"The woods tell the truth with no witnesses. Step beneath their branches, and even a princess may remember she was born with a name, not a price."
While the ferrymen fled the river with fear still clawing their breath, the realm above their panic remained unaware. No horns were blown, no ravens sent. Far from the docks where the AELINTH drifted like a corpse refusing to sink, another quiet unfolded — untouched, unsuspecting, impossibly calm.
It was into that other peace that Saphirra rode, the world narrowing from shouts and steel to wind and leaves.
The woods had always stood at the edge of the royal lands like a quiet witness — neither friend nor foe, simply present. Yet as Saphirra crossed beneath the first sweep of branches, the air changed. The noise of the feast thinned behind her, thinning from laughter to echo to nothing, until the world felt pared down to wind, leaves, and the slow thunder of her own heartbeat.
Saphirra rode deeper into the woods until she could no longer hear the faint hum of pipes and laughter drifting from the meadows. Only then did she stop, breathing in the clean hush of the trees.
Her horse nickered softly as she dismounted, letting the reins fall loose. Sunlight spilled through the canopy in golden shards, glinting off her gown and the wet earth beneath her slippers. For the first time she had a chance to wonder the wood
A sound broke it — sharp and soft at once.
Twang.
Then a flutter, and a sigh.
She turned toward the noise, pushing aside a branch.
Not twenty paces away, a boy knelt beside a fallen bird, his bow still quivering. His clothes were plain — coarse wool, patched at the elbow — and his hair fell over his brow in dark, untidy curls. The arrow had struck cleanly through the neck, and yet, before lifting it, the boy bowed his head and whispered a few quiet words.
"What are you saying?" she asked without meaning to.
He startled — actually fell back on one hand, his other still gripping the arrow.
"By the gods—" He blinked, then scrambled upright. "Milady, forgive me, I didn't see you there."
Saphirra tilted her head. "I'm no lady here."
He hesitated, then smiled crookedly. "Then I'll call you what I call the wind — stubborn."
She frowned, unsure whether to be insulted or amused. "Is that meant to flatter me?"
"The wind doesn't care if it flatters or offends," he said, shrugging. "It only moves where it must."
She found herself laughing — soft, startled laughter that felt almost foreign. "Then perhaps I am the wind today."
He eased the bird from the snare, laying it carefully upon a patch of moss.
"You hunt alone?" she asked.
He nodded. "My father taught me young. He used to say the woods speak kindly if you listen right. But most men only hear what they fear."
"You listen?"
"Always. Though sometimes the woods lie too."
She smiled faintly. "You speak strangely for a hunter."
"I speak too much, my da used to say. Saved words don't fill bellies."
"Mine do not either," she murmured. "But still, I keep them."
He looked at her then — properly — and something like curiosity softened his face. "You're not from the villages, are you?"
Saphirra turned away, pretending to study the trees. "Does it matter?"
"Not to me," he said simply. "But your hands — they've never held a bow. Your voice — it sounds like a story when you speak."
"Then perhaps I am one."
He grinned. "A wandering tale."
"And you?" she asked.
"Taren," he said. "Son of no one important. Born where the river bends south of the mill road. You?"
She hesitated, then lied with a smile. "No one important either."
He chuckled. "Then we're well matched, milady wind."
"I told you not to call me that."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then what shall I call you?"
"Call me… nothing at all. Just talk."
So he did.
They walked together through the clearing, his bow slung lazily across his back. He told her of his father's hounds, of a bear that once stole half their catch, of nights sleeping beneath the stars because the cottage roof leaked too much to stay indoors.
At one point, he plucked a wildflower and tucked it behind his ear. "Do I look noble now?"
She laughed again, holding a hand to her lips. "You look like a fool."
"Same thing, isn't it?"
"Not quite. Fools are honest."
He looked at her sidelong, smiling. "And nobles aren't?"
Her laughter faded. "Not often."
For a while, they walked without words. The woods were alive with cicadas and the slow whisper of leaves. The air smelled of pine and soil and the faint sweetness of crushed flowers beneath their feet.
He spoke again, quieter now. "Do you ever wish to leave it? The city?"
"All the time," she admitted. "But the walls have long memories. They don't let their children go."
He looked up through the branches. "Then maybe you should teach them to forget."
She stared at him, startled by the thought. It felt like something only someone truly free could say.
The sun rose higher, painting her hair in threads of white gold. She sat on a fallen trunk while he built a small fire to roast a bit of rabbit he'd caught earlier.
"Won't your kin worry you're gone?" he asked, turning the spit.
"They'll find me soon," she said. "They always do."
"Then I should count myself lucky to meet you before they do. I never thought the gods would trade me a stag for a princess."
She blinked. "You knew?"
He looked up, his grin gentle but sure. "The way you hold yourself — the gold thread in your sleeves. My mother used to mend noble's gowns. I know the stitch."
"And yet you still sit with me?"
"Should I bow and beg forgiveness for speaking plain?"
"No," she said softly. "Don't."
Their eyes met, and the world seemed to still — fire crackling, wind breathing through the branches. She felt warmth in her chest she could not name.
Then a sound broke it.
A horn. Distant, low, unmistakable.
Taren froze mid-turn. "That call… someone's searching."
Saphirra's face went pale. "Ser Rodric."
He understood at once. "If they see me—"
"They won't," she said quickly. She stood, brushing pine needles from her gown. "You must go."
He shook his head. "I've done nothing wrong."
"Being seen with me is wrong enough," she said, voice trembling. "They'd say you lured me. Or worse."
He looked at her, something fierce flickering in his eyes. "Then tell them you found your way, not I."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, helpless.
The horn sounded again, closer now. Her horse whinnied nervously.
"I must go," she whispered.
He nodded once, stepping back into the shadowed trees. "Then go."
Saphirra mounted swiftly, heart pounding. She turned once in the saddle — the boy already half-swallowed by the green — and whispered, "Thank you."
Taren lifted a hand, faint against the light. "Wind always finds its way home."
And then he was gone.
The thud of hooves came moments later.
Ser Rodric burst through the trees, mail gleaming, eyes wide. "Your Highness!"
"I'm here," she called, forcing calm.
The knight pulled his horse beside hers, scanning the woods. "You should not wander so far alone. The King—"
"—need not hear of this," she said sharply.
Rodric hesitated, bowing his head. "As you will, my lady."
She turned her horse back toward the meadows. Behind her, the branches stirred, and for a fleeting instant she thought she saw movement — a boy watching from the dark. But when she blinked, there was only sunlight and leaves.
They rode back in silence, the scent of wildflowers fading behind them.
Saphirra did not look back again, though she carried with her the sound of his voice — soft and free — echoing somewhere in her chest.
⸻
By the time they returned, the feast had spilled into afternoon.
The meadow was louder now — music swelling, banners snapping in the wind, children dancing through the trampled grass.
The Iceese lords were laughing with the southern nobles, each trying to outshine the other with boasts and bargains.
Saphirra dismounted quietly, ignoring the glances of servants and courtiers as she passed. Her mother's eyes found her from beneath the royal pavilion — relief masked quickly by composure.
She took her seat once more beside the Queen Dowager, the weight of her small crown settling like a shackle.
Across the field, a troupe of dancers spun in bright colors. Trumpets blared. Toasts were raised in her name.
Saphirra's gaze drifted toward the far line of trees — the same woods now distant and dim.
The laughter around her grew dull, like sound heard through glass.
For a moment, she imagined she could still hear the boy's voice — the way he said wind always finds its way home.
It lingered like a secret, quiet and unshakable.
She smiled faintly, though no one saw.
Then she lifted her cup when the next toast came, her eyes bright as mirrors — and utterly unreadable.