Rise of the Unfavored Princess

Chapter 110: Ch. 110: No More Playgrounds

As usual, life does not give me the opportunity to roll with the punches. The pretty sunset coloring the black iron gates and bushes in a dusty gold also serves as a spotlight on the royal guard member standing smack dab in front of the dog hole Emma and I crawled out of to escape the palace.

The young knight does not look surprised to see us, I’d even wager a guess that he expected to see us. And if he expected to see us, then that means that his presence was my father’s interference. Nonetheless, I try to play off our sudden meeting casually.

“Greetings,” I say, discreetly handing my bag off to Emma. I pat down the skirt of the rough dress I have on as he answers in a curt manner.

“Your highness.”

“Are you on duty today, Sir...” I ask, fishing for a name.

“Sir Remboldt.” He is tall and foreboding, a man who cannot be reasoned with.

But his presence in one singular spot, a keen difference from the usual rotation of the guards has me on high alert even as I continue to speak calmly.

.....

“Are you on duty today, Sir Remboldt?”

“Yes. As I shall be every day from now on,” The knight says, his underlying message clear. No more sneaking out of the palace for me. Not today. Not ever.

“Oh.” I have nothing else to say in response.

“His Majesty has a word for you, princess.” Sir Remboldt says, stern eyes looking down at me from above. It’s almost as if my father is speaking through him as he continues, “To leave the imperial palace without supervision is very dangerous and unwise. Please go through the proper channels in the future should you wish to leave the premises.”

He sets a heavy hand on his sword, the unfriendliness in his tone and body language crystal clear.

In my ears, his words, and by extension my father’s words, sounds like a threat. My mouth presses into a thin line and I’m no longer in the mood to exchange false pleasantries, turning my back to Sir Remboldt as I stalk back to the central palace.

We only make a short pitstop to change back into our clothes, however for all of Emma’s talents, hair is not one of them so the hairstyle Marie did for me is replaced with a simple braid.

“That asshole really wants to put me under house arrest, huh? Little old me.” I scoff angrily under my breath, the braid bouncing furiously in tune with every heavy step.

“Do you hear that, Emma?” I ask as we round the familiar bend I just passed eagerly a few minutes ago, ready to finally capitalize on a key investment.

“Hear what, your highness?” Emma replies readily.

“A key turning in the lock. I’m being locked inside a cage. A pretty one, but it’s a cage anyhow,” I tell her. My anger rushes out of me like a flood. I’m not quite sure what I feel anymore. It’s not fury. It’s not sorrow. But whatever it is, all I know is that it is nothing good.

Do you know the feeling of not knowing you had something until it’s lost? I poignantly remember a time in my late high school years, right around when I was applying to colleges. As I started filling out the many forms for scholarships, financial aid, and all the tiresome minutiae that accompanies the American college experience, I had suddenly thought about playgrounds.

When was the last time I had gone to one? Was it sometime in middle school, before all of us had collectively thought being tweens made us too cool to play on them? I’d felt at a loss right there at my desk, the looming future of adulthood making me keenly miss the playground I’d once taken for granted. Now that the small window I had taken great advantage of to sneak out of the palace is gone, I feel stifled, locked in the life of a true princess. This is what I’d wanted. To be treated like and seen as a princess. But I already know I’m going to miss the feeling of wandering the streets

“Ah!” I yelp, tripping over a loose stone and landing hard on my hands. I feel flames burst in my palm, but it’s not a break. Blood peeks through the shallowly torn flesh, small beads that swell in size before gravity pulls them towards the ground. I stare at it silently, the pain barely registering. I’ve felt much worse before.

“Your highness!” Emma yells. She helps me stand up and before I can dissuade her from it, tears a generous swath of her underskirt to wrap around my palm.

“You’ll be alright,” she says, looking me in my eye. I know she isn’t just talking about my injury, but I just nod obediently.

Emma takes charge right away, transforming from a follower to a leader. She barks at the footmen who wait outside the entrance to the central palace, then bullies a maid into rushing to the imperial physician department. By the time I’ve arrived at my apartments, a few maids holding bowls of water and clean rags are waiting patiently beside Nina.

Nina, who is in charge of the logistics of my care, immediately orders a maid to start wiping away blood and pebbles from my hand so that the wound doesn’t get infected. The imperial physician is rushed in during this time, carrying a kit and taking over the scene.

“Help her highness lean back on the bed, I shall heal her,” he orders after bowing respectfully to me. Someone takes off my shoes and I’m reclined on top of my covers as the physician rolls up the sleeve of my dress to take a good look at my injury.

“It’s just the skin, thankfully. This shall go by quickly,” the physician says, setting a practiced hand on top of mine and closing his eyes.

I think of the last time an imperial physician tried to heal me, their magic seeming mostly ineffective on my person. This is experience starts of relatively the same. There is a calming green light and faint music. Over the years, I’ve come to comprehend that I also have the talent to see all kinds of magic as long as it bears some relation to the god, Helio.

This time, the results are even more dismal than the first time. The imperial physician’s forehead first screws up in concentration, creating even more lines on his wrinkled forehead. Then I can even see beads of sweat begin to form at his temple. He capitulates in the 7th minute with an apologetic look.

“I-I’m dreadfully sorry, your highness. I can go get my colleague to give your wound a try.”

“There’s no need,” I say, waving away his idea. “Just bandage it as you would any wound. You do receive training for that, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. We cannot heal every injury, especially the more serious ones. But the smaller ones such as yours tend to go smoothly,” he says, his forehead once again becoming more lined than notebook paper.

I look away, a thousand thoughts going through my head. For their magic to be even more ineffective against me, I can only assume the recent awakening of my abilities is the root cause. It’s like using a lighter to try and put out a fire, utterly pointless. There is great irony in how I can heal any injury, no matter how severe, save for my own. However, the gravity of the potential situations isn’t lost upon me. Should any attempt be made on my life, I will be 100% screwed. But hey, that’s nothing new at this point.

“Want to sign it?” I ask Emma playfully as I wave my bandaged hand in her face.

She gives me her typical stony stare and says nothing as she is fond of doing when I make modern references she doesn’t understand.

“Thankfully, it’s just my useless hand that was injured. Emma, do bring me some pen and paper. I’m going to invite Lady Arabella to the palace,” I tell Emma as I head to my writing desk.

And at the bottom of the letter, I sign it not with my name, but with Pandora.

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