The forest was eerily silent, save for the crunch of her leather-soled boots against the damp undergrowth. Eira adjusted the hood of her azure cloak, which bore a faint constellation-like pattern of silver dots, as the cold mountain air bit at her skin. The garment had been woven by the seamstresses of Dul’Arath for royalty—a luxury she had stolen after slipping out of the grand halls of King’s Spire weeks before. Panic simmered beneath her steely calm, but her resolve remained strong. If she turned back now, it would all have been for nothing.
She stopped, her sharp gaze scanning the terrain. The woodland was dense—a tangle of ancient oaks and curling vines. Somewhere above, the moon shone dimly, its light almost swallowed by the heavy canopy. Eira tightened the grip on her satchel, which rested against her hip, its strap cutting across her white tunic, slightly frayed and stained from weeks of travel. Her breeches, dyed ivory and less fitted than she would’ve liked, were nearly as disheveled as her attire. Not that it mattered—survival was her sole concern now.
Her breath hitched as a twig snapped behind her. Eira whirled around, and in one seamless motion, her hand flew to the dagger strapped to her thigh. The blade, forged by master smiths, gleamed in her grasp. She waited—silent, unmoving—but no figure emerged from the shadowy depths. Just the wind.
“Still trailing me, are you?” she muttered under her breath, not expecting a response but finding catharsis in her own defiance. Escaping the clutches of Lord Draemir wasn’t an easy feat. His men, ruthless and unrelenting, wouldn’t stop until they dragged her lifeless body back to the copper throne. She could practically feel their piercing eyes on her, like ravenous wolves circling prey.
Years earlier, Eira had been the favored daughter of the wealthy Varian house, her soft features belying a warrior’s spirit buried deep beneath polished etiquette and gilded gowns. Her long ponytail, a hue of chestnut brown much like her father’s, had once been plaited with pearls. While others admired her grace and poise, she seethed under the weight of expectations. The intricate tattoo etched into the pale skin of her back—the sigil of her noble lineage—became a mark she loathed. Freedom had always seemed like a distant star, far beyond reach.
Then, on the night of the Royal Masquerade, her fate shifted. A desire for escape clenched her heart tighter than any corset. Dressed in a flowing cerulean gown fringed with ivory lace, she slipped into the labyrinthine corridors of King’s Spire. It was there she overheard whispers of rebellion—a boy in commoner’s clothes murmuring to another about an upcoming ambush and something called “The Silver Verdict.” Her life, one of cloistered privilege, collided headfirst with a burgeoning insurgency.
That evening, Eira traded her jewels for anonymity. Her hands became calloused, her feet blistered. She hadn’t merely learned to fight—she’d survived wars, betrayals, the bitter deaths of allies, and relentless uprisings. Now, on this moonlit forest path, she wasn’t the naive girl her enemies still imagined. She was a blade honed by hardship, and though her white garments carried traces of drudgery and sacrifice, they bore her resolve like a standard.
A low whistle broke the tension—a signal, unmistakably human this time. Eira’s grip on her dagger tightened. She spun again, eyes blazing, and was met with a figure cloaked from head to toe in shadow. The dark shape stepped forward, their voice smooth and menacing. “Princess Eira,” the man said, drawing out her title with mockery. “Did you really think you could outrun us?”
Betrayal flooded Eira’s chest. The face beneath the hood was familiar—Joran, a supposed comrade from the rebellion. She blinked rapidly, the memories flashing within her mind—a firelit night, Joran vowing to bring justice to the kingdom, sharing secrets of their shared hatred for Draemir’s tyranny.
“Joran,” she said hoarsely, the name sharp on her tongue. “You were one of us.”
He sneered, his features illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. “And yet here we are. Lord Draemir offers more than scraps, Princess.” At that, five more figures materialized from the adjacent woods, their weapons glinting ominously. “Now, the satchel, if you please. We wouldn’t want to damage your pretty face.”
Eira’s mind raced. She knew what he wanted—it wasn’t gold, but the map inside. A secret route to the Silver Verdict’s stronghold, one that would ensure her people’s safety. If she allowed the map to fall into enemy hands, all would be lost.
“Come closer, then,” Eira said softly, surprising even herself with her confidence. “Take it if you dare.”
Joran’s brows raised in mock amusement, but that fleeting second was enough for Eira to act. Throwing the satchel behind her into the dense shrubs, she sidestepped his lunge and drove her dagger into his thigh—a calculated move to disable rather than kill. Chaos erupted. The remaining soldiers surged toward her, their movements heavy compared to her practiced agility.
Eira darted between them, her cerulean cloak billowing like a banner of defiance. The tattoo on her back, once a reminder of her gilded imprisonment, seemed almost to burn along her skin, driving her forward. She fought with a graceful ferocity—dagger parrying steel, boots striking clean blows against vulnerable joints—but she was outnumbered, and exhaustion crept into her limbs.
Suddenly, from behind the towering boughs, arrows sliced through the night air, finding their marks with deadly precision. Eira’s heart leaped as reinforcements poured into the fray—the Silver Verdict, arriving with impeccable timing.
In the chaos, Joran’s figure retreated, favoring his injured leg. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat, and an unspoken promise of future vengeance passed between them before he disappeared into the woods.
When the dust settled, Eira stood surrounded by her allies, her cloak streaked with mud, her tunic stained crimson—not her blood, thankfully. One of the rebels, a wiry woman named Kael, approached her with a smirk. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”
Eira allowed herself a rare smile, brief but genuine. As they retrieved the satchel and prepared to move deeper into the heart of the forest, she felt the weight of her choices—not as a burden, but as a testament to her resilience.
Through betrayal and bloodshed, she wasn’t just running anymore. She was fighting. And royalty or not, Eira would see freedom won, no matter the cost.
This short story is set in the genre of fantasy/action with elements of betrayal and redemption.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Blue Polka Dot Shirt and White Lace Panties Cosplay: Vintage-Inspired Elegance Meets Playful Chic Style
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
3 comments