Faramund, Guardian of Celeibra's prince Alcaeus, only cares about two things: keeping his prince safe and following the rules. With Alcaeus' rule in jeopardy, a bumbling mage failing at spying seems the least of his problems -- at least until the ma...
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Channary's eyes felt heavy as she rubbed them awake. All night questions had raced through her mind. Her feet strode wearily across the cobblestone. She needed answers. She needed to see this "princess". Was it someone she used to know? An old family enemy? There were few she could think of who could pull off something like this. Even those felt like long shots. They might not even be alive.
The streets were still bustling, even this early, with a large number were heading the same way. Their accents as they talked among one another put her at ease. Her own people. She followed the crowd, knowing without a doubt who they were heading to meet. As a solider passed the other direction, she darted her head away. Then paused. She glanced back.
Why wasn't he following the crowd? A crowd this size had to raise suspicion, surely?
She turned her gaze forward and narrowed her eyes. Magic. It had to be. Some kind of illusion or shielding? Then yesterday's strangers weren't lying about a Guardian. A water elemental if she had to guess. Channary picked up her pace. She prayed they were at least wrong about their power.
The tighter the crowd grew, the louder it grew. Excited chatter. Nervous whispers. Channary shoved past it all, not apologizing for any bumped elbows or squashed feet. The wide open stage was in her sight. She aimed for a front row view of her newest enemy.
"Good morning, everyone!" a woman's voice commanded, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Thank you so much for coming." Channary tensed and darted her vision for the speaker.
The answer arrived with a brief flash of light. A woman appeared on stage with a taller man beside her. Her bold red cape framed her body, drawing Channary's eyes to the spotless white tunic that clung tight against her curves. She wore a black layer underneath that covered her chest and neck. Most of her freckled skin was covered, either with the highly decorated cloth or metal armor. Her strawberry blond hair framed her pale face, pulled back in a loose braid. Blue jewels embedded in her armor sparkled in the sun. Though they shined into Channary's eyes, she couldn't look away. The woman's deep blue eyes shone out at the crowd as she grinned, waving to everyone. They weren't identical. Fake Channary was taller, bustier, and had darker hair.
But she was gorgeous. As Channary's eyes darted up and down her whole figure, she swallowed. This impostor wasn't covered in dirt and blood. She wasn't exhausted like she was. This woman was dazzling. Her body type was exactly the kind that inspired paintings and sculptures. A thin scar ran down her impostor's right cheek, but it only enhanced her image. Beautiful and tough. More a goddess than a princess. What people wanted. What Channary wished she was. She clenched her fists.
She spared only a brief look at the man. He dressed similarly, but less impressive, with a hood and mask hiding his face. No doubt the Guardian. How had this woman gotten one? She'd known all their highest nobles and her impostor was not one of them.
