The morning sun barely warmed the streets of Ashvale, its pale light slicing through the stubborn veil of mist clinging to the cobblestones. Winter loomed just around the corner, and Lamberra pulled her fraying gray shawl tighter around her shoulders. The chill gnawed through the threadbare fabric, settling deep into her bones, but she pressed on. Her boots, scuffed and patched from years of wear, carried her forward over the uneven stones, their sturdiness held together more by hope than skill. 

At dawn, her mother had already been awake, tending the small garden behind their tired home while keeping an eye on Amara, her little sister. Lamberra’s thoughts lingered on them as she walked the narrow streets toward the market. The weight of survival had begun shifting from her mother onto her shoulders, an invisible burden growing heavier each day but who else was going to do it, she often wondered. 

The scent of fresh bread, ripe fruit, and aromatic spices curled through the crisp air, making her stomach twist with longing. Hunger was an old, familiar ache she’d learned to carry quietly, like everyone else in the slums. At one stall, the baker, a stout man with sharp eyes and an impatient demeanor, caught her lingering gaze. He held up a loaf of bread, its golden crust gleaming in the weak light. 

“Two for the bread,” he said flatly, holding the bread away from her as if she were a child. Lamberra’s fingers tightened around the small handful of coins in her pouch. Precious money but she had no choice. She hesitated only a moment before pressing them into his rough hand. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. Tucking the loaf under her arm, she turned away, trying to ignore the awkward exchange. To the baker, she was just another poor girl scraping by, one of many who came and went without leaving an impression. 

Across the market, Lacey Everknight watched. She had seen the way the baker’s gaze lingered on Lamberra, the way he sized her up, dismissing her without a second thought. It annoyed her more than it should have. Though she was accustomed to the quiet power her family’s name wielded, the casual indifference toward Lamberra still brought her frustration. Lacey’s dark purple cloak, embroidered with gold, swept lightly behind her as she stepped forward, her knights trailing in perfect formation. 

“You’ll need to try harder than that if you want a discount, Lamberra,” Lacey said, her voice carrying effortlessly over the hum of the market. The teasing lilt in her tone was purposeful, meant to ease the tension she could feel after the exchange with the bread. Lamberra turned sharply, the familiar voice cutting through the morning din like a blade. Seeing Lacey, Lamberra adjusted her shawl instinctively, pulling it tighter across her chest. 

“Not everyone’s heart is that soft,” she muttered, her tone laced with a weariness she didn’t bother to hide. “What are you doing here? Is the castle’s cook ill?” Lamberra said in a poor attempt at sarcasm.  Lacey smiled, the kind of smile that softened edges and made you feel at home. Her coppery hair shimmered in the sunlight, spilling over her shoulders like a cascade of fire. 

“Not everyone’s, no,” she agreed lightly, her gaze flicking to the loaf tucked under Lamberra’s arm. “But your heart is. The bread for dinner tonight?” Lacey chose to ignore Lamberra’s intrusive question. 

Lamberra nodded stiffly, clutching the bread tighter. “Of course.” Her words were sharp, almost biting, but the resentment in her voice wasn’t meant for Lacey. It was for the world itself. 

Lacey’s smile faltered, just for a second. Guilt flickered across her face. She wanted to help, to make things easier for Lamberra, but every offer she made felt like an insult. 

“You know I can help, if you’d allow—”

“I don’t need your charity,” Lamberra interrupted, her voice firm. For a moment, their gazes held. Then Lamberra looked away, unreadable. 

Lacey considered pressing the issue, but she let it go with a practiced ease. Instead, she smirked, pushing aside the tension. “Well, then,” she said airily, “I’ll have to keep the money for the tavern tonight. You’ll be there, yes?”

Lamberra hesitated, the corner of her lips twitching as she considered. “I’ll come, but I won’t be able to afford much to—”

“Stop,” Lacey interrupted, stepping closer. Her fingers brushed lightly against Lamberra’s lips. A fleeting, playful gesture, but enough to send Lamberra’s pulse beating into the sky. “That’s never an issue.” 

Before Lamberra could respond, Lacey turned and disappeared into the crowd, her laughter lingering in the air. The market’s noise rushed back in, and Lamberra couldn’t shake off the sudden feeling of being alone again as her heartbeat returned to normal. She gripped the bread tightly, her thoughts a chaotic swirl of gratitude and frustration. Ahead, the narrow streets leading back to the slums loomed, dark yet familiar, her world waited. 

The apothecary perched on the edge of the district like an afterthought, its weathered façade blending seamlessly with the crooked houses around it. The wooden sign overhead creaked as it swayed in the light breeze, its once-bright paint now chipped and faded. Inside, the air hung thick with the mingling scents of dried herbs, spices, and the faint mustiness of old wood. Lamberra hesitated at the threshold, her fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl before she pushed the door open. The bell above gave a hollow jingle, a sound that always reminded her of funeral chimes. Behind the counter, Mister Finch looked up. His old pale blue eyes flickered with surprise before softening. 

“Lamberra!” he exclaimed, his gravelly voice warm with familiarity. His wiry frame seemed swallowed by the threadbare gray vest he always wore, and deep lines mapped his face like the cracks of an old home. Though his hands shook with age, they still moved with careful precision. 

Lamberra stepped fully inside, the lingering morning chill pressing against her skin. She took in the cluttered shelves, lined with jars of powders, roots, and dried leaves. There was always an odd reverence in this place. 

“Come for lavender, have you?” Finch asked, groaning as he straightened in his chair. He’d seen Lamberra’s mother use lavender often, a seamless cure for everything. His gaze sharpened as he took in the faint shadows under Lamberra’s eyes. 

Lamberra nodded. “Mama needs more for her herbs.” She scanned the shelves, her voice steady, though her fingers fidgeted with the fraying edges of her shawl. 

Finch nodded, reaching for a jar with ease. “How’s your mother, then? Haven’t seen her in weeks.” His voice was gentle, but his keen eyes measured her reaction. Finch was an apothecarist yes, but more so a people watcher. 

“She’s fine,” Lamberra replied quickly, too quickly. 

Her fingers tightened around the jar’s cool surface as she turned it over in her hands. The weight was solid, grounding. Her thoughts, however, were anything but. They drifted away from the shop, away from Finch. They drifted straight to Lacey. To that world of castles and fine silks, so distant it might as well be a dream. Why someone like Lacey cared for her at all, a girl who could barely keep her family fed, was a puzzle Lamberra couldn’t solve. Yet, her heart still lifted at the thought of Lacey’s laughter, unburdened and free. 

Finch watched her closely, the faint crease in his brow deepening. He’d lived long enough to recognize someone lost in thought. “Lamberra?” he prompted. 

Lamberra startled, a nervous laugh escaping her. “Oh! She’s better now,” she said quickly, setting the jar down with a small thud. She forced a smile, hoping it looked convincing. “Just a slight cold.” 

Finch didn’t believe her, but he let it go. “Well, good,” he said gruffly. “Tell her I said to stop by sometime.” 

 “Anything else you need?” Finch looked inside Lamberra’s pouch and only saw two gold crowns left. As Lamberra was pulling it out he stopped her. “No ma’am, on me today. Here,” Finch said as he grabbed a small bag and handed it to Lamberra, indicating to place the jar of lavender and bread in there. “The only payment is…to bring my bag back next time you visit.” Finch said with the softness of all smiles. 

Not knowing how to respond, Lamberra simply replied, “Thank you, Mister Finch.” Her eyes said it all, a simple gesture likely to make her whole day. 

She tucked the jar beneath her shawl and stepped back into the street. As the door swung shut behind her, Finch lingered, staring at the spot where she’d stood. He liked Lamberra and her family. They carried themselves with a quiet, unyielding strength that reminded him of the great names that once shaped the Kingdom of Stormhaven. However, the slums had a way of grinding people down, even the strongest. Sighing, he shook his head and sank back into his chair. 

Outside, the streets grew quieter as Lamberra made her way deeper into the slums. The bustling market faded behind her, giving way to rows of tired houses that leaned on each other. Children’s laughter rang faintly in the distance, weaving through the soft cries of infants and the muted murmurs of everyday life. When she finally reached the sagging structure she called home, her mother, Selma, sat on the porch. 

Selma’s fingers worked methodically at a loose thread on her skirt, her gaze lifting at the sound of Lamberra’s approach. Relief softened her features. Nearby, Amara played with a handful of wildflowers, her small fingers weaving them into a makeshift crown with quiet concentration. “Did you get it?” Selma asked quietly.

Lamberra nodded, holding up the bag holding the jar and the large loaf of bread. Selma exhaled, slow and steady. Selma’s gaze drifted to the wildflowers in Amara’s hands. A faint smile ghosted across her lips. Small, tired, but real. Across the porch, Amara let out a delighted giggle as she carefully placed the flower crown atop her own head. Her face glowed with pride. 

“Look, Mama! I made a crown!”

Selma’s expression softened further, warmth threading through her voice. “You look like a true princess, my love.” Selma’s words wrapped around both of her daughters, a brief sanctuary in a life that offered few. 

Lamberra paused at the edge of the porch, taking in the moment, the crooked crown on Amara’s head, the rare ease in her mother’s face, the sound of quiet laughter. It was a sight that soothed something deep within her, though it was fleeting. Stepping forward, she set the lavender at her mother’s feet.

“I’ll take this to the kitchen, Mama,” she said, lifting the bread. 

“Thank you, Lamberra. You always know how to help.” Selma’s voice was soft, and for a fleeting moment, her tired brown eyes almost seemed to brighten. Lamberra offered a small nod before turning to kneel beside Amara. 

She tilted her head, studying the wildflower crown with exaggerated scrutiny. “You’re quite the artist,” she mused, reaching out to brush a stray petal into place. 

Amara giggled, her small fingers adjusting the crown as if ensuring its perfection. “I’m going to wear it when the King visits! Everyone will see me!”

Lamberra’s heart swelled. Pride and sorrow twisting together so tightly she could barely breathe. “Of course they will,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone. A smile curved her lips, but it felt fragile “You’ll be the most beautiful girl in Ashvale. The King would be a fool not to notice.” 

Even as she spoke, the words rang hollow. The King, the nobles, the world, they would never see Amara as anything more than a child of the slums. To them, she was invisible. Lamberra had spent her whole life wrestling with that same truth. The hope that one day she might offer her sister something more, something better, always burned within her. But what more could she do? 

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Selma’s voice pulled her back. “How was the market, dear?” 

Lamberra turned, following her mother inside their small, sagging house. The doorframe groaned as they crossed the threshold, the wood so worn it barely held together anymore. “It was good,” she answered, trying to keep her tone casual. “Ran into Lacey again.”

Selma’s expression stiffened. The warmth in her eyes cooled into something wary.. “Lacey?” Her voice carried an edge now. “Why does that highborn girl keep bothering you? It was sweet what she did for you, but I can’t keep getting embarrassed by her sudden appearances.” 

Lamberra clenched her jaw. “I know, Mama,” she said, her tone tight, defensive. But even as she spoke, she avoided her mother’s gaze. “I can’t control it. She just shows up.”

Selma exhaled, slow and deep, her shoulders sinking. After a moment, she reached out, resting a gentle hand on Lamberra’s arm. The touch was warm, but the weight of concern behind it was as firm as stone. “Don’t do anything foolish, okay?” 

Those sudden words stung Lamberra like a wasp, more than Selma had intended. Lamberra pulled away, saying nothing, tossing the loaf of bread onto the counter before slipping into the cramped bedroom she shared with Amara. Inside, the dimness swallowed her whole as she sank into her old, thin, and tiny mattress. Though exhausted, rest never came easily to Lamberra as she slowly drifted off into the same nightmare. 

The tavern was dim, its air thick with the mingling scents of ale, smoke, and unwashed bodies. Lamberra slouched at a chipped wooden table, her fingers idly tracing the sticky grooves in the surface. The rough sounds of laughter, drunken shouts, and clinking mugs swirled around her, an intoxicating blend of chaos that dulled the edges of her thoughts. Her heart beat erratically, warmth curling through her limbs from the drinks she’d downed. Her head felt light, the world pleasantly hazy. The bartender, a burly man with a knowing glint in his eye, paused beside her. “Another round, lassy?” he asked, his deep voice cutting through the din.

Lamberra nodded. The room tilted slightly as she moved. “Sure,” she mumbled, her words slurring. The cold rim of the mug met her lips, and the ale burned its way down her throat. The tavern blurred around her where faces were starting to melt into indistinct shapes, voices rising and falling like waves. Each sip made the night a little easier to endure. 

Then she saw him. Across the room, an older man sat hunched over a mug, his pale, sunken eyes locked onto her with unsettling intensity. His lined face twisted into a crooked smile, missing teeth flashing in the dim candlelight. Lamberra stiffened, unease prickling at the back of her neck as he rose from his seat, weaving unsteadily toward her.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” he drawled, stopping beside her. His breath reeked of beer and shit. “What’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this? Never seen you before.” 

Lamberra forced herself to meet his gaze, her fingers tightening around the mug. “Trying to forget the realities of this world,” she replied, voice steady despite her pounding heartbeat vibrating through her body. 

“Ha! Aren’t we all?” He chuckled, clapping a heavy hand against her back, making her flinch. His voice was low, grating, like rust scraping against metal. Then he leaned in closer, the stench of stale tobacco clinging to him. “Say, how old are you?”

The question cut through the noise, sharp and intrusive. Lamberra shifted in her seat, unease blooming into something sharper. Before she could answer, his voice dropped even lower into a whisper. 

“How ‘bout I buy you another?” His fingers brushed against her arm. “I can show you a good time.” 

Her stomach churned. “No, thank you,” she said firmly, trying to push herself up from the chair, but the moment she moved, his hand clamped around her wrist. Tight and unyielding. 

“C’mon, don’t be shy,” he coaxed, his voice oily, insistent. “I promise I can make it worth your while.” A hot, sharp panic flared in her chest.

“Let go of me!” she said, louder this time. Fear and anger tangled in her voice, but the tavern’s noise swallowed it whole. No one turned. No one noticed. 

The man yanked her toward the back door, his iron grip latched around her wrist as she stumbled after him. Cool night air hit her like a slap as they emerged into the alley. The tavern’s din faded behind them, leaving only the sound of her labored breathing and his muttered words.

“Just a little fun, that’s all,” he said darkly. 

Then he shoved her against the rough stone wall. Lamberra’s pulse pounded in her ears. “You’re making a mistake!” she shouted, desperation threading through her voice. 

She twisted in his grasp, her eyes locking onto his, but his eyes were lifeless. Detached from what was happening. At the last second Lamberra saw his hand falling toward her fast and the slap came fast. The force of it sent her sprawling onto the ground, her vision blurring, ears ringing from the impact. Her torn shawl slipped from her shoulders. She gasped, struggling to push herself up, but the world spun violently. 

A metallic clink sounded on his belt, the sure sound of unbuckling. Terror crashed over her like a wave. She felt him lift the edge of her shawl, yank at the waistband of her worn pants and underwear. The night air bit against her exposed skin. Open and vulnerable, too weak to fight back, Lamberra had accepted her fate. His hand shoved her face against the cold and unforgiving stone. 

Suddenly, boots. A heavy thud of armored steps echoed down the alley.  The man froze and his head snapped toward the sound. Three knights strode into the narrow space, crimson cloaks bearing the insignia of a burning red arrow, the mark of Ashvale’s elite guards. The lead knight, tall and imposing, stepped forward with quiet authority. 

“What’s going on here?” His voice was calm, but edged with steel. 

Lamberra sucked in a sharp breath, still dazed. “He’s trying to…” the words caught in her throat. The knight lifted a hand, silencing her gently before turning his cold gaze onto the man. 

The man stumbled back, hands raised in a pathetic display of innocence. “I—I was just talkin’ to the girl!” he stammered, voice high-pitched and desperate.

“Talking?” The knight scoffed, stepping closer. “Looked like you were trying to take advantage of her.. What? Couldn’t buy a whore? Too broke?” The knights moved swiftly with practiced ease. The man barely had time to protest before they wrenched his arms behind his back, dragging him away. His screams faded into the distance. 

Lamberra slumped against the wall, trembling as the adrenaline drained from her. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps. She reached for her pants, only to find them torn beyond repair. 

“Great,” she whispered.

“You’re safe now.” A new voice? Soft, steady, and cutting through the night like a sunrise. 

Lamberra looked up. A young woman stood a few feet away, watching her with golden eyes. Piercing and impossibly bright. Coppery, bronze hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the faint streetlight. A finely tailored emerald gown clung to her form, the intricate embroidery glinting in the dark. 

“I saw everything,” the woman said. “I was worried about you.” 

Lamberra swallowed hard, her throat raw. “Who… who are you?”

The woman stepped closer, her gaze warm but commanding. “I’m Lacey Everknight,” she said simply. “Daughter of Lord Wendell Everknight of Ravenwood.” 

She gestured toward the knights standing at the alley’s edge. “I was in the tavern with my guards. Learning about the people I will one day rule.” A pause, then a soft sigh. “My goodness. Your eye is swollen… your face is covered in blood.” 

Lacey reached out, fingers brushing through Lamberra’s short brown hair in a slow, soothing motion. She glanced down at the ruined pants and turned sharply to one of her knights. “Fetch a blanket,” she ordered. Lacey then struggled to pull up Lamberra’s underwear in the proper spot only to see it was beyond repair also. 

Lamberra blinked, struggling to process everything and feeling the effects of the ale lurched over vomiting onto Lacey’s dress and shoes. 

“Oh gods—I’m so sorry, my lady,” she gasped, mortified. “Please, forgive me.”

Lacey merely smiled, unbothered. “All is forgiven,” she murmured. 

The knight returned, handing over a blanket. Lacey took it and wrapped it around Lamberra, tying it into a secure knot. “Let’s get you home,” she said. “Where do you live?”

Lamberra stammered out directions, shame and exhaustion blurring her thoughts. The knights seemed to know the way. As they moved through the slums, Lacey’s hand rested lightly on Lamberra’s shoulder, a steadying presence. The knights flanked them, crimson cloaks stark against the night. For the first time that evening, a flicker of warmth broke through the fear, she turned to look up at Lacey and she could not deny her beauty. Feeling her stare, Lacey looked back toward Lamberra and offered a sweet smile. Lamberra couldn’t help but think, maybe she wasn’t entirely alone in this world. 

Lamberra jolted awake as Amara’s small frame landed squarely on her stomach. 

“Dinner time!” Amara yelled, her grin wide, golden-blonde hair a mess of wild tangles. 

The breath shot out of Lamberra in a wheeze as she groaned, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the cracks in the thin curtains. The remnants of her dream clung to her. Vivid but elusive, her heart pounded, faster than it should. A shaky breath did little to steady it. 

“Okay, okay, I’m up!” Lamberra muttered, pushing Amara off with mock irritation. She threw aside the thick blanket the one Lacey had wrapped around her that night and watched as Amara tumbled onto the cot beside her, laughing. It was contagious. Despite herself, Lamberra smiled, rubbing the sleep from her face. She crawled her way up from the bed as it laid directly on the floor. Once stood, Lamberra stretched until her joints cracked. 

Small in stature, Lamberra could disappear in a crowd. All of her clothes were mostly old patched tunics and trousers of various colors. They all hung loosely over her lean frame, worn thin from endless mending. A glance at the cracked mirror propped against the wall made her frown. Her hair was a disaster. Dark brown like her eyes, and unevenly cut just above her shoulders, a wild, disheveled halo around her face. She ran her fingers through it, but the stubborn strands refused to fall into place. Lamberra knew she could pass as a boy if it weren’t for her slight features. 

Behind her, Amara was still bouncing on her heels. “Amara,” Lamberra croaked, her voice rough with sleep. “What’s for dinner?” 

“Soup and bread! Your favorite!” Amara chirped, her energy boundless.

Lamberra’s stomach growled at the mention of food, but she masked the hunger with a crooked smirk. “Mmm, is that tomato soup I smell?” she teased.

“Yep! Mama’s making it!” Amara puffed her chest proudly.

Lamberra ruffled her sister’s hair. “Then we better not keep her waiting.” 

She ducked slightly under the low beams as she followed Amara to the kitchen. Their home was cramped, worn, and fragile, but the kitchen had always been a kind of sanctuary. The scent of simmering soup mixed with the familiar smell of woodsmoke, filling the space with a fragile sense of comfort. At the hearth, Mama stirred the soup pot, her motions slow and deliberate. 

Selma Evermoore had once been a striking woman and still was, but now in a quiet way. Years of hardship had stolen the youth from her face. Her dark hair, streaked liberally with gray, was pulled into a loose knot, stray strands falling around her tired features. 

She glanced up, her smile soft. “Finally decided to join us?” 

“Blame Amara,” Lamberra said, grinning. “She’s the one who allowed me to sleep.”

“Troublemaker,” Mama teased, though her voice held nothing but affection. 

“Not true!” Amara objected, snatching a piece of bread from the table before anyone could stop her. She giggled, stuffing a bite into her mouth before bolting away. Lamberra chuckled as she took the ladle Mama handed her. The rich aroma of tomatoes and herbs filled her lungs as she stirred the pot. 

They sat at the uneven table where its wood was worn smooth by years of use. Amara filled the air with nonstop chatter, her words tumbling over each other in a rush of excitement. She spoke of everything and nothing all at once: The neighbor’s barking dog, a bird she’d watched for half an hour, the clouds, the shapes they made and the stories she built around them.

Her laughter filled the small home, bright and careless. For a little while, Lamberra let herself sink into it. As Lamberra slowly ate, her eyes kept drifting to Mama. Selma’s hands trembled faintly each time she lifted her spoon. Her movements were slower than usual. The dark smudges beneath her eyes stood out against the soft lines of her face. She wasn’t even forty, but she looked closer to sixty. 

Lamberra set her spoon down. “Mama?” her voice sounded like a whisper.

Mama looked up, “Yes, honey?”

Lamberra hesitated, but the words had already taken root in her mind. “I would’ve spent the last of our crowns today if it wasn’t for Mister Finch,” she admitted carefully. “I’ve been thinking… maybe I should try for a job at the castle. As a maid, maybe. It’d help with money, and you wouldn’t have to work so hard.” 

The warmth of the room vanished in an instant. 

“No.” The word was sharp, final. It sliced through Lamberra’s thoughts like a fresh forged sword. 

Lamberra blinked. “Mama, I’m not a child anymore,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even. “I can’t keep doing odd jobs for scraps. Mister Finch barely pays enough to—”

“Good.” Mama’s jaw tightened. “Then you can help in the garden. We’ll make it work.”

Lamberra exhaled sharply, “we both know it won’t,” he muttered bitterly. The words slipped out before she could stop them and the room fell into silence. Amara’s bright eyes flickered nervously between them, her smile gone. 

Lamberra pushed back her chair and stood abruptly. “Well,” she said, voice tight. “I’m leaving. Allow me to leave more food for the two of you.” 

“Lamberra,” Mama’s voice was low and insistent. She reached out, her hand firm around Lamberra’s arm. “Don’t do anything stupid again.” Lambera met Mama’s gaze with her own unbreaking look. Refusing to speak, Lamberra pulled free and stepped outside.