Princess Briar Aldrich stood gazing at the grand, wooden doors in front of her. Her hands were shaking violently. She tried everything she knew of to still them but to no avail. She wrung them together, stuck them under her arms, even balled them into fists. Nothing stilled their trembling or had an effect on the nerves that caused it. She tried to calm herself, tried to focus on the way the sunlight struck the carvings of great wooded beasts on the golden oak doors and made them seem almost alive. But then one of those doors opened and a servant scurried by, apron covered in stale bile, and Briar sighed, closing her eyes. The smell followed the girl down the hall, trailing after her like a forgotten kitten. It reeked of disease, the foul stench of death. A moment later, she heard the old hinges of the wooden doors creak again and she opened her eyes to see Sir Alfred Hughes making his way toward her, a grim expression on his face that she did not very much care for.

"Princess-" he began as he reached her but she interrupted him. She did not have time for the pleasantries nor the conversational discourse. Not tonight.

"Alfred, how is he?"

He looked away from her then, the wrinkled corners of his old frown betraying the desperation of the circumstances that he was always endeavoring to shield her from.

"He is worsening," he told her, an expression of genuine sorrow on his devitalized, old face. "It does not look good, I'm afraid."

She felt the cold familiarity of dread snaking through her veins, coiling tightly around her anxious heart.

"How long does he have?"

"The doctors aren't sure. Could be days or even weeks but, Briar, your uncle- the King, he is strong. I know that he will hold on for as long as he possibly can."

Alfred pulled her in for an embrace. She felt a hot tear roll down her cheek and felt somewhat of a child again, in the arms of a man whom she knew as closely as she perceived of her own soul. Sir Alfred Hughes had invariably been a paternal figure for her. After her mother had perished in the delivery of a child who lived only a few moments longer than she and her father had never returned from the war to defend their southern borders, Alfred had taken upon himself the task of raising her. And he had fulfilled that post, along with her uncle. She had matured in these very halls, dashing through those very same oak doors on so many luminous afternoons to disturb her uncle's study, imploring him to read her a story. So these arms felt considerably like home to her. But even now, as she found herself held enclosed within them once more, she felt them slipping away from her. Her heart twisted in her hollowed out chest with the knowledge that she may never feel them encircling her again.

As he pulled away, she unfurled her spine, standing up straight, and wiped away the tears. She promised herself that she would not cry at what was to come. She was the Princess of Isalovia, born and bred for hardship, trained to withstand all manner of dreadful circumstances. He smiled weakly and touched her face in the tenderest, most gentle way. His hand lingered there a moment and she could tell what he was doing. It was the same thing that she had been doing for weeks. He was memorizing. The soft caramel color of her hair, the flecks of hazel in her steely emerald eyes, the way her rosebud lips set in a pucker and her dainty nose flared when she was determined. He was memorizing her resolve, her tenacity, the way she had never strayed from a fight. He was remembering her childhood, the girl that now stood before him as a woman. Then he withdrew.

"All of Isalovia will know by now that your uncle is ill," he declared. She braced herself for the words that she knew would follow, the mandate that she had groomed her whole life to pursue and that she still felt unprepared for. "You are the first and only heir to the Isalovian throne, to the crown. But you are a young woman with outspoken revolutionary ideas. You know well the challenges that face you. Your uncle and I have fought to prepare you for this day. You have enemies; enemies that will stop at nothing to keep you from the throne and are running out of time to get rid of you. The political tactics these rebels have employed have been ineffectual. The King's will stands as written. He will not amend it. You are the named and true successor to his throne. You know this."

"They will come for me."

It wasn't a question. She had known that it would come to this. She had known since she was a small child and was first exposed to the hatred these rebels held for her. She had been only five years old when she had gone for a walk with Alfred. Someone had recognized her on the street. They had started shouting phrases at her, slogans that she would not truly understand for years to come. They had never wanted a woman on the throne, especially one without the aid of a husband. But her uncle was unmarried and childless, a fact that made him very unpopular in the traditional sects, and her parents were dead. She was the only remaining Aldrich heir, her country's only option. They had tried over the years to take even that away from her. She had heard rumors of her mother's infidelity, that she was a product of adultery and therefore no true Aldrich. She had seen a man try to convince the king to claim him as his natural born son so that he may inherit the throne and spare the kingdom from turmoil.

At every moment in her life, she had been reminded of how they despised her or, at least, the change that she threatened to represent. It was why she had received training that most princesses were never offered; training in archery, sword fighting, self defense, and hand to hand combat. She had learned many languages and a vast array of skills. She had memorized her nation's history and its relations with others nearby, familiarizing herself with foreign cultures and idiosyncrasies. She had created battle plans with their military's top officers and discussed politics with the King's own council. She had been raised, in every way, to prove the rebels wrong. Conflict had always been a part of her future. They had always known that the matter of succession, her ascension to the throne, would mean rebellion, perhaps even war. It would be another horrifying chapter in their nation's bloody history. She had only hoped that she would have had more time.

"How long do I have?" she asked now, peering past Alfred to the oak doors beyond.

"No time at all, I imagine," he answered. "The word is out now. They will be at the doors by dawn, calling for your abdication. But, as long as the King remains alive, they will not fight us. They will, however, try to get to you. I have received word that assassins have already been hired and a generous price placed on your head."

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Fear clawed through her and she wanted to scream in frustration.

"You must leave the palace tonight," Alfred endured, his tone a bit more cursory than before. The sorrow was gone, replaced only by purpose. "I've arranged for a carriage. It isn't the luxurious ride you are used to but it will not draw attention. You should be able to escape in it undetected."

"To where?"

Alfred faltered here.

"To Baliene."

She scoffed. Her mask of clout threatened to waver. Her heart thrummed as that feeling of dread began to return. But she pushed it down into the pit of her stomach where it could not show itself in her expression.

"Prince Lucien has generously offered to house you and protect you until your uncle passes."

"I'm sure he has."

"When he does, I will come and retrieve you myself. Once you are coronated, the rebels will lose much of their support. Until then, you must survive."

"He will expect a marriage."

"Such a thing cannot happen without your uncle's permission. And he is in no condition to be making marriage alliances."

Briar lamented. The very idea of fleeing to Baliene turned her stomach. Prince Lucien and his ambitious father had been persistent guests in the Isalovian palace ever since Briar had struck puberty. No matter how hard she had tried to get away, he was always nearby, professing her beauty or boasting about the royal children they were going to have together. When she had gone to her uncle on the eve of her thirteenth birthday in tears over a lewd comment that the prince had made to some of his friends about her budding breasts, her uncle had been angry at first. But then he had only sighed and told her of the way it was for royals, how they had to marry whoever was best for the country, how it was her responsibility to find a proper and fitting king for Isalovia. So, from that day on, it had been widely believed by everyone inside the castle and out, that eventually the two of them would marry, uniting the kingdoms of Isalovia and Baliene in official alliance. According to the capital's citizenry, they were as good as engaged.

"You will leave within the hour," Alfred was saying now. "I will go collect your things. You won't be able to take much of them with you. You should... say your goodbyes."

He glanced back at the massive doors behind him. Briar nodded bitterly. He left her standing in front of those great oak doors, trying to gather the courage to enter them one last time. She steadied her hands and took a step forward. Her feet felt heavy, as if they somehow knew the weight of where they were taking her. Her throat clenched. Her vision blurred but perhaps that was only the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes.

When she reached the doors, she froze, hands pressed against the glossed engravings, fingers tracing the lines of the antlers of the great buck. After a moment, she knocked. After another moment, he answered, feebly, bidding her enter. She did. The room inside was familiar but somehow distant. Its furnishings had been pushed to the corners and covered in order to give the various doctors room to work. The books that had always littered the room were stacked neatly upon the bookshelf in the immaculate rows of someone far more organized than her uncle had ever been. The King's myriad of parchments were gone along with his quills, ink, and reading spectacles. It was an eerie sight, a strange sensation, as if this room already no longer belonged to her uncle, as if it never had.

Finally, she looked at the man himself and felt a pang of true anguish. Once, he had been tall and strong with caramel hair the color of her own and a deep, booming voice. Now, he laid upon his bed frail and thin, his hair turning grey, his voice barely a wheezy whisper. The hairs in his beard were falling out, leaving only patches of fog on his stubbled chin. She smiled at him as best she could but knew it was a poor imitation.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"You're the only one who knocks."

She chortled softly and sat next to him on the bed as gently as she could so as not to disturb his stillness. She took his hand in her own and clutched it tightly.

"My dear Briar, you're as beautiful as ever."

She gave him a smile and a squeeze of his hand but she did not speak, afraid that she would break apart if she did, afraid her mask would crack and the tears would slip out, afraid that she might shatter into a million hopeless pieces. He watched her for a moment, the way he had many times before, the way that had always made her feel as though he knew everything she was thinking in that very moment.

"You're leaving," he said. It wasn't a question but she answered him all the same.

"Tonight."

"I figured it would be soon. Even the commoners know I'm nearly gone."

"Don't say that."

She gripped his hand tight and he smiled up at her and then promptly fell into a terrible coughing fit, doubling over the side of the bed. She waited for it to subside, heart breaking at the sight of him, bones aching with the terrible feeling that she could do nothing to ease his inconsolable pain.

"I want to give you one final piece of advice," her uncle said as he settled back into his bed, breath rattling in his throat. "As this is most likely my last chance to do so. It may so happen to be the most important advice I have ever given you."

She leaned forward to hear. His voice had gone raspy from the recent paroxysm and she could hardly hear him. His eyelids fluttered as if even the effort of keeping them open was beyond the capacity of his vigor.

"When you marry, my dear, marry for love."

She gawked at him, befuddled. Had his mind started to go as well?

"Uncle-" she began but he interrupted.

"I know you may feel, at some point, that you must marry that prince to save your kingdom. But I was wrong to push him upon you, my dear. I see that now. And it may be something so simple as love which saves us all in the end."

She opened her mouth to respond to him but the door swung open and Alfred was standing there, the significance in his countenance clear. It was time to go. She bent forward and kissed her uncle's forehead. His skin was boiling so hot she wondered if her lips would blister. She touched his face gently with her hand and he smiled, weakly, up at her. She told him she loved him. He told her the same. But neither of them said goodbye. They couldn't.

She left his room for the last time, closing the doors quietly behind her. She wasn't sure if the words that her uncle had last spoken to her were his true advice or the madness of a dying man but she could not stop pondering them as she accompanied Alfred through the grand galleries and to the much less extravagant servant's passages below. Love to save them all in the end, what a peculiar thing to say. What singular advice from the man who had been preening her for politics since the moment she could walk, priming her to bond her kingdom to another since the night she had mourned in his arms over the cruelty of men.

Alfred escorted her through the labyrinthine underground servants' passages to emerge onto the Northern lawn. The moonlight above illuminated the grass below, giving it a sort of effervescent blue incandescence. The wagon was lingering close by, adjacent to the modest blacksmith's foundry that had been thoroughly vacated since the end of the war. It was nothing more than a simple merchant's wagon sitting close to the Northern gate, the closest to the road that would be taking her to Baliene and the least used. She glanced up at her chauffer as she converged upon the waiting cart. He had adorned the garb of the common merchant and would certainly pass for one to the untrained eye but she recognized a soldier sworn to his King when she saw one. If he truly intended to pass for a lowly tradesman, something should most certainly be done about that excellent posture.

As Alfred was stowing the diminutive trunk that contained the only accouterments that she would be permitted to take with her into the back of the cart, she made eye contact with the soldier. He smiled and tipped his straw hat to her. She wondered absentmindedly who he was, what soldier had drawn the short straw of serving as her guardian. When Alfred had finished loading her baggage, he extended a hand and helped her climb into the back of her paltry carriage. It was desolate inside, devoid of any amenities or embellishments, made up of simple pine and veiled in opaque canvas. There was, at least, a narrow bench along the side for her to endeavor to perch her ample behind upon. Anyone who saw them pass would witness a merchant transporting his commodities to the north. They would not observe the petrified, fleeing princess in the rear.

Alfred knelt down to peer into the wagon at her. He smiled and leaned in to embrace her one more time.

"Write me when you arrive. I'll need to know you're safe."

She nodded in promise and he stepped away. She heard an abrupt, muted whistle and then the cart was moving. It was a rough jaunt, jostling her from side to side as if every stone under the wagon's wheels resulted in a sudden and contrasting shift in direction. After a few rickety minutes, she could see Alfred standing on the dark, deserted lawn watching her retreat with a misery in his eyes that she had never seen before. She sat back, settling in for her journey and regarding everything she had ever known and loved fading into the distance before her very eyes, uncertain if she would ever see any of it again. In the darkness of the lonely cart, she finally allowed herself to weep. And the tears came freely.

She had fallen asleep. That was her first realization when she woke. Sometime during the sniveling, she had drifted off into an abysmal slumber, lulled into a trance by the stillness of the night and the steady motion of the cart. Now, she sat up, stretching out her aching joints, speculating at what distance they had voyaged. She rose from the crude pew she had been resting on and went to the canvas folds to call out her query to her escort. But, as her hand brushed the canvas, she stiffened.

She heard the gentle thrum of something sleek cutting through the sky, the shrill whine it produced as it soared through still air, and then a thud and a horrendous gurgling noise. She drew away from the flaps. Something was amiss. The wagon had stopped moving. She stood still as stone, afraid to move, holding her breath, striving not to make a sound. Then she heard the footsteps, boots crunching against the rocky earth. It may as well have been an army marching toward her as raucous as they were in the otherwise unmitigated hush of the night. They crossed behind the canvas. Two shadows. Then another. She backed away, toward the front of the wagon, where she discerned the slight shape of her trunk in the blackness.

"-didn't have to shoot him clean through like that," one of the men was declaring.

"I didn't want him to scream."

"He's just a soldier. He didn't have to die."

She fumbled with the small clasp keeping the trunk sealed.

"Doesn't matter. Let's just get what we came for."

Then they were shuffling forward again, walking toward the cart. She was out of time. She stepped to the side as lightly as she could and slid behind her trunk hoping they wouldn't see her in the back of the dark wagon.

But they had a lantern. She perceived it now, on the other side of the canvas, advancing rapidly. Soon enough, they drew open the canvas flaps and she saw them. Two men and another holding the lantern behind them. The one with the lantern was only a boy, a little younger than her perhaps, but he was pencil thin and had a malicious curve to his twitching lips. The other two were men. One short with an eyepatch and an unabridged scar that ran from the center of his left eyebrow down to the point of his chin and another enormous, round, and bald. All three of them sported an outlandish gold symbol on their breast. She knew it well and identified it effortlessly enough, even in the blinding glare of the lantern. A fist clutching a dagger by the blade. It was the symbol of the rebellion and it would be the emblem of her assassins. They leered wickedly at the sight of her.

"There she is," the short one crooned. "Come out and see us, dearie, don't make this any harder than it has to be."

She shuffled on her feet, transferring her weight from her left foot to her right, waiting for them to advance, heart pounding in her chest. They drew closer to her. She aligned her hands splayed against the barrier behind her, bent her knees slightly.

"Come on," he proposed. "The boss won't be happy if we come back too late."

They took another step closer and she deposited her right foot on the trunk and kicked it as hard as she could. It accelerated through the space of the wagon and, being expelled from the cart at rapid velocity, smashed into the broad chests of the first two men. They collapsed under the impact and then she was running at full speed, vaulting out of the wagon, over the trunk and the men pinned beneath it. The boy maneuvered to the side and out of her way, astonished and alarmed by the dexterity of their prey that they were distinctly ignorant of. She hit the gravel and rolled back onto her feet in a single, fluid motion, widening her stance in preparation for their attack.

But the two men were still hoisting themselves up from under the cumbersome trunk and the boy was only gawking at her, clutching his lantern tightly to his chest. She identified the soldier who had been intended as her defender through her peripheral vision. He was slumped against his saddle, arrow protruding from his larynx. With one final glance at the boy to ensure he made no intrusion upon her, she darted for the fallen sentinel, hurdled onto the head of the wagon, and probed his lifeless form for a weapon. He had no sword. That would have been far too conspicuous for a merchant traversing the woods. But he possessed a dagger, concealed beneath his unwieldy trader's cloak. She dislodged it from its sheath and yanked it away, hands smeared in the blood that was erupting from his neck, and swiveled just in time to see that the big man was upon her. He lunged. She kicked, making contact with his neck. He gasped for air and fell back against the mossy slope behind him, clinging to his bruised esophagus.

She pivoted back to the soldier and ventured to extricate him from the saddle. If she could free the horse from its entanglement with the cart, she could ride it away and they would be incapable of apprehending her. But the soldier's feet were stuck in the stirrups and she could not risk bending to free them and exposing herself. That was when she detected the short man on the other side of the horse. He raised an arrow, grinning, and shot. She pushed the soldier's body in front of her as a shield and he intercepted it, taking a second projectile for his princess that night.

The vast man was up again behind her. He charged toward her, arms outstretched to seize her. The short man nocked another arrow. At the last moment, she leapt from the horse onto the wagon. The short man fired his arrow and it struck home in the fat man's shoulder. He wailed in agony, grappling with the extended shaft of the cursor. The short man cursed, hurling down his now empty quiver. He commenced the effort of scaling the limp canvas walls of the wagon that she now stood on top of, balancing meticulously upon the narrow beams of pine that constituted the bowed architecture of the canopy. But he was not the first one there. The boy stood before her now, lantern discarded in the brush bordering the road. Considering only the triumph that he would secure for his mysterious employer and not of the dagger in her grip, he lunged. She slashed. The knife cut across his throat, severing his jugular. He slumped to his knees, blood bursting from him as he clutched at his ruined throat. She shoved him off of the wagon and right on top of the short man below.

There was a shriek and a terrible choking sound. Briar took her chance. With the three of them presently incapacitated, she dove from the wagon and ran.