𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐒 | 𝒂𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓

𝖙𝖜𝖔. 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔

⃕⋆𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒏

*ੈ✩‧₊˚CARALYN WAS HAUNTED BY NIGHT OF THE GHOSTS OF HER CONSUMERS AND THE PHANTOMS THAT ARRIVED TO WATCH HER FATAL DISPOSAL METHODS WITH LAUGHTER. She absentmindedly scratched her arms as if she was trying to swat or comfort the scars the spirits had laid on her without her knowledge. The thoughts of the next day brought on a fit of feelings and of fists into the mattress that she chose as her chosen target. The blankets and sheets tore themselves apart – or maybe she did it – as a silent rebellion.

But silent rebellions only make fools laugh.

And how she hated their chuckles and hums of amusement when directed at her like a little child who said no for the first time out of stubbornness.

But soon the sun rose and her day began with a bitter taste in her body.

The wonderful day after the night-long festival was when the Royal family and their "entourage" traveled to the nearest towns and toured through them – speaking to the people, discovering their issues and spending nights in their humble homes. It was considered part of Caralyn's schooling due to her increased knowledge of trade skills and

But the Princess was definitely not in correct lightness to learn.

According to her usual itinerary, the Princess would come down all dressed and ready for the hour ride to the nearest village named Salven; one of the villages mostly visited by the Royal Family, and while there were cars, the family took horses to the villages close by.

But this was not the case on the usual wanderlust princess.

Caralyn came down to the kitchen, dressed in her riding clothes, her tendrils of hair loose and wild as slumped onto the kitchen table. Her head was on the wood and she laid flat as if she could sleep there. A dark looming cloud raised over her head.

The kitchen staff noted her, having been with her since she was a little girl, and shared a look with one another.

While they chatted and moved about in a rush, another came from the top of the stairs. The raven haired woman stared worried when she finally landed on the brown locks of the Princess and sighed in relief.

"You know, Princesses usually wait for their lady-in-waiting before going to eat." She chided playfully, sitting next to her. "You didn't get your boots on yet."

"Isa." Caralyn groaned, "My head hurts and I think I may be on the verge of crying a river. My boots can wait."

She chuckled at her Princess.

Isabella Velos wasn't a lucky person by birth. The War had raged hard and strong when she had been only a child. But an opportunity came up when the War had come to a near end and she was fortunate enough to be chosen by the Princess herself, when she was only six and Isabella was ten, to be her "second-hand". Isabella had been taken to the palace, away from the Orphanage that had scared her from head and toe, given a room and board, access to education and in exchange, she was the personal friend and confidant of the only Princess.

The thought of her entire life being in the hands of a six year old, deemed a Princess and the future of the Continent merely months prior, had her skin paling and her palms clamming. But Caralyn wasn't raised to be a machine or a snarling creature, unlike many others who had been born and bred to be brutes and beasts.