Look.
I know what you're thinking. I know. I know.
Why do I keep helping her? Why do I keep saving the barefoot little disaster with the royal pout and the spine made of soft cheese? Why do I keep reaching out when she stumbles into another pile of noble problems wrapped in scented parchment?
And believe me—I ask myself the same thing. Every. Single. Time.
Maybe it's the snow tower. Maybe cuddling a girl through frostbite makes you stupid. Maybe that kind of warmth settles under your skin and decides to stay, no matter how many times she storms off with fire in her hair and bad decisions in her purse.
Maybe I'm just a sucker for porcelain dolls that crack pretty.
Or maybe—gods help me—she grew on me. Like moss. Like a fungal infection you pretend not to notice because it's kind of cute and only occasionally smells like rot.
Or maybe it's because I remember what it was like. Being thrown out. Being nothing. Having no one. I remember what it's like to beg for a hand and get a boot instead.
So maybe—just maybe—I help her because no one ever helped me.
And don't look at me like that. I'm not going soft. I'm still a cynical, thieving, silver-eyed slut with a mean streak and an allergy to feelings.
But sometimes? When I look at her—tangled hair, chipped nails, that stubborn chin—I see someone who was supposed to be untouchable. Untouchable and untouched. That's the thing with princesses. They're made to be symbols, not people.
And then the world ate her.
And she's still here.
So yeah, maybe I help her. Over and over. Because she's not just any stray.
She's mine.
Mine to mock. Mine to drag out of shit pits. Mine to clean up and slap awake and shove into the future kicking and screaming and occasionally moaning.
And yes. She's a real princess.
She is.
I know she looks like a half-drowned barmaid with attitude and trauma, but trust me. I've seen how she folds napkins when she thinks no one's watching. I've seen her freak out over bad stitching. I've seen her curtsy in her sleep. That kind of thing doesn't wash out.
She says "please" to frogs. She says "thank you" to curses.
She is the real thing.
Which makes me… I don't know. Royal-adjacent? Duchess of Disaster?
I don't care.
What matters is this: when the world chews you up, you don't stay alive by being delicate. You stay alive by learning how to bleed later. After the scam. After the escape. After the girl with the unicorn tapestry stops shaking.
So if you're asking why I helped her again—
I don't have a clean answer.
Could be guilt.
Could be habit.
Could be I don't like seeing things break that didn't deserve to.
But the next time someone asks me what I'm doing helping a royal pain with wet eyes and ruined dignity, I'll tell them the truth:
Because she asked.
Because she needed me.
Because someone had to.
And because no one ever rescued me from my goddamn tower.
So maybe this is my revenge.
Or maybe it's love.
Don't ask again.