“Oh, Princess Ladrie! It’s you?” The head chef, Seward, exclaimed as he heard me approaching. He didn’t really look at me as I entered the castle kitchen, where one of the hired butchers was butchering a fresh chicken, “Uh, are you here to pick up the food you bought on your allowance?”

I nodded with an appreciative smile. Mr. Seward was one of a few men who treated me kindly, like I was one of his daughters in the Palace. “Yes, I am, Mister Seward, but you can drop calling me Princess; there’s no need for such formality,” I confirmed plainly. At this point, the kitchen staff was used to this arrangement. “I’m also getting what I bought on the prisoner’s allowance. He’s been without food for the last twenty-four hours since our soldiers seized him as a hostage in the Battle of Bravan.”

“Ah, the prisoner. He’s Selharic, the Crown Prince of Azarath,” He rambled, recounting the details he thought were interesting. “They call him the Devil of Azarath. Soldiers believe he’s the son of the Devil because of how brilliant a strategist and technician he is. Rumor has it that the courts in Azarath started calling the devil when he was old enough to write. No one knows why.”

“Is that so?” I asked with a quiet interest, considering what Seward said in a cool manner, then shrugged indifferently. It didn’t really matter to me anyway, since it didn’t impact my way of life at the palace. “Either way, he’s been placed under my care by orders of my father, King Bulgred, and I’ve been entrusted with guarding the prisoner. The King is currently keeping him quartering him in my room.” I reached down and peeled back the tea towel placed neatly over the basket, checking to make sure I had everything. There was a hearty loaf of rye oat bread, some dried cured ham, fresh cheese, and a bottle of cheap wine. Most nobles would've felt offended to be handed a basket of peasants'food, but as penance for Queen Carlotta's infidelity, I lived on an allowance similar to a peasant's salary. “Thank you, Mister Seward, my order’s all accounted for. I’ll be on my.” I said with a grateful smile like a commoner pleased by getting a good deal down by the bustling markets as I covered it neatly, raised the basket, and place. I kept walking through the palace with determination, eventually reaching the servants’ quarters. Unlike my brother, Crowned Prince Jorick, I was hidden like a dirty little secret. I ascended the stairs, thinking not much about it, until I reached the door to my room. Anxiously, I adjusted the hem of my sleeve and desperately pulled it down over my right wrist, hiding a scandalous mark. I knocked with my left hand… no answer.

I turned the handle and pushed the heavy wooden door, echoing a loud creak as I stepped cautiously inside. The crackling firelight casts shadows across the stone walls, and my eyes fall on the figure chained to the carved post in the center of the room. Prince Selharic—our rival’s most feared jewel—sits with his wrists bound, his royal garments torn from the scuffle, strands of his dark hair falling over his face. Yet even in captivity, he carried himself with a defiance that almost overshadows the chains.

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air—only the sound of firewood popping in the hearth broke the silence.

“Prince Jorick? Is that you?” His broken voice immediately broke it; his tone dripped with disdain as he heard my footsteps entering the room, assuming they belonged to my brother, whom I was with every fiber of my being. Each word out of Selharic’s mouth was pronounced like snake venom filled with deadly hate, “Please, indulge me. Is this the Kingdom of Eruse's idea of victory? Caging the Crown Prince of Azarath inside of Prince Jorick's chambers, like a trophy?”

I paused nervously as I heard his chains rattle as he shifted against each other and harsh accusations, not sure if it'd be even wise for me to show my face. But despite my better judgment, I do not let him intimidate me entirely. I leaned forward instinctively when I took a hesitant step closer to the man soldiers called the Devil of Azarath. The mockery on his face doesn’t hide the way his breath catches, nor the faint tremble in his hands. Still, his voice refuses to waver, clinging to pride like armor. “Hmph... A lowly servant.” He tutted smuggly as I came into view, “Tell me, young lady, does Your Lord, Prince Jorick, really take pleasure in this? Does he take pleasure in waging war on my people as I sit in chains? Then go tell your lord, I dare him to enjoy it while he still can. Because even trapped, I am more of a Prince than Jorick will ever be.” I don’t answer immediately, and the silence seems to press on him more than my words could. His smirk flickers, his confidence cracking for just a heartbeat before he steadies himself again. “Are you deaf… you're supposed to answer when Prince asks you something. So tell me, what is it that the King intends to do with me?”

"Oh, no, no. I’m not deaf.” I shook my head, trying to clear some confusion. I expertly hid my annoyance at him treating me like a pest in his chamber with a dumb smile, “I'm actually just here to feed you this morning.” I answered him without a beat in a calm, polite tone, like I was just another servant and this was just another day cleaning the Palace, “There are some windows to clean. I should introduce myself. I am Lady Ladrie. I may legally bear the honorific title of Princess, but in the Kingdom of Eruse, I'm considered a glorified housekeeper at this point. If I'm honest, Your Majesty Selharic, Crown Prince of Azarath," I bowed my head in polite acknowledgement, he might've been a prisoner, even an enemy to our kingdom but he was still much above my station and I held the unpopular belief that he still deserved the respect that came with it, "You should be more concerned about the intentions of my brother, His Majesty Jorick, Crown Prince of Eruse, and my father, Bulgred King of Eruse."

I looked at him carefully; his eyes were sharp, fierce indeed, but I couldn't find the same kind of coldness and disgust I expected. My father and brother often looked at me with more hate than he did... though it wasn't to say he didn't look like his eyes didn't seem to say 'I'd kill you where you stand...' It was more defensive than an utter disgust at my whole existence.

As I set down the basket of food on the small, nearby dining table that had two small, roughly hewn chairs beside it. As I did so, I was trying desperately to hide the scar on my wrist, the one that branded me as a bastard born of a whore and was given to me as a 'gift' from the King on my sixteenth birthday.

I noticed the Prince was watching my every move with unnerving intensity—I couldn’t blame him for being wary of my intentions, might be. In all honesty, he must’ve been expecting me beat him or insult him, which I wasn’t interested in doing. I winced as his eyes stared at my right wrist. He must've been tracking the movements of my hand. The expression on his face said it all; he knew without a doubt I was hiding something important. “Princess Ladrie, it's painfully obvious that you're trying to hide your right wrist. I can see you fidgeting with your sleeve.” The chains clinked faintly against each other as he leaned forward. His expression shifts, curiosity overtaking the usual coldness in his eyes. “Come here, I won’t hurt you. Just show me your wrist. What are you hiding?”

"My... my wrist? It's nothing, just an embarrassing birthmark.” I deflected defensively, my voice quivered, betraying my ability to appear calm and unsuspicious to the Prince, who was already on high alert, “I've never shown anyone..." My eyes grew wide, my hand pulled away from what I was doing at the table as if the basket burned me, holding it close to my chest and using my other hand to try and hide it from view. "Are you really sure you want to say something so shamefully mundane?"

My eyes pleaded with him not to make me show it; the memory behind it was shameful, and it was all too common for courtiers to give lecherous looks that made my skin crawl. "Please, don't make me..." I pleaded, my voice desperate at this point for him to just let it go. There was a haunted look in my eyes like the scar revealed the most painful memory of my life, reflecting the eyes of the same sixteen-year-old who got branded by her father, the King of Eruse, "I don't even like looking at it myself."

"Shamefully mundane?" He repeats the phrase with an undercurrent of mockery. "Oh, Princess Ladrie, it seems you have a flair for theatrics. But you really expect me to believe that?" His eyes lingered briefly on my trembling hands before returning to my eyes.

Slowly, I approached him, pulling up my sleeve with a somewhat sheepish look on my face. My lips pursed tightly together as my eyes looked up at him. The scar was a 'w' for the word whore.

I immediately stiffened as I met his gaze, my cheeks awkwardly flushed with shame, and my feet turned inward, giving me a posture like that of a dog feeling guilty for misbehaving.

"You could say it was a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday, so I'd never forget that I was marked a bastard," I admitted, my voice soft and melancholic, my posture becoming less guarded as he failed to show signs he was going to strike or spite at me, at disgust. I still flinched when the courtesans looked at me with pity or with venomous judgement but it was expected at this point, "My wetnurse tended to me quite fierce that month making sure I didn't die from infection, if it weren't for the fact he was the king, she would've probably gave him an earful about he almost killed his only daughter... but what would he care, he's got a perfect, beautiful son that he thinks shines just as bright... and as cruel as the sun."

"Do I disgust you with my mark? For being a bastard born out of my mother's infidelity...? Everyone tells me I didn't want the court to hate me so much, my mother should've remained faithful..."

Oddly enough, a part of me felt sorry for him. He looked like he’d just been punched in the gut or had taken a rough beating on his face.

The weight of his stare was intense. His face had gone quite pale, frozen as he looked back at me with a silent understanding that went beyond words. His mind was reeling, struggling to reconcile the brutal truth he saw on the fragile-looking young lady in front of him. Silence seemed to stretch on for eternity with thick tension. How could anyone with just an ounce of humanity reconcile with the cruelty of a King branding his daughter as a whore? A king, who justified such acts of cruelty for his wife’s infidelity?

His voice, heavy with emotion, cracked in disbelief, barely above a whisper, “Your father…? He— how could he do something like this to you?”

He stopped trying to restrain the anger he felt; his eyes burned with rage, but for once, I could see the judgment wasn’t aimed towards me. His eyes softened as he looked at me, shaking his head, “…No… no… You don’t disgust me, Princess Ladrie. Not even close. In Azarath, my grandfather abolished such cruel practices decades ago. He said slavery had no place in Azarath, that they're relics of a darker time. Mutilation was abolished with it. People brand those they believe they own," His voice carries a hint of warmth, something foreign to most men in the palace. "Were my siblings and I born as legitimate heirs? Yes. We were born to the rightful king and queen of Azrath. My parents took pride in all their children—eight of us in total. Happy, contented lives, something I know is rare at court, especially when some of us were born with congenital conditions that'd be considered shameful, even as scandalous as a bastard princess in court."

"Eight siblings? And no bastards..?" I whispered, barely audible in disbelief, trying to wrap my head around the idea of having so many siblings and with all of them being legitimate heirs. His parents must've been very busy people in their bedchambers. I couldn't help but wonder what it would've been like to have siblings with whom I didn't have to compete for scraps of attention from my father. To have parents who loved us unconditionally, regardless of circumstances. "But what do you mean? What could be more scandalous than a bastard? A product of someone sleeping around." I asked, more desperately, as I demanded an answer.

His gaze drifts away for a moment, lost in memory, before returning to me with unwavering intensity. “My older brother Alvoric—when he was born, he was very. My parents searched far and wide to find answers. Finally, a physician informed my parents that their boy was born with hemophilia—"

He stops abruptly, his expression tightening for a moment before he continues, voice soft. His voice takes on a different tone, almost distant—explaining something he’s always known to be true, but perhaps never spoken aloud to someone else like this. "Hemophilia. It’s a condition where blood doesn’t clot properly. A simple cut could be fatal. He never let his condition stop him; he decided to live his life to the fullest. He rode a horse despite the physicians' discouragement. My brother—he died from it when he was twenty," The age I am now, as if he were counting it in his head, comparing, "A year ago, he was thrown off his horse. A normal person might’ve survived the fall, but I still remember holding onto him, begging him not die as he drowned in his own blood."

His fingers tap against the chains, restless—clearly recalling a past sorrow—before motioning slightly toward me with a tilt of his head, almost as if he’s pressing for shared understanding.

"It may seem an irrelevant detail to you, dear Princess, but I'm left-handed. In fact, I was probably the most scandalous of my siblings; the people saw it as a bad omen when I started learning how to write. See, the people of Azrath are prone to being clouded by superstition, and it was once considered a sign of the devil in some circles. That’s why they started calling me the 'Devil of Azrath.' It was a nickname that stuck with the courtiers and servants throughout my childhood, despite my family’s acceptance."