Eleanor's POV
By the time Eleanor reached the castle walls, night had fallen completely. The guards were already changing shifts at the north gate, and the air carried the chill of damp stone and distant rain.
She slipped through the narrow servants' entrance just as she'd done countless times before, tugging her hood low and clutching her skirts to keep them from catching on the uneven stones.
Her boots squelched softly — she'd stepped in mud at some point — and twigs clung to the hem of her cloak like trophies from the forest.
The hallway beyond the gate was dimly lit by torches, and empty save for the faint echo of voices somewhere far off. Eleanor moved quietly, her steps practiced — but she didn't get three turns in before—
"My princess!"
Pippa's voice shot through the dark like an arrow.
Eleanor jumped so high she nearly dropped her cloak. "Saints, Pippa! You'll wake the entire east wing!"
The maid emerged from behind a pillar, a candle in one hand and the expression of someone halfway between relief and murder. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Eleanor grinned sheepishly. "Moonrise?"
"Try past moonrise and halfway to scandal!" Pippa hissed, setting the candle on a shelf. "You're covered in leaves! Leaves! You look like you rolled your royal self down a hill!"
Eleanor brushed off a few twigs from her hair. "Close. I fell into a bush."
"Wonderful," Pippa muttered. "Shall I prepare a coronation for the Queen of Shrubs?"
Eleanor tried not to laugh, but it escaped anyway, a light, guilty giggle. "Oh, come now, Pippa. You worry too much. I've been in the woods dozens of times."
Pippa threw up her hands. "Yes, but you've never come back looking like you wrestled the forest and lost!"
"I met someone," Eleanor said quietly, almost as if to herself.
That stopped Pippa mid-rant. "Someone?" she repeated, squinting. "Don't tell me it was one of those dreadful tax men—"
Eleanor shook her head quickly, lowering her voice. "A girl."
Pippa blinked. "A girl?"
"Yes. She was… gathering herbs. I almost ran straight into her."
Pippa's eyes widened. "Please tell me you didn't give her your name."
"Of course not," Eleanor said, tugging at a stubborn leaf stuck in her braid. "But she recognized me anyway."
"Recognized you?!" Pippa squeaked, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Eleanor, that's how rebellions start!"
"Oh, stop," Eleanor said with a laugh. "She wasn't dangerous. She was kind. And smart. And—"
"Pretty?" Pippa interrupted, one brow rising.
Eleanor hesitated, just a little too long.
Pippa gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Oh heavens above, you do have a death wish!"
Eleanor groaned, rubbing her forehead. "I spoke to her for five minutes."
"That's five minutes too many for a princess to be alone with a stranger in the woods!"
"I'm not a child, Pippa."
Pippa crossed her arms. "No, you're worse. You're a bored royal with access to secret doors and a taste for romantic suicide missions."
Eleanor tried to stifle her laughter but failed miserably. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm alive," Pippa said pointedly. "Which is more than you'll be if the king finds out you're sneaking off to flirt with peasants."
"I wasn't flirting," Eleanor protested, cheeks warming.
"Mhm." Pippa leaned in with a smirk. "Did you or did you not say she was 'smart and kind and—'" she lowered her voice, "'beautiful'?"
Eleanor blinked. "I did not say beautiful."
"You were thinking it."
Eleanor sighed in defeat, tossing her cloak onto a chair. "You're impossible."
"And you're in trouble," Pippa said, pointing toward the door. "Now go wash the forest off before Greta comes in for the linens and dies of shock."
As Eleanor headed toward her private chamber, she caught her reflection briefly in the window — her hair tangled, her cheeks flushed, and a strange, quiet smile tugging at her lips.
For once, she didn't mind looking a little wild.
The Next Morning — Eleanor's POV
The morning sun slipped through the tall arched windows of the royal dining hall, slicing gold light across the long table set for three. Silver plates gleamed, and steam rose gently from the teapot at the center, the scent of jasmine and honey mingling with the sharp polish of marble floors.
Eleanor sat straight in her chair — or at least, tried to. Every muscle in her back ached from sleeping in her cloak after sneaking in last night. She stifled a yawn as a footman poured her tea.
Across from her, Queen Althea looked as elegant as dawn itself: her gown soft blue silk, her hair wrapped with pearls, her voice calm but always edged like glass.
Next to her, King Rowan — broad-shouldered, half-hidden behind the morning paper — hummed in disapproval at nearly every paragraph.
"Another complaint from the southern farms," he muttered. "Bandits again. It's always bandits lately."
"Or starving peasants," the Queen said quietly, without looking up. "Raising the taxes hasn't helped."
Eleanor glanced down at her plate — poached eggs, fresh fruit, a pastry that looked too perfect to eat — and tried not to remember Lenora's small loaf of bread from the day before, the way she'd smiled while tearing it in half to share with her father.
"Eleanor," her father's voice cut through her thoughts. "You've barely touched your food."
She blinked. "Oh—sorry, I was just thinking."
"Thinking about what?" he asked.
Eleanor hesitated. A girl by a pond with twigs in her hair.
Instead, she said softly, "About the taxes… and the farmers."
The king's brow rose in surprise. "You? Concerned about the treasury?"
Queen Althea gave her daughter a quick, warning glance — half proud, half be careful what you say.
"I just think…" Eleanor began slowly, choosing her words like stepping stones across a stream, "maybe the people wouldn't turn desperate if they weren't pushed so hard. I heard the market was tense yesterday."
The Queen's fork paused midair. "You heard?" she repeated.
"Yes," Eleanor said quickly. "From the maids."
She felt a twinge of guilt — the kind that crept behind the ribs. From the maids, sure.
Her father grunted. "The market's no place for talk like that. We need strength, not sympathy." He turned a page of his paper. "Sympathy doesn't fill the coffers."
Eleanor swallowed her reply.
The hall fell into that peculiar royal silence — the kind that seemed too heavy for morning. Only the clink of silverware and the distant chirp of birds outside dared to break it.
When breakfast ended, the King excused himself for council duties, his boots echoing down the long corridor. The Queen lingered, pouring herself another cup of tea.
"You must be careful what you say, my dear," she murmured once he was gone. "Your father is... set in his ways. And you're still young. There are things a princess can see, but must not speak."
Eleanor nodded, though her chest tightened.
"I understand," she said.
But she didn't. Not really.
The moment her mother's footsteps faded, Pippa appeared from behind a column, whispering like a conspirator.
"Survived breakfast, did you?"
"Barely," Eleanor sighed, standing. "If I had to hear one more word about taxes, I'd turn into a coin and roll away."
Pippa stifled a laugh. "Please don't. I'd never find you again."
Eleanor smiled faintly, but her eyes drifted toward the tall windows overlooking the forest beyond the palace walls.
The same woods where the light had danced through the leaves yesterday… where she'd met that shy, stubborn herbalist with soft eyes and earth-stained hands.
She could still hear Lenora's voice — 'It's not safe for you to be out here alone.'
And yet somehow, she'd never felt safer anywhere else.
Pippa followed her gaze and groaned. "No. Don't even think about it."
"I wasn't—"
"You were," Pippa interrupted. "That's your 'I wonder what the pond looks like at sunset' face. I know that face."
Eleanor bit her lip to hide a grin. "It would be beautiful in the evening light."
Pippa crossed her arms, exasperated. "You are hopeless."
"Maybe," Eleanor said softly, turning toward the window. "But I'll be gone only for a little while. Just to see it again."
Pippa sighed in defeat, muttering something about "burying herself in the royal crypt after this one."
But as Eleanor watched the forest sway beyond the walls, her heart had already made its decision.
That pond — that quiet, wild place where no one called her "Your Highness" — was waiting.
And maybe… someone else would be, too.
Lenora's POV
The smell of woodsmoke and freshly baked bread filled their little cabin as the morning light crept in through the cracks of the shutters. Lenora stood by the hearth, stirring a pot of porridge while the fire crackled low beneath it. The wooden spoon squeaked against the sides of the pot, keeping rhythm with the soft birdsong outside.
Her father sat by the table, hunched but smiling faintly, his weathered hands working at mending a torn sack. The lines on his face deepened as he smiled at her.
"You know," he said after a moment, his voice rough from years and smoke, "you remind me a lot of your mother."
Lenora froze for just a heartbeat, the spoon still halfway through the air.
"I do?" she asked quietly.
He chuckled — a sound both fond and sad. "The way you hum when you cook… the way your eyes soften when you talk to folk. She was just like that. Always kind, even when the world gave her every reason not to be."
Lenora smiled faintly, turning back to the fire so he wouldn't see her eyes glisten.
"I know, Dad," she said softly. "I miss her too."
He nodded, his voice lowering. "Aye. There's not a day I don't think of her."
Silence settled between them, the kind that wasn't heavy — just old and familiar.
The only sound was the slow bubbling of the pot and the faint whistle of wind slipping through the cracks in the wall.
But as Lenora handed him his bowl and sat opposite him, her mind wandered — not to the soft warmth of memory, but to that one dark day she tried never to recall.
---
It had been raining — hard enough to wash color from the world. She'd been barely fourteen. The pounding on the door had sent her heart into her throat.
"Lenora of Eastbank?" The guards had asked, their armor dripping.
Her father had answered, trembling.
They'd said her mother had been caught stealing a handful of coins from a market stall in the city — that she'd been taken to the prison "for correction."
Correction. That's what they called it.
Two nights later, they returned — no words this time, just a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
Lenora remembered how her father's knees had given out.
She remembered the silence that followed — a silence that had never really left their home.
She blinked, realizing her spoon had stopped halfway to her mouth. Her father was watching her quietly, his eyes soft but tired.
"Don't think of it, my girl," he murmured. "It'll only hurt you."
"I'm not," she lied gently, forcing a small smile. "I'm thinking of work. The tavern'll need fresh herbs today."
He nodded approvingly. "You always did keep us fed."
Lenora stood and packed her basket — dried sage and thyme wrapped in little cloth bundles, a few sprigs of mint tucked between them. On top, she placed what was left of the cheese from yesterday's trip to the market, saving the larger piece for her father.
"Don't forget to eat that," she said, pointing to his bowl.
He grunted, pretending to be annoyed. "You're starting to sound like your mother again."
She smirked. "Good. Someone has to."
Outside, the morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke. She adjusted her shawl and started down the road toward the village, the basket swinging gently at her side.
The lane was still quiet at that hour — only a few villagers passing by, their carts creaking under the weight of produce.
As she walked, she couldn't shake the memory of yesterday — the market's chaos, the whip, the shouting… and then her. The princess with the sorrow in her eyes, watching it all.
Lenora exhaled sharply, trying to clear her head. "Don't be a fool," she muttered under her breath. "You'll never see her again."
Still, she found herself glancing toward the line of trees in the distance — the forest where the light caught the leaves like green fire.
She smiled faintly. "Just herbs today," she whispered to herself. "No trouble."
But as she turned onto the path that led toward the tavern, part of her heart was already pulling toward the woods — toward that quiet pond where fate had tangled two lives that never should've crossed.