Sometimes, life takes unexpected turns. Like how I ended up fleeing from a crime I had just committed. It's never easy to deceive cunning people like Sebastian—and even more so, my stepmother Mira.
I found myself in a thorny forest, my legs covered in cuts from sharp grasses I couldn't even name. The rain lashed at my skin in heavy droplets. The wind nearly swept me off my feet—perhaps because I was close to the shoreline? I clung to myself, bracing against the harsh wind and the dead leaves whipping against my body. Was the weather siding with me, or was it mirroring the anguish I felt inside?
My arm was still bleeding, the skin around it already turning purple. Soaked and freezing, I wandered through the wild in search of shelter.
Suddenly, my thoughts drifted to my life—how none of this would've happened if it weren't for my stepmother. I didn't want to remember what she did, but the memories kept forcing their way in.
As I trudged through what felt like an endless stretch of weeds and shrubs, I spotted a small, shack-like house in the distance. Its support beams looked old and frail. There was a cooking area outside, and a kerosene lamp still burning—someone was likely home but had stepped out briefly.
Without wasting time, I approached the fragile wooden door and knocked gently.
"Hello?" My voice was weak and pleading, hoping someone inside would hear me.
Moments later, an elderly woman with a gentle face opened the door. Her eyes widened in shock when she saw me.
"What happened to you, dear?" she asked in concern, reaching for my injured arm. I winced as her hand made contact with the wound.
I couldn't answer right away. How could I explain what happened to an innocent old woman? And even if I told her the truth, could I really trust her? Could I escape the crime I committed?
She welcomed me into her humble home and kindly offered me tea. I nodded, accepting her gesture.
Before preparing the tea, she pulled out some plain clothes from a small wooden chest near her sleeping mat. Smiling, she handed them to me and suggested I change. I removed my soaked dress in front of her—it's a good thing I wasn't wearing a corset or a heavy steel-framed skirt, or I would've drowned for sure.
I changed into a loose white shirt and green trousers, then wrung out my drenched dress. It was so heavy I could barely squeeze the water out.
"You're not from around here," the old woman said, eyeing the dress.
I smiled and gave a small nod. There was no point in lying anymore. I carefully hung the dress to dry on a net strung between acacia trees.
"Are you a princess from another island?" she asked, clearly puzzled.
I let out a deep sigh and shook my head. "No, I'm just an ordinary woman dressed in fancy clothes."
"But how did you end up here?"
"I was brought here by the waves," I said simply.
"This island is called Cion. There are only about forty-seven people living here. You might find our way of life unfamiliar if you choose to stay."
But I wouldn't stay long. If I lingered, Sebastian's men might find me.
"How do you survive here?"
"It's simple," she said. "My daughter, Emelia, is a healer. She trades her medicine for our daily food. Sometimes I chop firewood, which I also trade for meals."
I was surprised to learn there were still islands untouched by currency. Here, people bartered goods to live. Each fended for themselves.
She also told me the island had no leader, and that her daughter—four years older than me—still lived with her.
The old woman introduced herself as Emily. I gave her my real name in return.
When her daughter came home, I noticed a baby strapped to her chest with cloth. Emily introduced them: her daughter, Emelia, and her grandchild, Ellie.
Emelia was a botanist and healer. Everyone on the island sought her help when they were sick or injured.
Later that afternoon, my body started to weaken. I was shivering, my vision blurring as I stared at their fragile ceiling. My body burned with fever.
Seeing my condition, Emelia prepared a warm clay compress and a cloth soaked in heated water. Though I struggled to keep my eyes open, I could see the worry on her face as she pressed the cloth to my forehead. She gently gave me a brew of ginger, lemon, and wild honey.
Before I drifted into sleep, I felt her place some leaves over my swollen arm.
---
The next morning, Emelia was already gone, and I saw the old woman sweeping outside the house. I still couldn't believe I'd ended up in a place like this. I couldn't return—not with the palace guards searching for me.
Once again, I had been separated from Fiora. We had only just reunited, and now I was gone again. The same for Xyra—there was no one left to defend her from the harassment at the palace. I felt useless. Tears began to stream down my face as these thoughts consumed me.
This was always my plan—to escape my stepmother. But not like this. Not in a way that would ruin my identity. Did I deserve this? Perhaps I did. I was born to two sinners, so maybe misfortune was my destiny.
As the old woman swept outside, I cleaned her home to show my gratitude. I even cooked for her after seeing the fresh fish in a small basket. She was surprised when she returned to a clean house and a meal waiting on the floor—yes, they ate on the floor here, unlike in the palace or my stepmother's home where tables were always set.
She thanked me. Later, when Emelia came home, I offered her a meal too, and she happily joined us.
By late afternoon, I accompanied Emelia to forage for medicinal herbs to trade for other goods.
She didn't speak, but her gestures were clear—her gaze lingered on the plants she needed, and she gave quick signs when dangerous animals were nearby. Even baby Ellie stayed silent, even when we had to climb steep terrain.
I admired Emelia's resilience. But behind her smiles was a painful past, which her mother had quietly shared with me.
Emelia had once encountered traveling pirates. She tried offering them herbs, but since she couldn't speak, they didn't understand her. When one of them tried to assault her, she was powerless. No scream, no voice—no one came to help. She returned home crying and soaked by the rain. Her story was tragic, and she never had the courage to speak of it herself.
Emelia's face would always light up when I told her funny stories about the nobles in the palace. She also showed great interest in the advanced medicines we used in Zion, where I came from.
While we were walking back, a man on horseback approached us. His arms were covered in tattoos, and he wore a black sleeveless shirt and thick black trousers. He wasn't alone—he was accompanied by men in plain clothes.
Emelia froze and hid behind me, trembling. She clung tightly to my arm, tears silently falling—perhaps triggered by memories of her encounter with pirates.
My heartbeat quickened as the man got closer. Was he here to take me back to the palace? To kill me? Was he one of Sebastian's men? How did he find me?
"Chief J-Jared…" I whispered.
"Rowela," he said, extending his hand toward me, gloved in black leather.
Maybe Sebastian knew how I felt about Jared. Maybe he sent him because I was easy to manipulate.
"Don't be afraid. I'm on your side."