Vira.

  The sound of her name sliced through the air, almost drowned by the echo of a carefree laugh. Vira, her long, wavy hair flowing like dark water, streaked with unnatural silver highlights, raced through a field of white orchids. The delicate petals brushed against her legs with each stride, but she barely noticed. She was fast—too fast for a child her age—and the silver ring, hanging from a chain around her neck, gleamed with each fluid movement, bouncing like a heartbeat against her chest.

  Her clothes—far from the delicate, frilled dresses most noble daughters wore—clung to her frame in the style of a boy: dark trousers, a loose shirt tucked in at her waist, and boots that scuffed against the soft earth. She was twelve, still too young to hit the full bloom of womanhood, but already she felt the weight of expectations too heavy for her shoulders. She was anything but what they wanted her to be.

  Behind her, Alistair’s breaths came in ragged gasps, his steps heavy as he chased after her, each stride weighed down by the burden of what was to come. He wasn’t just running to catch her; he was running to stop what was already set in motion, and it terrified him.

  "Vira! Come back here right now!" His voice trembled, part anger, part panic, but she didn’t slow down. His words seemed to dissolve into the air as Vira blurred past, her presence a flicker of rebellion in the sun-drenched field.

  Alistair, in his mid-thirties, wasn’t a typical noble. His body, lean but well-built, was a product of years of training, not indulgence. His long, dark brown hair—already showing signs of gray—was tied back, a stark contrast to the refined, regal appearance of his peers. He was a noble, yes, but he didn’t dress like one, not in the fine silks and jewels expected of his rank. His clothes, practical and worn, made him look more like a warrior than a statesman. And as his feet pounded the earth, he realized how much his daughter had surpassed him in spirit.

  "Vira!" he cried again, his voice cracking, the exhaustion heavy in his chest. "Tomorrow is your engagement to Crown Prince Eryx. You need to start acting like a proper Princess!"

  The words echoed between them, the weight of them almost too much to bear. Proper. Princess. They were labels, chains he had tried to wrap around her since the moment she was born, and now, they felt like the very thing that was pulling them apart.

  But Vira didn’t want to be a proper princess. She didn’t want to be anyone’s pawn, anyone’s prize. She didn’t care for titles, or diamonds, or the endless parade of dresses meant for nothing more than to sit at a table and smile, smile, smile until the day was done. None of it felt real. None of it felt like her.

  The words she had rehearsed in her mind rang louder than his: Not this. Not like this.

  With a defiant breath, Vira pushed herself harder, feeling the pull of freedom with every thundering beat of her heart. Her father’s calls grew distant, fading into the background like static. She didn’t hear the word “Princess” anymore. Not in that way. Not when it felt like chains ready to snap closed around her throat.

  Alistair stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. His hands clutched at his sides, his gaze filled with a mixture of frustration and fear, watching his daughter—his only child, his heir—slip further away, already weaving a path he could never follow.

  But Vira didn’t want to be a proper princess. She didn’t want to be anyone’s pawn, anyone’s prize. She didn’t care for titles, or diamonds, or dresses that she would wear only to sit at a table and smile, smile, smile until the day was done. None of it was real. None of it felt like her.

  The words she had rehearsed in her mind echoed louder than his: Not this. Not like this.

  With a defiant breath, Vira pushed herself harder, feeling the pull of freedom in every thundering beat of her heart. Her father's calls grew distant, fading into the background like static. She didn’t hear the word “Princess” anymore. Not in that way. Not when it felt like chains ready to snap closed around her throat.

  Alistair stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. His hands clutched at his sides, his gaze filled with a mixture of frustration and fear.

  "Vira, stop!" He struggled for words, then spat out the last one, desperate. "You can’t run forever."

  Vira slowed just enough to look back over her shoulder, a defiant grin curling her lips, eyes glinting with something both mischievous and far older than her years. "Watch me," she muttered under her breath, the words barely audible against the wind.

  Her father’s chest tightened as the fear clawed its way to the surface. She didn’t get it. No one had ever told her the whole story. The weight of her title, the expectations, the rules, the minds that would look to her and see only the daughter of Alistair Vale, not the wild girl who felt like she was suffocating. Not the girl who dreamed of tearing it all down, of running through the orchards and not looking back.

  But before he could stop her, she was off again, the thundering of her small feet drumming like a distant storm on the horizon. His voice cracked with panic. "Vira!"

  Her laughter carried on the breeze, like a promise of chaos.

  "I don’t want to be a Princess," Vira's voice called back, laced with a strange bitterness. "And I certainly don’t want to be anyone’s bride."

  Alistair shook his head, the words too simple, too raw, for him to respond to in that moment. "Why not?" His voice held more than just curiosity—it was a demand for understanding that didn’t exist. Not between them. Not anymore.

  Vira's voice rang out as she dashed further ahead, her body nothing but a blur of motion, "Because Princes are just chains. They tie women down. They keep them locked in glass cages, and I’m not going to be one of them."

  She didn’t wait for him to reply. She didn’t want to hear him tell her what she should want. She had heard those lessons too many times, heard the whispers of what was proper and noble and fitting for someone of her station. But none of it felt like her.

  None of it felt like freedom.

  She had tried to embrace it once, in the quiet moments when she was alone, in the chambers her father had built for her, her room overlooking the gardens that stretched for miles beyond the Vale estate. She had sat, dressed in the gowns she’d been given, the silk ones that made her skin feel too tight, too suffocated, and stared at the walls that seemed to grow closer with each passing day.

  But she was suffocating.

  Freedom had always been more than an idea to her. It was a deep, aching need that had settled into the very marrow of her bones. She could see it in the wind, feel it in the earth beneath her feet, in the way the sun shone just a little too brightly for the world she was supposed to live in.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  "Who told you that?" Alistair's voice broke through the silence, laced with a strain that betrayed a flicker of panic. His fear had shifted, no longer just about Vira's wild defiance, but about the influence that had shaped her thinking. Was it her friend again? The same rebellious words, the same dissonant whispers from the outside world that he couldn't control?

  Vira’s voice floated back over her shoulder, casual, almost careless. "My friend Lysandra. She heard it from her mother."

  The words landed like a distant echo, but they stung. Alistair's brow furrowed, his hands tightening into fists at his sides, a quiet fury simmering beneath the surface. He had hoped to steer her away from these ideas, to protect her from influences like Lysandra's mother. But there it was again, that challenge, that rift between them—one he had no idea how to mend.

  He had always been so careful, so patient, as though there was time to guide her down the path he had laid out for her. A path he thought she would want. A path that would keep her safe. And yet, now, it felt like the very foundation of his dreams for her was crumbling before his eyes.

  "She doesn’t know anything!" he called after her, though his voice trembled with uncertainty. "You’re not like them, Vira. You’re not some—" He cut himself off, the word ‘commoner’ hanging heavily in the air between them. "You don’t know what this life is. You don’t know what it takes to rule."

  Vira’s laughter rang out once more, and it was filled with an unfamiliar coldness that sent a shiver down his spine. "I know exactly what it takes, Father. I know how to survive. I’m learning from the right people."

  Alistair’s heart skipped a beat as her words echoed in his mind. She was growing up so fast, faster than he could keep up with, and he wasn’t ready. He had never been ready.

  "I don’t want anything tying me down, Father," she called, the weight of those words sinking into the ground between them, each syllable carrying more of her truth.

  Alistair sighed deeply, his heart sinking further. "Vira... please, you must stop," he called, his tone breaking with resignation.

  She was already too far gone.

  "Not until I’m free," she called back, the wind carrying her voice like an arrow shot straight into his chest.

  Alistair stood there, staring at the empty space where his daughter had been, feeling the first, sharp sting of loss. Not physical loss—but the loss of control, the loss of innocence, the loss of her to a future she had already decided.

  It was a future he had never considered. It was a future where she wasn’t his daughter, wasn’t his princess. And though the sting of that thought cut through him like nothing else, deep down, he knew he had already lost her the moment she had taken that first step out of his reach.

  The moment she had decided, like a bird taking flight, that she wouldn’t be confined. Not by him. Not by the crown.

  And now, as the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the world in shades of gold and crimson, Alistair stood alone in the field, surrounded by the echoes of his daughter’s footsteps, and he realized for the first time that he might never truly have her back.

  Not as she had been. Not as he had hoped.

  Not as a princess.

  The midday sun blazed high, its warmth beating down on the sprawling gardens as Alistair Vale stood motionless, staring after his daughter. Her retreating form was just a blur now, a whisper of silver and shadows as she dashed across the estate toward the distant horizon. The wind carried her laughter like the distant toll of a bell, sweet yet ominous, echoing in his ears as though it were the last sound he would hear before everything changed.

  He had failed her.

  But even in the midst of that pain, there was a part of him—a deeply buried part—that knew he would never stop following her. Not until the truth was laid bare, not until she understood the weight of her legacy.

  Vira had always been different, from the moment she was born. The blood of Ashara flowed through her veins, and though Alistair had always tried to keep her sheltered, the winds of fate had been whispering her name since before she was born. Lady Theron.

  Alistair turned toward the distant shadow of Eldritch Palace, the towering structure that had long been the heart of the kingdom. It loomed over them all, a silent witness to their struggles, to their royal bloodlines—royalty that Alistair’s daughter was born into, whether she wanted it or not.

  It was Theron who had protected the kingdom in its darkest days, who had whispered the prophecy into the winds when she disappeared, leaving nothing but a trail of blood-soaked history in her wake. The words had been clear: When the child of Ashara's blood rises, a spirit bound by time will stir. The protector’s soul, veiled in shadow, shall awaken to guide the lost—though none may know the path, nor the cost. Beware the turning of the tide, for the future’s light may hide within the darkness. The thread of fate will twist, but to what end, none can say.

  But why? Why had she never told him more? Why had Theron only spoken of Eryx? Why had she left him with so many questions, so few answers?

  He had always been cautious, ever since he had learned of her presence. The ghostly presence of Lady Theron had appeared to Vira in fits and starts, always in the shadows, always watching. Alistair had never been able to shake the nagging suspicion that Theron knew something he didn’t. Knew something about Vira’s destiny, something he was too blind to see.

  But he could feel it in his bones.

  The whispers from Theron’s spirit, from the moment Vira was born, had shaped every decision Alistair had made for his daughter. They were supposed to protect her, to keep her safe from the very forces that now called her name. And yet, it seemed his daughter was slipping further from his grasp with every passing day.

  It was when Vira first stepped onto the path of independence that Alistair felt the first stirrings of panic—something that had been growing quietly in the back of his mind, something that now clawed at him as if it were an invisible hand wrapping itself around his heart.

  He hadn’t expected her to be like this. Wild. Unfettered. Yet, there was something thrilling in it too. Something that reminded him of the young woman her mother had been before the crown swallowed her spirit.

  And now, this marriage.

  Eryx Morvain.

  The name sat heavy on his tongue as he thought about it. The Morvain family had long stood apart from the Vale clan, their bloodline a legacy of both strength and arcane mystery. But Alistair had never been able to shake the strange feeling that the Morvains had a piece of the puzzle he was missing. Eryx’s role was clear—he was meant to protect Vira, just as Theron’s spirit had suggested. But no one had ever told Alistair why.

  His heart clenched, but he wasn’t about to let his daughter run into danger alone.

  “Vira!” Alistair’s voice broke through the silence, but it was swallowed by the wind, lost in the air between them.

  Vira had already reached the gates of the estate, where the towering stone archways led toward Eldritch Palace. The guards, upon seeing her, gave a casual nod, not questioning her as she passed, with that same assuredness that made them hesitate. She didn’t look back.

  That defiance—it was like fire, crackling and threatening to spread beyond her control if she wasn’t careful.

  Alistair gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move faster. The flash of her mischievous grin in his mind, the one she wore when she was confident he couldn’t catch up, only spurred him forward. She knew how to wield her independence like a weapon, and he couldn’t stop it.

  Her words from the garden still echoed in his ears: "I don’t want to be a Princess."

  A weight settled over him. The future he had envisioned—one where she would be safe, protected, and fulfilled—was slipping through his fingers. But it wasn’t just that she was defying him. No, it was deeper than that. She was defying the world.

  If she made enemies of the royal family, if she did something reckless, what then? Could Eryx really protect her from the full weight of their fury? What contingency did he have if things went wrong?

  The gate to Eldritch Palace loomed ahead. He could see her silhouette, her defiance more certain than ever. Alistair’s heart twisted as the bitter truth settled over him. He wasn’t just worried about her; he was terrified of the world she was charging into—a world he had spent his life trying to shield her from.

  Vira had already decided who she was. And it wasn’t the princess he’d tried so hard to shape her into.