Oris woke up with her mouth dry, her tongue numb and heavy, a dull throb at the side of her head and her hands freed. These were only the first things she realized before she began the quiet struggle to open her eyes. She was sure the changes that had occurred since she had lost consciousness were more than she could count.

But. . . I'm not dead? Her brows shot to her hairline in surprise when she was finally able to pry her eyelids apart. She let her gaze rove about, trying to glean as much information from the dim room she found herself lying in. As much as she was glad that there was no light to hurt her eyes, Oris wished that there had been enough for her to properly examine her surroundings.

To the right of the bed were thick curtains that hung low and heavy. She could still see harsh sunlight fall through the gap between it and the floor, a gap that widened every now and then with a gust of wind, and so guessed that it was probably a few hours after high noon.

The bed itself was soft, comfortable and one-third of the furniture present in the quaint room. It was not comparable to the one she had in the castle but it was the best thing she had slept in, in years. If not for the slight ache in her arms and head, she reckoned she would have woken up refreshed and invigorated.

But I'm still alive. Oris would have chuckled but her throat hurt too much. She blinked at the pain and slowly lifted a hand to touch her face, she could feel the rough material of linen bandages beneath her fingertips. Fate is still working his wonders.

She had known many brave men who had slipped and fallen and died on stormy afternoons like that one. To come out of it relatively unscathed was a miracle.

Then again, those stories might have just been concocted to veil assassinations and tell morals—never ride in storms; death is possible from horse height.

This time around the laughter escaped. However hoarse, quiet and painful it ended up being, Oris was glad.

She was glad to be alive. Glad to have another swing at life.

Placing both her hands over her chest, she began a silent prayer and thanked Fate for his kindness. Death also received some worship for His mercies along the way, for wherever would she be without His grace?

She prayed to Mother Earth, asking her to guide Rodholf to her and cloud her presence from the enemies in her midst. And more silently—if that was even possible—she prayed for a child that she would love, that would love her just as fervently.

Lastly, she prayed to her parents, the king and queen she never knew, to guide her from the paradise in the skies and help her rebuild Orse.

When she had finished, she realized that the plaster ceiling had become blurry and wetness had found its way to her ears.

She had been crying.

Oris sat up then patted her eyes dry with her sleeve. She let out a sigh when she looked at her hands. For someone supposed to revived a royal bloodline, sometimes she was too unobservant.

"My clothes have been changed," she muttered to herself, staring at the deep blue silk that clothed her in a demure manner. Nothing was wasted and no body part was emphasized. It was like a slip or a shift but thicker.

The fact that it was a gown meant that her gender had been confirmed. She should have expected it but it still came as a blow. Chances were that she had already been delivered to the person that had bought her.

As for whether that made escape easier or not. . . Oris was feeling generous with herself and decided not to think about it.

Some minutes later her gaze fell on the pitcher on the table a couple steps away from the bed and the cup beside it. She needed to drink water first.

She glanced at the curtains then back to the table. If there was a window, she'd need strength to jump out of it.

With effort that could not be understood by someone other than her, she managed to get to her feet, almost falling back to the bed as her legs wobbled. She gritted her teeth and grabbed tightly onto the part of the headboard closest to her. Already she knew that those couple of steps were going to take a lot out of her.

Still, she had to get there.

She might not have know how long her body had been thirsty for but it had no hard feelings demonstrating her of the consequence. If she wanted to escape then she needed strength and she had a good feeling that the water would be a mighty help.

An empty pitcher would also come in handy for bashing assailants over the head with, she thought to herself, but that was just a digression.

Her confidence renewed by the short break, Oris let go of the bed and started shuffling to the table, taking pauses in between steps, determined not to fall and alert anyone who might be listening.

Victory at last! Her lips widened into a grin that split her face in half as she resisted the urge to laugh and settled into the chair by the table, practically throwing her fatigued body into it.

Weak to the point that she had to take the pitcher with two hands before she could lift it, Oris decided not to overexert herself with the process of pouring water into the cup. She simply drank straight from the source, taking care not to tilt too much and soak her new clothes.

She winced at the loud thud that rid the room of all its silence the moment she set the pitcher back, half of its contents slushing around in her empty gut. She held her breath, a hand on her chest, prepared to fake a faint the moment someone barged in.

No one did.

Letting out a breath of relief, she got up, feeling stronger now as she padded silently across the room and sank into the soft bed once again, positioning her limbs to resemble her pre-awakened self.

The plan had been to drift back to sleep and start formulating an escape plan when she woke up hours later but the moment she closed her eyes, she heard voices.

She could tell that they originated a few meters behind the door to the room she was trapped in. Perhaps her kidnappers were on their way to check up on her.

"She has been asleep for days," the person speaking was Tristan, "the physician said if she doesn't wake by tomorrow, she never will."

"You should have been watching her," with a heavy tone lacing his voice, Marcka sounded more menacing than ever, "that was your job."

"The horses—"

"The horses, the thunder, the rain are all excuses. You know it." Marcka snapped. It was the first time Oris had ever heard him angry.

"You—" Tristan began again but was cut off, this time by a voice she didn't recognize.

"Boys, stop fighting," the man said, and Oris could immediately picture a male well into his years with silver hairs sprouting from his head in their thousands.

"There are some things that are predestined," he continued, his voice low and sad. "For this to have happened when you both were so close to succeeding, it can only be said that Fate dealt us a bad hand."

Oris couldn't help but raise a brow at the statement. Don't tell me we were actually a stone's throw away from here?

"Father," Marcka started, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, "we can find another girl."

Father? Oris squinted even though her eyes were closed, as though it would make her thoughts clearer.

The entire conversation was a well of new information. She had assumed that she was the objective of a mission Marcka and Tristan had been paid for and that holding her captive had nothing to do with anything personal. Yet now it sounded like it was the exact opposite.

"It is too late for that, the royal envoy arrives in less than a week."

"So sister is—" Tristan began, then cut himself off almost as if he was unable to say the words.

"We will offer her to the emperor and hope that the gods were not angered by our attempt to change destiny."

Then the voices drifted too far away for Oris to piece together anything but random words and she herself began to drift away, into fitful dreams of bleeding thrones, crying children and severed heads, not quite able to find peace.

~