The Lies of a White Rose

A Dinner Fit for a King

No one really knows the truth about me, but I hear the rumours. Word went 'round pretty quick here. They say I am a proud, spoilt brat with predatory eyes only for the rich and the beautiful, and that I didn't dare lift a hand to help anyone besides, least of all the ones who need it most.

But I suppose I should have expected such, as the Devon's crown princess; whether I li­­ked the fact or not, I always caught word their tell-tale fabrications.

Ask me, and I'd deny them in a heartbeat. But the thing is, I am not too eager to plead my innocence, either.

I have done a fair few things in my life so far that I am none too proud of: such as lying, thieving, spying, to name a few...I suppose I'll leave the rest up for the imagination.

Only I didn't give a damn about what they thought. They did not know the least about me. Or about the dark little secrets that I hid under my thin veil of lies.

"Celeste," my brother said, throwing my door off its hinges. "You're late. Mother and father expected you to be at the dining hall over five minutes ago." As if it was a huge dilemma.

He looked at me expectantly with those big dark eyes of his, and I rolled my own. Although he was an annoying, stubborn thing and was impossible to deal with at times, he was still my brother. And in this court, no matter if we didn't always see eye to eye, I was obliged to comply with his demands much to my own chagrin.

"Stop making such a fuss where it is not even due, Duncan." I replied with a huff. "They can wait."

Although obliged I was, it did not always mean that I conformed. Heck, conformity was a word that I was far from familiar with.

He went red at the ears. "They are the sovereigns of the fiefdom, Cece. Everyone answers to them, including you." Ignoring his reprimand, I ran the brush through my strawberry blond curls once more for good measure, before tossing the comb onto my bed and dusting off my dress.

It was an unadorned gown, none too fancy at that, a creamy hue of beige run through with a few golden threads for highlights, and it folded out in waves behind me as it trailed along the tiles in my wake.

I pulled off the look with my signature white rose tucked behind my ear. My parents had dedicated a garden full of them just for me, as a sign of my 'purity' and 'grace'. I had none of that at all, leastways purity.

More like deceit, betrayal and lies.

Duncan grabbed me by the arm and fair yanked me out the door, and I tripped on my skirts and nearly fell on my face.

"Watch yourself," he told me, and I internally groaned. He was such a pain.

He herded me down and out of the highest bailey of the castle to the central square hewn from limestone of the second, and I thought it was strange for him to think we were in such a great hurry.

As a general rule, Duncan tended to avoid me. And I, him, for good reason.

Something about this evening in particular had left me at unease. I had several thoughts, sure, but all of the grim possibilities I'd formulated made my stomach cramp just to think about them.

"Please keep pace, my lady." Said one of escorts, dragging my mind back to the grim reality. Without my noticing, my feet had rooted to the spot at some odd point during my awful reverie. I threw him a scowl, and he looked away.

You see, my parents always worried after my safety, regardless of the tight security that our castle life offered. After the rebellion following the aftermath of the Scorched Crusade, assassins were wont on spilling Highborne blood. Despite the efforts of the Royal Guard, the cutthroats have evaded every single attempt at their destruction. Consequently, they've gained the notoriety of wraiths—just whispers of a phantom in the night's breeze, but harbingers wreaking death all the same.