Light slammed into my eyes like a punch.
My lids clamped shut on instinct. Opened again. Too bright. My vision swam, white bleeding into pale shapes, like my eyes were lagging behind reality. Somewhere close, fabric shifted. A breath. A cough that sounded louder than it should have.
This wasn’t real.412Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMipXVpRh8e
It couldn’t be.
The sack was gone.
I swallowed, the movement stiff, like my throat hadn’t gotten the memo yet. Sound crept back in unevenly—soft murmurs, the rustle of clothes, the faint scrape of something heavy moving across stone. No one spoke directly to me. No one said miss or ma’am or hey, are you okay?
That was wrong.
I was kneeling.
Cold pressed through the thin fabric of my jeans, not sharp, not icy—just there, steady and unyielding. The floor wasn’t marble. Didn’t have that clean chill. And it wasn’t tile either. Dark stone, rubbed smooth, its color impossible to pin down—black in the shadows, grey where the light slid across it, almost brown where my palms rested.
My knees throbbed.
Okay. Okay. Think.
Some kind of historical site? A reenactment? A very aggressive one?
When my eyes finally focused enough to lift, my breath caught before I could stop it.
The space opened upward in a way that made my stomach drop.
A hall—massive, cathedral-level massive. The ceiling vanished into pale light, as if the building itself didn’t want to explain how it stayed standing. Narrow windows sat impossibly high along the walls, pouring in a cold, washed glow that didn’t warm anything it touched.
Awe hit first.
Then the question that wouldn’t stop knocking:
Where the hell am I?
People lined the hall on both sides of me, seated on raised rows. Not casual seating. Ordered. Deliberate. I had to look up to meet their eyes—and every single one of them was watching.
Their clothes snagged my attention in quick, disorienting flashes. Heavy fabrics. Deep colors. No zippers. No logos. One sleeve shimmered faintly when the wearer shifted. Fur brushed silk. Someone smelled like smoke and crushed leaves.
Cosplay, my brain insisted.412Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt4EZmdPrbE
High-budget. Historical. European, maybe.
But no one had a phone out. No whispers about cameras. No amused smiles.
Straight ahead, five wide steps rose to a platform.
Three chairs waited at the top.
Thrones.
The word arrived fully formed, unwelcome.
The woman in the center didn’t move when I looked at her. She didn’t have to. Her stillness pressed outward, filling the space between us like a held breath. Above her brow hovered something that looked like a crown, except it wasn’t metal. Points of light hung in the air, arranged too precisely to be decoration.
My brain refused to finish that thought.
Her eyes found mine.
I looked away first.
The throne to her right was empty.
To her left sat a young man, closer to my age than hers. His posture was perfect without looking strained. Hands loose. Shoulders squared. Deep blue fabric lay smooth against him, untouched by wrinkles. He looked like someone waiting out a meeting he’d already had a dozen times.
When a whisper rose from the seats, he didn’t turn.
Bored—but watching.
Two men stood near the platform. One older, robed, carved into stern lines. Another younger, gripping a rolled parchment like it might slip away if he loosened his hold.
No one told me to stand.
Footsteps echoed.
The younger man stepped forward and unrolled the parchment.
“In the presence of Her Majesty, Queen Elira of the High Dominion—”
My brain snagged hard on the word Queen.
—okay, no, this is definitely some kind of performance—
“—you are summoned to answer for crimes committed under the authority of the Crown.”
Crimes.
My shoulders tightened before I could stop them.
What country even does this?
“You are accused of the unlawful destruction of royal land in the Southern Reach. Specifically, the loss of a cultivated field of vermillion root.”
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Some people even stood up. A couple of them shout something. Other more horrified.
Royal land.
The phrase echoed, bumping uselessly against everything I knew about zoning laws, private property, and very illegal kidnapping practices.
“The damage was reported by a bonded authority and confirmed by eyewitness account.”
Bonded authority?412Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiFRz1nhYZI
Eyewitness?
“You are further charged with trespassing upon a protected cottage and with resisting lawful containment by royal guards.”
That one hit late.
Royal guards.
The men who’d grabbed me. The armor. The way they’d moved together, Not random soldiers. Not security and definetly not the police..
My pulse ticked faster.
Some of the people watching me looked angry now. Not curious. Not entertained. Tight jaws. Crossed arms. One woman whispered something sharp under her breath.
Whatever vermillion root was—
—it mattered.
“Do you understand these charges?”
Silence settled thick and heavy.
This couldn’t be real.412Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡezwrQBUul4
This couldn’t be happening to me.
I breathed out slowly through my nose.
A quiet, disbelieving huff escaped before I could stop it.
A few heads turned.
“What was that?” someone asked.
I lifted my chin. “I said,” I replied, my voice steadier than my thoughts, “that I don’t understand any of this.”
Movement flickered on the platform.
“And,” I added, because my mouth wasn’t listening to my survival instincts, “it seems like I’m the one who needs help.”
The reaction was immediate.
People leaned forward. Whispers sharpened. The man with the parchment stiffened.
“And just so we’re clear,” I continued, “I didn’t trespass. I was invited into that cottage. I didn’t break in. I didn’t force anything.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed it—
The young man on the throne shifted. One elbow came up, resting lazily against the arm of the chair. His posture loosened, eyes sharpening as they locked onto me.
Amusement. Barely there. But unmistakable.
The older robed man stepped forward. “You will mind your tone. You stand before the Crown.”
I blinked at him.
“I respect authority,” I said. “But I also not like being tied up and dragged into a hall like this for something I don’t even understand.”
A sharp inhale came from somewhere behind me.
The prince’s mouth twitched.
The destruction you deny,” the parchment-bearer said, voice tight, “left a crater nearly thirty feet wide. The half of vermillion root was eradicated.”
The word eradicated rippled through the room.
Someone muttered something that sounded like a curse.
Thirty feet.
My stomach dipped. Was it that black land i left behind when i walked to that cottage.
“That plant,” the man continued, “is cultivated only under Crown protection.”
Something in the way he said it—final, weighted—made the murmurs shift again. This time, they weren’t just judgmental.
They were angry.
I swallowed. “You keep saying that like I’m supposed to know what vermillion root is.”
The younger man near the platform stepped forward, parchment held like it might bite. “The report,” he said, lifting it slightly, “comes from the Witch of Tallowmere.”
The reaction was immediate.
Spines straightened. Whispers died mid-breath. A man near the front pressed his lips together like he’d heard bad news.
I stared. “The what of where?”
No one answered.
The silence told me that name meant something—something big enough that my confusion was almost offensive.
“She does not speak to the court,” the man added stiffly. “She speaks only to the Crown. And only when she deems it necessary.”
My pulse ticked faster.
stared up at him. “So, let me get this straight,” I said slowly. “A reclusive forest witch who apparently doesn’t even like talking to people—decided to speak up to say I destroyed a farm field.” His mouth opened, just barely. He hesitated.
“And based on that,” I continued, “you kidnapped me from a cottage—that I was invited into, by the way—dragged me here, tied me up, threw a bag over my head, and sat me in front of a crowd of sparkly-robed strangers so you could accuse me of—what was it again?”
I paused just long enough for the silence to thicken. “Ah yes. Farming crimes.”
The prince smirked. The older man’s expression soured. “Oh, completely,” I added, dry as bone.
“I destroy rare plants and trespass homes all the time. Usually before breakfast.” what was wrong with this i can't even believe what i am saying. in what country is this normal. i am definitely not in the right place.412Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWGLFzpXE1Z
412Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeT9n16aC9O
That got a real reaction. Not just from the prince, who actually looked like he wanted to laugh now, but from the woman seated beside him—the Queen. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes—those strange, sharp, starry eyes—narrowed slightly. Like she wasn’t sure if it was a threat.
The younger man with the scroll glanced toward the platform, hesitation flickering across his face. His fingers tightened around the parchment as if he were bracing himself to continue.
The Queen lifted a hand.
Not high. Not dramatic. Just enough.
He stopped immediately.
Before anyone could speak, one of the side doors creaked open.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried.
The guards lining the walls straightened in unison, metal shifting softly as posture snapped into place. The robed man who’d been accusing me folded forward into a bow so deep it looked like his spine might protest.
I followed their line of sight.
A man stepped into the hall.
The Queen didn't turn her head. Her chin lifted the barest degree.
That’s when it clicked.
Oh.
That might be the King.
He crossed the stone floor at an unhurried pace, boots echoing softly. Broad-shouldered, tall, dark hair threaded with grey at the temples, beard trimmed sharp against a hard jaw. His coat—deep green edged in black—moved with him like it belonged there. Like he belonged here.
No crown.
He didn’t look at me at first. His gaze swept the room instead, calm and measuring, as if he were checking whether something had been left out of place.
When his eyes finally passed over me, they didn’t stop.
Just slid on.
Like I was a book shelved wrong—noticed, but not worth fixing yet.
He turned toward the Queen—Queen Elira—still seated tall, her constellation crown gleaming faintly in her braids.
“Clear the room,” he said.
That was all.
And the room obeyed.
Chairs scraped softly as people rose. Guards stepped back through carved archways. The robed officials bowed and withdrew, sleeves whispering against stone. No protests. No questions. No confusion.
Like this happened all the time.
I stayed where I was.
So did the Queen.
So did the man beside her—the one I’d been quietly labeling prince in my head.
He’d turned slightly in his seat now, body angled toward me. One elbow rested on the armrest, fingers tapping once before going still. His gaze hadn’t left me. Not curious exactly. Evaluating. Like he was watching a story unfold.
The King shifted his attention to the edge of the hall.
An older man stood there—armor worn smooth but polished, grey hair cut short, a scar cutting across his chin like punctuation at the end of a sentence. He didn’t move when addressed.
“Captain,” the King said.
The man stepped forward and bowed. Not deeply. Not theatrically. Just enough.
“Yes, Majesty.”
So… confirmed.
Definitely the King.
Still, the Queen hadn’t moved. No tension. No correction. Just calm, settled authority. Different gravity than his.
As the King turned away and mounted the steps toward the platform, his gaze flicked to me once more.
Brief. Unreadable.
Then he leaned toward the Queen, said something too low for me to hear, and disappeared through a smaller arch beside the thrones.
The Captain approached me carefully.
“Miss,” he said, voice low and even. “Can you stand?”
I looked up at him.
My knees felt like jelly wrapped in rocks. My wrists still burned faintly from the rope. But his tone wasn’t sharp. Or cold.
Just tired.
Like someone who dealt with situations that went sideways more often than they should.
I blinked and muttered, “Yeah. Sure.”
I glanced at the name stitched inside his collar. “Captain Marek,” I added dryly. “I assume you have a dramatic rug-removal protocol for this sort of thing?”
Something in his expression shifted—so slight I almost missed it. Maybe the corner of his mouth. Maybe nothing at all.
He helped me up without yanking, grip firm and steady. The rope around my wrists was undone quickly and dropped to the floor. The skin burned, but it was manageable.
We crossed the hall in silence.
With everyone gone, the space felt even larger. Our footsteps echoed back at us, hollow and distant, like the building was listening.
The door we took was tall and arched, its brass handle cool beneath my fingers. Beyond it stretched a corridor lit by pale light that didn’t seem to come from any visible source. The stone walls glowed faintly, like they remembered sunlight even without it.
We passed no one.
Double doors carved with suns stood at the end. Captain Marek opened one and held it aside.
I stepped in.
Not a prision.
A fireplace burned low and steady. A wide window framed by heavy curtains stood open just enough to let in a breeze. Two high-backed chairs flanked a small table. No bed. No chains.
Just space.
Clean. Quiet. Unsettling.
Not prison.
Not home.
Somewhere in between.
The Captain followed me in and shut the door with a soft click. A key turned in the lock.
He didn’t leave.
I drifted toward the chairs. One cushion gave beneath me, like it was used to holding people who were tired in ways sleep didn’t fix.
My fingers rubbed at my wrists again.
Still no bag.
Gone.
My stomach tightened.
I sat back, closed my eyes, and breathed out slowly through my nose.
Deep breath.412Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMCgBGisdFx
Don’t panic.412Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb0Jia0MqLx
Don’t cry.412Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNyYCGYRZxC
Don’t scream about farming crimes.
Just for a second, I let the quiet settle in my chest.
ns216.73.217.39da2
and then Add to home screen.