she told herself.
The night was passing quickly. She had to get moving if she expected to find shelter for the night. As soon as she found a spring of some sort, she could follow it to the river, which would eventually lead to the town pond.
Fretting over Paimpont was for tomorrow, she decided. Clenching her teeth, she forced herself to stop shaking.
Lilac was a princess, not a flower. Just because she donned tiaras and gowns didn’t mean she was delicate, or incapable of slitting a Darkling’s throat. She had it in her to face and defend herself from the monstrous things lurking among the trees. Deep down, she would be just as capable a ruler as any king out there. Beneath the foreign silks and chiffon, she was like the jewels on the tiara she had left on her vanity. Lustrous, yet resilient all the same.
Hooking the burlap sack onto her shoulder, Lilac took one slow step away from the castle. Then another, and another, until the veil of trees swallowed her.
Pulse accelerating, the princess took off at a run—a willing pawn to the shadows of night.
2
When Lilac was nine, her mother dragged her to a soirée hosted by Duke Armand Le Tallec and his dotting wife, Vivien. Upon their arrival, the queen introduced Lilac to a boy with silvery blond hair that framed his face, and a row of very crooked teeth. He invited her to the garden to play chase with the other children, and he appeared so excited about it, too—until Lilac began outrunning him and his friends. At this, the boy announced to the entire juvenile populace that she had witch blood in her veins, that she’d cheated, and it was the reason she beat them.
In that moment, her ears grew warm. She abruptly ended the entire event by grabbing a poisonberry tart off a silver platter and chucking it square into the boy's face.
A small crowd formed around the two children; the boy sobbed, wiping berry juice out of his eyes while Lilac stifled a laugh.
“Sinclair!”
A tall bird-like woman donned in mink, evidently his mother, rushed over to him and cradled his square head, her own face paling.
“Sinclair?” Lilac had giggled, blissfully ignoring the glower from her own mother, who joined the crowd. “That’s an odd name.”
Of course, the boy—this Sinclair—happened to be the son of the hosts. Queen Marguerite was livid; she apologized profusely as she led Lilac back to their carriage, and would spend the next few months showering the duke’s family with priceless gifts: pearls from the Celtic Sea, silks from the East, ivory from Africa.
After the ordeal, Lilac had wondered why the queen would even bother pandering friendship with Sinclair’s parents. Everyone had always doted over her; what she said or did, even in anger, had never incited such frantic consequence nor reaction from her parents. However, they were absolutely mortified when she’d pelted Sinclair with dessert in front of half the kingdom’s nobility.
She eventually came to understand the implications of her parents’ and the duke’s family ties—why they had cared about their relations with the Le Tallecs. They’d hoped to one day marry her off to Sinclair, so that their powerful families might unite. Her parents obsessed over the idea of one day marrying their daughter off to a family of comparable standard and structure. To them, Sinclair was the perfect candidate of a husband; he was a year older, and as young marquis would one day take his father’s place as duke. He would then take lead of the local cavalry, placing him at the second highest in rank, just under the monarchy. The king and queen hoped Lilac would marry Sinclair, giving him the title of king jure uxoris—allowing him to rule as king alongside her, as an equal. Then, their power as a wed couple would prove unparalleled. Then, no one would dare question Lilac’s qualification to lead.
At the time, those expectations from her parents were nothing but nuisance; marriage seemed so far off. She was a mere child, after all. Regardless, she knew she wouldn’t marry any poor idiot her parents chose for her, no matter how wealthy or prominent. No matter how hard anyone begged. Certainly, no matter how hard Sinclair or his parents groveled.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
Lilac’s tenth birthday was quite the ordeal, marking the halfway point to her coronation. The castle staff spent several weeks prior trying to accommodate the queen's pompous decoration requests. Supper was to be served in