Zaketa presents a carefully crafted mask to the world; one of sharp edges, privilege, and bravado. Only those closest to her, her most loyal guards, know the real Zaketa. And she is so much more than what her warlord father has crafted her to be.
In...
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Rhys followed after her young mistress, who slipped through the crowd with her usual grace and ease. Rhys couldn't help but wonder at the exchange with the bard. Zaketa had given him something, even though the coins she'd given him were more than generous. Before her, the plump princess stopped abruptly, turning to grasp Rhy's arm.
"Have you ever had the pastries from this shop?" Zaketa asked, barely masking the excitement in her voice. "I'd hoped they'd be open today. Their hours are... something of a mystery."
Rhys raised a brow, considering the shop. Of course, she'd never had pastries from such a place. Why would she go out of her way and spend her hard-earned funds on food when she was always given enough in the mess hall?
Zaketa didn't wait for an answer. Instead, she tugged on Rhys' sleeve. "Come on! Let's get a dozen... no, two! We can each have one, and you can take them back to the palace." With that, she pulled Rhys into the shop that smelled like a little slice of heaven.
This was a side to Zaketa she'd yet to see. It was as if wearing this disguise of a cloth mask and hooded cloak gave her the freedom to be someone else. Or perhaps, Rhys wondered, this was who Zaketa really was outside the pressures of her title and the watching eyes of the palace.
Zaketa was bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, impatient as she stood in line behind an elderly gentleman. "What's your favorite flavor?" she asked, hazel eyes crinkled, the evidence of a giddy smile beneath her mask.
"My favorite flavor?" Rhys asked, perplexed by the question. She had no idea what they were ordering, let alone an opinion on the flavor.
"This shop specializes in cream and jelly-filled pastries. Do you prefer cream, or do you have a favorite fruit?"
Cream was a rare luxury, mixed into bitter teas, and she couldn't imagine a pastry filled with it. Fruits, though, she'd collected a great many while foraging as a girl. They were all delicious and sweet, little gem-colored delights. The dark, round berries of mid to late summer that stained her hands indigo, she loved those. Their rare cousins, the smaller round, shiny berries that had a reddish hue — those were always her very favorites. "Huckaberries," she said softly. "We called them huckaberries."
Zaketa clapped her hands. "Huckleberries! Those are seasonal, but I know the jellies have a good shelf life. With any luck, they'll have some! What about blueberry, would that be okay if they don't have huckleberry?"
Rhys nodded, still caught up in the memory of picking berries with her mother and sister. They'd fill basket after basket, always thankful for the bounty that summer brought. Winters were long and harsh, but summer was a time of plenty. And now, here she stood, in a store selling pastries, filled with berries from plants that had stopped producing at least a month ago. The pain of such memories had long since become a dull, throbbing, ever-present ache, easy enough to shove aside, to push down.
Soon, her new mistress was handing her a warm, crisp, gold pastry. It was impressive, far larger than the little cookies, puddings, and cakes that were sometimes included with her meals in the mess hall. This pastry was a meal in and of itself, filling the entirety of her hand. Zaketa waved her over to a secluded alcove where she settled into a chair, her back to the door.
