The Unwanted Princess

The Reason I'm Afraid

The plan was in motion, and I couldn't be more on edge. How the fuck am I supposed to just be okay knowing I am weeks away from denouncing my own parents from my lineage? Do I have mixed feelings about their actions? Yes, but I cannot just erase the fact that these are the people who raised me. I tear up just imagining what my father's expression will be, the hurt in his eyes as he realizes the betrayal. The thought of my mother, cold and distant as she is, cutting me off completely—it's almost too much to bear.

On more than one occasion, I told Simon that this plan was too reckless and was bound to fail. "We should stop while we are ahead," I'd insist. In reality, I just didn't want to deal with the repercussions of actually going through with it. The idea of our names being cursed in the streets, of our parents being humiliated, stripped of everything they had worked for—how could we live with ourselves after that?

He would tell me, "We are in too deep already. Pulling back now isn't an option." His eyes would bore into mine, filled with a determination that both terrified and captivated me.

What if he was wrong? What if we were setting ourselves up for a fall so catastrophic it would not only destroy us but leave our kingdoms in ruins? And yet, there was a part that clung to the idea that maybe, just maybe, we could pull this off. That we could be the ones to finally bring about the change our people so desperately needed.

I wanted to believe in Simon's vision, in the future we could build together, but the cost... the cost was almost unbearable. This plan, this insane, reckless plan, was the only thing standing between us and a future where we could be something more.

How much was I really willing to lose? All I could think about was my childhood.

I remembered the afternoons spent horse riding with my father, the wind whipping through my hair as we galloped through the rolling fields of Eldoria. He was always patient, guiding me with a steady hand, his laughter ringing out as I struggled to control my spirited mare. Those moments felt like freedom, like nothing in the world could touch us. I could still hear his voice, calm and reassuring, as he taught me how to hold the reins, how to trust the animal beneath me.

And then there were the dinners—those long, boisterous meals where we'd all gather around the grand table, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filling the air. My mother would insist on overseeing the preparation herself, despite the army of chefs at her disposal. She'd roll up her sleeves and immerse herself in the kitchen, her hands moving with practiced grace as she kneaded dough or seasoned a stew. My brother and I would join in, our laughter mingling with the clatter of pots and pans as we tried—and often failed—to replicate her skill.

I could still see us in the kitchen, flour dusting our faces, my brother pretending to be a master chef as he concocted some bizarre dish that made us all burst into fits of laughter. Those were the moments when the royal titles meant nothing, when we were just a family enjoying each other's company. Evenings spent playing games by the fire, my brother and I competing fiercely over chess or cards, while our parents looked on with amused smiles.

I could recall the nights we'd spend curled up in the grand sitting room, a fire crackling in the hearth as we played games—chess, cards, anything that sparked a bit of friendly competition. My brother always had a knack for strategy, and I'd often lose to him, much to my frustration. But it was all in good fun, and the teasing that followed was just another thread in the fabric of our bond.

These people who had given me so much, who had shaped me into the person I am today, are the very ones I am to be disloyal too. God, what would they think of me now?

With this in mind, our meetings flew by. I was always so lost in thought I never gave much input either. The boys, or that's how I refer to them all, are rather nice in my opinion. They are cordial, polite even for such rough looking men.