Chapter 7 - The Real Princess
The interior of the Sunken Vault was breathtaking. Piles of ancient gold coins, glittering gemstones, and forgotten relics of a bygone era lined the stone shelves. But neither Sera nor Rhys had eyes for the treasure.
In the far corner of the vault, bound securely to a heavy wooden chair with thick leather straps, sat a young woman.
Her hair was messy and matted, her face pale and gaunt, and her clothes were stained with travel dust and sweat. But when she lifted her head at the sound of the grinding door, the resemblance was undeniable.
Princess Amara.
The real princess. Alive, but barely.
“Amara!” Sera gasped, rushing forward across the stone floor, her ruined wedding dress trailing behind her.
The bound princess blinked against the sudden influx of light, her hazel eyes widening in sheer disbelief as she looked at Sera. She stared at the remnants of the pearl-embroidered gown, then down at Sera’s face, utterly paralyzed by the impossibility of what she was seeing.
“Who... who are you?” Amara croaked, her voice dry and cracked from hours of thirst. “Why do you look like me?”
Rhys stepped into the vault behind Sera, his broadsword still drawn and ready for an ambush. He holstered the blade with a practiced click and immediately moved to Amara’s side, pulling a small silver flask of water from his belt and pressing it gently to her lips.
“Drink slowly,” Rhys instructed softly, his harsh, kingly demeanor softening just a fraction as he tended to her. He pulled a small dagger from his boot and sliced through the thick leather straps binding her wrists and ankles.
Amara drank greedily, coughing once before sinking back against the chair with a shudder of relief. She looked up at Rhys, recognition flashing in her tired eyes.
“King Rhys...” she whispered. “You... you survived the ambush at the border?”
“There was no border ambush, Princess,” Rhys said grimly, helping her stand to her feet. “It was an inside job orchestrated by your own regent. Malrec swapped you with a decoy, drugged you, locked you down here, and sent her to the altar to die so he could trigger a full-scale war between our nations.”
Amara turned her gaze slowly toward Sera. She looked at the girl who had worn her face, who had stood at the altar in her place, and who now stood before her with dirt on her cheeks and fire in her eyes.
“You...” Amara breathed softly, her voice trembling. “You were the one they pulled from the dungeons. Malrec told me he was executing a common thief.”
“He was,” Sera replied quietly, offering a small, wry smile. “I suppose my execution was just... delayed a few hours.”
Before Amara could reply, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the entrance of the vault.
Clank. Clank. Shuffing boots.
May you like
Rhys whipped around, snapping his broadsword back into his hand as a volley of crossbow bolts ricocheted off the stone walls inside the treasury.
Regent Malrec stepped into the doorway, flanked by a dozen heavily armored guards, a cruel, triumphant sneer twisting his features.
