Atalanta

Part 2

• Y/N •

The next morning is when I realize my folly.

I don't know what I expected from the whims of a goddess. When time has no meaning, it is not unreasonable to expect things might take a bit longer. Artemis, apparently, does not abide by such rules. My days as the princess are all structured the same – training, breakfast, followed by weapons and more training. This is chased by supper, educational and state functions, after which is dinner, leisure and – eventually – bed. Everything in my life is the same, everything is just so – which is why it is strange to wake up to sun.

I blink for a moment, confused by the sight. I am never allowed to sleep past sunrise.

Throwing my covers aside, I tumble off my mattress. Dressing quickly, I mumble about being late and no one deciding to wake me. Typically, if I sleep past five in the morning, a maid is already in my bedroom, yanking me into the tub. Today is not a holiday, or at least not one I can remember. Uncertain, I fling open the door and stride into the hall. I can think of no good reason why I was allowed to sleep in – which means, the reason is unexpected.

Unexpected tends to be synonymous with bad.

Hurrying through the halls, I tie the yellowed wrappings of my dress. There are so many loops and buttonholes, it is nearly impossible to locate them all. It is why I prefer to wear pants, overall. Well, that and it is easier to run while in pants. Entering the great hall, I am in such a haste, I nearly slip on the rainbow-pattern tile beneath me. Catching myself, I spot an abandoned pail of water and frown.

Someone left here in a hurry.

This thought makes me go faster, skimming the halls in search of someone with answers. Those who could provide information is limited – I am the princess, after all, and if I do not know, few do. At the tall silver gates to the throne room, I pause and examine myself in their reflection. I seem a bit rushed, a touch harried but it will have to do.

When I push open the doors, the room immediately falls silent.

There are many different types of quiet. There is the lull before a storm, the expectant pause before speaking, the horrible void of an uncomfortable thing to be said. This, though – this is the guilty silence of those who were discussing you before you entered the room.

Eyes narrowed, I let the doors fall shut behind me. "Mother." I turn towards the Queen. "And Father."

My father straightens, hiding whatever parchment he holds but not before I notice – not before I frown. He looks at me a moment before waving a hand at his courtiers.

"Leave us," he says, clearing his throat. "We must speak with our daughter at once. Alone."

Grumbling follows, but nobles and advisors file out in respect. I watch them pass, cultivating my expression into one I hope is indifference.

The throne room around us is impressive, all things considered. The floor is silver and opal, knotted with whorls which wind their way towards the thrones – twin lapis chairs, the substance for which Dietas is known. The walls are white, hewn from a rock similar to the Plains. It is not overwhelming, in terms of extravagance – but if you know anything about money, you know the room is worth a small fortune.

It does not escape my notice the twelve high priests and priestesses are all present. As they leave, a dark-haired woman meets my gaze – the priestess of Artemis. She says not a word to me as she passes but gives me a look. There is deadness to her gaze, prompting a chill down my spine.

Once they are gone, the silver doors shut firmly behind them, my father turns to face me. "Daughter," he exhales, bleak. "Our priests and priestesses have interpreted a message this morning."