King Salvatore's rule. Many survived because of the evacuation order your father gave prior to the city's bombing. We hid in basements and the old coal mine. Over the years we'd been able to turn the old tunnels into something more livable. Though, not all of us live down here exactly. It's more of a meeting space of sorts."

It was Elena's turn to place a hand over her mouth in shock. Her father had managed to save people. All the homes she'd seen destroyed above ground, not all of them had resulted in death. Even on his last day as King, he managed to protect the Kingdom. Shock turned to awe.

"You're against the new king," Elena said, surprise and delight taking over. To think that there were other people out there unwilling to give in to King Salvatore's rule. To think that she might not have to go at this alone.

Alaric nodded. "Of course. Myself and about a hundred others. Though, we continue to recruit day in and out. My daughter, as you saw, is very passionate about the cause." He chuckled. "Most people in Miria are against the king. But only a small portion actually want to fight back."

"The cause," she said aloud. It was everything she could have hoped for. Everything she hadn't known to hope for. Everything that had felt quite impossible only weeks prior. Jeremy had always said her ideas and plans would only end with her head on a spit, but that was because he thought she'd have to face the new king alone. But no, there were others. A hundred, even! "Do you have a plan?"

A pleased expression crossed Alaric's face, a small smile and a crinkle of determination in his brow. "Is this why you've returned?"

"Yes. It should have been sooner. Years ago. But I'm here now." That had to mean something.

Alaric smiled again, calculating. "The rebellion is certainly happy to have you. Let me give you a tour of the place. Then we can think about introducing you to the lot. How do you feel about giving a speech?"

The royal family had insisted upon her training from a young age, but she'd always knocked off early to spar against soldiers willing to placate her and Damon if he happened to be in town. She'd attended some classes when her father begged and pleaded and her mother threatened to keep her locked inside, but that didn't mean she had as much knowledge as anyone else would have. It begged the question, why had she been the one left alive? Jeremy had more knowledge and was better with a sword, and of course, either of her parents would have been better spokespeople for the rebellion. She was just an ill-prepared girl facing the consequences of her own actions from a childhood she never thought would end up like this. Of course, if she'd known that her family would perish and she'd be left to resurrect their kingdom all by herself, she probably would have attended more lessons in preparation.

The pain welled up in her eyes. Faced with immediate responsibility and a group of people who needed her help, it felt wrong. Why had she come? What had she truly hoped to accomplish here? She was no leader. What words could she say to inspire the group of rebels who'd lost just as much as she, if not more? She was no inspiration. What could they possibly stand to gain from a princess who'd been in hiding for ten years, a princess who lost everyone she loved, a princess who was neither well spoken nor mild mannered. Who could she be to them? Certainly, not the person they needed.

Suddenly she wished Stefan were by her side. These shame spirals occurred just as frequently in her younger years, and he'd always known how to help. Whether it meant dragging her out onto the dance floor or sneaking her a piece of cake from the kitchen, he could always put a smile on her face. She didn't doubt that he would know how to speak with the rebels now, much better than she. Probably even better than Jeremy, too. Everyone had loved Stefan, and it was obvious why. He played the role of the second son well and delighted every noble person and commoner he spoke with. Again that same thought stabbed through her skull. Why me?

"Princess?" Alaric said, snapping her out of it as the unraveling of her brain slowly and painfully occurred right in front of him. "Is everything alright?"

To tell the truth or not. "It's just been a long time since I've had to give a speech of any kind. And please, Elena is fine."

His lips pressed into a straight line as if dissatisfied with the answer. "This rebellion could use a princess, you know. It's never too late to step back into that role."

Could that be true? It felt much, much too late to regain footing as a royal in Miria. Even if the rebellion was successful, it wouldn't be her who sat on the throne. Her royal status felt useless. "Maybe," she said. "However, I'd like to keep my status under wraps for now."

Again, he seemed dissatisfied by this. "If you insist." He stood, ready to lead her on a tour of the underground establishment. But the question he wanted to ask continued to plague him. "What are you afraid of?"

He asked it so easily, and the question itself crawled under her skin. "Everyone in my family is dead. He killed all of them. My mother first, then my father. And only recently, Jeremy. I used to think he was good. And then for a while, that maybe that goodness was just buried deep. Now I know the kind of person he is—and I want to kill him. I do. But I also know, Alaric, that he wants to kill me more than anything. The last one standing in his way." Death. Was that what she was so afraid of? The Gilbert's legacy ending? Or was it the man himself? His sword going through her abdomen in a maneuver he'd shown her all those years ago. She could picture it so vividly. The look on his face. The sword slick with blood. And that cold, careless expression that did not befit him. "I'm not ready to announce my status or my stance."

Alaric gestured to the wound on her shoulder. "It's possible he already knows." He crossed his arms over his chest. "A secret weapon, then?" He seemed to ponder the idea. "I can work with that." He nodded toward the hallway. "Come on, let me show you the place."

The rebel base turned out to be much larger than she could have ever expected. It started in basements, small rooms connected by damp reinforced tunnels, and stretched out toward the abandoned mine. Candlelight lit each room and torches lined the hallways, which were just large enough to walk side by side without bumping shoulders. Multiple layers made up the mine, all reinforced with wood and steel. Small bedrooms on one level. Dining areas on another. A few kids practiced with wooden swords in a larger room, all carved right out of the ground. All of this, below the city of Miria. In Damon Salvatore's own kingdom, they planned. It brought a smile to the fallen princess' face to think of all that occurred below his reign in spite of the man himself.

TEN YEARS AGO

The feeling of her mother's body slumped against her own did not go away. After a few minutes, both her father and Jeremy were working together to calm her down. "If you keep screaming, they will find us," were Jeremy's words. Grayson only held onto her hand tightly. The tears in his own eyes did not inspire much calm. After a few hours, she began to pick the dried blood from her skin, letting it flake onto the caravan floor. Her eyes locked on the empty space across from the King where her mother had sat earlier that day. It must have been a nightmare, a bad dream of some kind. But every time she managed to convince herself of such, the caked-on blood began to itch once more. By nightfall, they struggled to remove her from the caravan. She sat frozen still mumbling under her breath. "I don't understand. It's not real. It's not real. I don't understand."

Jeremy cracked eventually. "Shut up." He screamed the words right in her face. The tears that had not fallen all day drowned her, then. But Jeremy did not look on with any empathy. He only carried her out of the caravan, placing her on her feet outside the entrance to her tent. They hadn't made it far enough away. The ambush delayed them by hours, and so their first night was spent in tents on the cold ground. Elena didn't sleep. She let the frozen forest floor leach the warmth from her body until her arms were covered with goose flesh and her bones rattled. How could she allow herself warmth when they'd left Miranda in the road? Anything could have happened to her body. Had the remaining guards survived to bring her someplace safe, or had the Zicon army taken her away—as if killing her had not been enough and they needed her body, too?

Days later and Elena still did not speak other than to babble incoherently, always earning a piercing glare from her brother and a much more sympathetic one from her father. No one talked to each other much, anyway. Grayson often conversed with their remaining guards, trying to determine a plan, but otherwise, the caravan remained quiet. Some nights they stayed at inns, offering as much coin as was required for the innkeepers' promised silence. On those nights, Elena let the fire in her room go out and wondered if she was as cold as her mother's corpse.

It took weeks for the smell of blood to finally leave. It had probably been gone after a few days, but Elena swore she could smell it for much longer, always just a hint, unnerving her. One night, a month or so after their departure from the castle, just outside of Mirian territory, they received word on the status of their home.

Blown to bits by King Giuseppe's own order. The surrounding town, too. With no plan and no home to return to, the group grew wary. Jeremy and their father fought endlessly. The next morning was one of many such cases.

"We have sent word to King Giuseppe stating your wish to speak," one of the guards said as they loaded into the caravan for another day of long travel sparsely interrupted by meager rations. They hadn't taken much money with them and it ran dry. Everything left at the castle had obviously been seized, and even their army now belonged in the hands of the new king. They had no way to fight back. Maybe fleeing entirely had been a mistake. But perhaps if they'd stayed, they'd all be dead by now.

Jeremy slammed his fist against the wooden frame of the caravan and it shook on impact. Elena cast her gaze downward, not wishing to engage in whatever act of anger Jeremy displayed. That was how things were. She became more passive and he more angry. Their father, however, managed to keep his head on straight, somehow. Elena always envied him for that.

"We discussed this already," Grayson said to his son with a pointed glance. "There is no other way forward. If we wish to return to our home and reclaim our kingdom, we must come to a truce. This is how these things are done. I know you know this."

He only shook his head, a snarl growing on his lips. "He killed your wife, our mother, and you're going to sit down with him to what? A nice conversation?"

"Jeremy," he said with a sharp inhale. They tended not to speak about such things so obviously for Elena's sake, not that she noticed the effort. Grief surrounded her all the same.

"What?" he asked, throwing his hands into the air. "It's an honest question, father. You think you can even stand to be in the same room as him? Knowing what he's done?"

Grayson's hand tightened, fingers nearly clenched into a fist before he forced them to relax, his countenance shifting. "If you are ever to become King, you will need to remember that sometimes what is best is not always what is easiest."

If it were possible to storm out, Jeremy would have done it. Unfortunately, as always, they were stuffed into that small caravan together, each of them slowly losing their mind in a different way.

"And if he doesn't agree to the treaty you draw up?" Jeremy asked, anger still lacing each word.

"We don't give up. We try and find common ground, something we can both agree on. If that doesn't work?" Grayson asked, letting silence hang in the air between them as he said, calmly, "I'll take his head."