Lilac paced restlessly, puffing loose strands of hazelnut hair out of her eyes while knotting the last piece of torn bedsheet onto the end of a long rope of tied fabrics. It would have been an easier task, had she done so sitting upon her duvet, but her nerves simply wouldn’t allow it. She hadn’t left the palace grounds in nearly a decade. Tonight, that was about to change.
Keeping on her toes, she was careful to tread only on the animal pelts strewn across her bedroom floor. Vair, foynes, vulpes—all the decadent furs that one could acquire through the fur trade. A couple times of sneaking late night food and drink from the kitchen had taught her that keeping on the lavish rugs muffled any creak of the floorboards. The rugs had been a birthday gift from a once-visiting sultan in the East, which had seemed strange at first—until she found out the rugs had been sent as a token of affection for her mother, Marguerite. The queen had discreetly passed them on to her daughter so the king wouldn’t notice; Lilac would have informed her father had he not been dealing with his own mistress habit himself.
Fair’s fair, she supposed.
Finally finished with her escape line, she tucked the annoying wisps of hair into her bun and began tossing clothes into a burlap potato sack she'd found after supper. She was unsure what was travel-appropriate, as she’d been forbidden from nearing the Brocéliande tree line before she was old enough to walk. Sighing, she settled for the pieces that fit comfortably: plain undergarments, a pair of old brocades she prayed still fit, a half loaf of bread, and an armful of cold pastries and dumplings acquired from breakfast.
As an afterthought, she nestled in a box of matches also nicked from the kitchen; for the last hour, she had mulled over bringing a torch or lantern to light her way, but there was no need to turn herself into such an obvious beacon to hungry Darklings. The moonlight would have to suffice, but matches could still come in handy for warmth.
The princess glanced around her room, knowing she was forgetting something crucial.
Preventatives. Standing on the edge of her bed, she reached up to untie the twine holding the bundle that hung on the bedpost: a misshapen garland containing a tiny bottle of witch's salt and beads of iron and silver, and three bulbs of garlic. The bushels, netted in cordage crafted from blessed Hawthorne bark, were found in almost every room of the castle; surely, they wouldn’t miss hers. She dropped the bushel into her potato sack with a satisfying plop.
Last, she produced a sleek silver dagger from her bedside table drawer. It was an ornate weapon, but otherwise simple; the pommel end of its jeweled, crossguard hilt boasted an etching of the kingdom’s signature animal, a lone ermine.
The weapon had been passed down, an inherited gift from an ancestor somewhere down her father’s lineage. He never seemed sure of the blade’s actual origin, though he did enjoy telling her bits of what he believed he knew here and there, usually after supper as he slumped over a glass of mead. The story constantly changed. Some nights, it was a former monarch who had owned it, perhaps her fourth or fifth great-grandfather, the king would say. Other times, it was a vagabond who’d stolen it from a foreign ruler and traded it to her family for a substantial sum of money. The only thing her father had seemed sure of was that not one person alive actually knew where it came from, nor the identity of the original owner.
It was perfect for fending off monsters., crafted with an enchanted alloy containing a mixture of soft and hardy metals the creatures were horribly allergic to. Consequences of a Darkling’s contact with the weapon included anything ranging from an unpleasant cluster of boils, to sudden combustion—according to Henri.
Personally, Lilac didn’t care. Impaling anyone through the heart seemed like it would do the trick just fine.
Biting her lip—a nervous tic her mother always hated—she shook out her bun, tied her hair back into a low ponytail, and inhaled deeply as she raised the dagger. She reached back and, on the exhale, she chopped her hair a few centimeters past the knot. With a solid thud, her discarded hair hit the floor.
For the first time in her life, the ends of her tresses fell just past her shoulders, instantly bringing out her natural waves now