Caelfen, Vesmere 11th, AE 1928
Dawngriffin, Kingdom of Arindor
As the morning sun filtered through the ornate windows of the princess’s chamber, casting a warm, golden glow on the silk curtains and the elegant furnishings. The room was a picture of royal splendor, filled with delicate trinkets, rich tapestries, and a grand canopy bed where Lyra, the kingdom’s princess, yawned and stretched, fighting her long flowing hair as she sat up.
Two young handmaidens, Maris and Janelle, entered, bowing politely before beginning their daily routine of preparing the princess for the day ahead. They carefully brushed her hair, braided it with flowers, and helped her into a gown of soft greens— a color that reminded her of the forests outside the castle’s walls that she longed to explore.
Maris smiled warmly, “Good morning, Your Highness. Did you rest well?”
Returning the smile, though it carried a quiet sadness, Lyra responded, “Good morning, Maris. Yes, I did, thank you.” She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, but her gaze quickly shifted toward the window, to the world beyond this castle, the world she wanted to see.
Maris and Janelle exchanged a knowing glance. They’ve seen this expression on the princess’s face many times— a mask of kindness and joy hiding an unspoken yearning. It is no secret that the King has done everything in his power to keep her safe after the passing of her mother. Prohibiting her from leaving the castle grounds under any circumstance.
Softly, Maris adjusted the princess’s gown and mentioned, “The roses in your garden are finally blooming, Princess. Perhaps they’re trying to brighten your day.”
Lyra’s face softened at the mention of her garden, her sanctuary hidden away from the prying eyes of her father’s court. “I’ll visit them later. It always helps… being among my flowers.” There was a pause, and then, almost to herself, she said, “I wonder if they ever feel as confined as me, growing within these same walls.”
After her servants finished dressing her, Lyra exited into the palace, walking down the grand hallway. As she passed, she admired the various portraits of her ancestors, each one a reminder of the legacy she was expected to uphold. Entering the dining hall, where her family was already gathered. Her father, King Gilford, was a stoic figure, his mind always on matters of state. Her step-mother, Queen Bellafore, was a regal and composed woman, with a distant affection for her step-daughter. Lastly was Lyra’s younger half-brother, Elias, who always watched her with admiration, idolizing his older half-sister with a sense of wonder.
Looking up from a scroll, King Gilford’s tone remained formal but not unkind, “Lyra, you’re late. We have much to discuss about the upcoming festival. And as you know I have other matters to attend to concerning the Drakorians, so I will need your assistance in the planning of these festivities.”
Queen Bellafore, chimed in, “It’s an important time for the kingdom, dear. Your presence is expected at all the events. It’s your duty to be seen.”
Lyra nodded, masking her disappointment behind a polite smile. She knew the expectations well— the unending ceremonies, the rigid protocols, the constant eyes upon her. As her parents continued discussing matters of states, Lyra studied the protocols and plans that had been made for the festivals. Her thoughts began to drift.
Noticing her distant expression, Elias nudged her whispering, “You should tell them you’d rather be out riding than stuck in here.”
Chuckling, she softly replied, “I don’t think they’d appreciate, nor understand, my candor.”
Her eyes met her father’s briefly, and she felt the weight of his expectations. Though she loved her family deeply, the distance between them was palpable, a barrier she had never been able to cross.
Later, as her father began a meeting with a Drakorian living within their kingdom, a rumored master sword-trainer in the guard corps, she took the opportunity to slip away from the castle’s formalities and toward her hidden garden, nestled in a secluded corner of the castle grounds. It was a place known only to her and her trusted servants, overgrown with wildflowers, rare herbs, and exotic plants that shouldn’t thrive in this climate but do, as if enchanted by her presence. The air was filled with the scent of blooming jasmine and the soft hum of nature.
Kneeling by a patch of flowers, Lyra’s fingers grazed the petals. As she touched them, they seemed to brighten, their colors intensifying as if responding to her unspoken emotions. She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply, feeling at peace for the first time that day.
Staring down at the forest outside the castle walls, she watched as a gentle doe emerged from the thicket. Softly she muttered, “If only I could live as freely as you do, without walls or expectations.”
Lyra leaned back against a tree. Completely unaware of her magic, still dormant, yet still subtly manifesting around her. The garden responded to her moods— the flowers swayed gently even when there’s no breeze, and a faint, ethereal glow sometimes danced among the leaves around her.
Returning to the castle’s corridors, she passed the chambers where she could hear her father discussing the potential threat of a Drakorian invasion with a voice she had never heard before. Taking a peek into the room, her eyes met with those of a man, before she dove behind the wall, feeling embarrassed and flustered. He was unlike any man she had ever seen before, he had hair as striking white, whiter than any snow and rich darker skin, akin to the color of the bark of a tree.
‘That must be what a Darkarian looks like.’ she thought, ‘he must be the sword master she heard her father was meeting with.’ Although it was brief, he left an impression on her. As she returned to her bed chamber she couldn’t get him out of her head.
As evening fell, Lyra remained in her bed, where she pulled out a worn leather bound journal hidden beneath her pillow. It was filled with sketches of what she imagined distant lands and the magical creatures that lived there might look like, as well as the countless thoughts she couldn’t voice aloud.
Feverishly, she pens down a quick sketch of the man she saw in her father’s audience chamber, writing down a ‘Drakorian?’ next to it.
After examining the drawing for a moment longer, she then allowed the pen to move with her emotions in an elegant script:
“I dream of a world beyond this prison, a place where the trees are ancient and the rivers run wild. I long to see the mountains I’ve heard much about, to meet people whose stories are not written in the same old pages. I want to feel the wind in my hair, not to be bound by this duty or title, but free… truly free.
Perhaps that man I saw with my father. He might have seen more of the world than I could ever comprehend. He may be free.”
She closed the journal, pressing it to her chest as if trying to hold onto the dreams and aspirations within. She looked out of her window, where the night sky is speckled with stars. There, in the silence of her room, she whispered her hopes to the stars, unaware that her magic is what makes them seem to twinkle just a bit brighter tonight.
The following day, Lyra dressed in an elaborate gown and escorted to a formal dinner in the grand hall. The room was filled with local nobles, advisors, and a few foreign dignitaries, none that looked like that man from yesterday. Still today she can’t get his deep blue eyes out of her mind.
Sat between her father and step-mother, forced to endure the endless speeches and politics that she found stifling.
During dessert, an advisor leaned in, whispering instructions on decorum and etiquette, reminding her of her place and responsibilities, “Remember, Princess, your conduct reflects upon this kingdom. We must uphold an image of dignity and grace.”
Lyra nodded, hiding her frustration. She glanced around, catching sight of the grand doors that lead outside, to freedom she can never touch. She felt trapped, like a bird in a gilded cage, surrounded by luxury but bound by invisible chains.
Her gaze drifted to a young servant girl who caught her eye and smiled shyly. In that brief moment, Lyra found solace in the small acts of kindness she could offer, even within these walls. But as the dinner dragged on, her longing grew, a quiet rebellion simmering beneath her polite facade.
Later that evening, in her bedchamber, Princess Lyra paced restlessly, unable to shake the feeling that she needed to escape— if only for a day. The weight of her royal duties had become suffocating, and she craved a taste of freedom beyond the palace walls.
At last, she made a decision. She turned to her handmaiden, Janelle, who had just entered the room. “Janelle?”
“Yes, Your Highness?” Janelle replied, her tone attentive. “What can I do for you?”
“I need you to get something for me,” Lyra whispered, glancing toward the door as if someone might overhear.
“Whatever you need, Your Highness.”
Lyra hesitated for a moment, then continued, “Can you get me a disguise, I just need to get out of here for a day.”
Janelle’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. “I completely understand, Your Highness. What kind of disguise were you thinking of?”
After a moment of thought, Lyra answered, “Guardsman armor. If I had that, I could slip right out through the front gate.”
Janelle considered this, then smiled. “My brother Eadric is a member of the guard. I’ll see what I can manage.” With a quick curtsy, she turned and hurried out of the princess’s bedchamber, leaving Lyra with a sense of both excitement and trepidation.
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