The songbird’s vacant eye stared up at me, a tiny glass bead reflecting nothing. My fingers, trembling, traced the jagged edge of the volcanic glass shard impaling it. ‘GET OUT.’ The words seemed to vibrate in the silence of the immense chamber, a stark contrast to the opulent silk drapes and polished wood. The person responsible wasn't just watching; they wanted to chase me off. Szilard’s warning, Ferenc’s sneer, the Chancellor’s oily smile – it all coalesced into a single, terrifying truth. This wasn’t just a game for money. This was a trap.
I yanked the note from beneath the lifeless bird, crumpling it into a tight ball. Pulse roared in my ears, hot and metallic. Fear, hot and sharp, mingled with a familiar surge of pure, unadulterated fury. They wanted me out? They thought a dead bird and a threat would send Kata Barza scurrying back to her greasy grill? They clearly hadn’t met me.
I snatched the heavy linen pillowcase, wrapping the bird carefully within its folds before tucking the gruesome package deep inside the wardrobe, behind a stack of untouched embroidered robes. Out of sight, but not out of mind. Not ever. I wouldn’t sleep. I couldn’t.
The next morning, an uncomfortably chipper attendant with too much cologne and a blinding smile informed me that today’s ‘Royal Gauntlet’ challenge was a tradition as old as the kingdom itself. “A test of courage and horsemanship, Your Grace!” he’d chirped, presenting a tray of tiny, jewel-toned pastries I refused to touch. “Our beloved Sun-Kissed Maiden will be ‘rescued’ from the legendary Verdant Labyrinth by one of our valiant princes!”
The Verdant Maze was less ‘legendary’ and more ‘an enormous, meticulously trimmed puzzle of shrubbery’ stretching across acres of lawn behind the palace. As the camera drones buzzed overhead like oversized, agitated bees, I was led to the center, where a nervous-looking stable hand held the reins of a magnificent chestnut mare. Its coat gleamed, polished to a high sheen, but its eyes rolled slightly, sensing the surrounding chaos. My own nerves were frayed, not from the horse, but from the chilling certainty that someone here wanted me gone.
The ‘rescue’ was, predictably, a staged absurdity. I was to sit astride the mare, waiting, while the princes navigated the maze on their own mounts. The first royal to reach me would be declared the ‘most valorous’ and earn an exclusive broadcast date. I rolled my eyes internally. The only thing I valued was the prize money.
Before handlers hoisted me onto the leather, a ripple went through the assembled crew. The Chancellor, Lord Voren—greasy smile, waxen skin—strode into the arena flanked by his usual hawk-eyed guards. He stopped just shy of the designated royal viewing platform, catching Prince Matyas’s eye. Matyas, already mounted on a grey stallion, sat stiffly, his usual golden-boy charm replaced by rigid stone.
Voren lowered his voice, but the sudden hush in the clearing, coupled with my heightened senses, allowed me to catch snippets. “The commoner… a disruption, Matyas.” Voren’s gaze flickered to me, a calculated appraisal that made my skin crawl. “Public opinion is… delicate. We can’t have her causing further… upsets. Handle her.” The last two words were delivered with a silken menace that left no room for misinterpretation. Matyas set his teeth and held my gaze for half a second before offering a shallow dip of his chin.
Ice crawled over my skin. He wasn’t just telling Matyas to beat his brothers to me; he was telling him to *control* me, to put me in my place. And the way he said ‘handle her’… it sounded less like a suggestion and more like an instruction to remove a troublesome pest.
“Time for our Maiden to take her place!” a producer’s booming voice announced, shattering the tense silence. I was helped onto the mare, a sturdy, elegant beast named ‘Lira’ according to the stable hand. The seat felt comfortable enough, the irons adjusted to my boots. I gripped the reins, forcing a serene, innocent expression for the cameras. Internally, I was a coiled spring, every nerve alert.
The horn blared. The gates swung open, and the four brothers spurred their mounts forward. Ferenc, all aggressive power, took the lead instantly. Matyas, methodical and strong, followed close behind. Istvan, unexpectedly adept despite his bookish reclusiveness, guided his mount with quiet precision. Casian, on a spirited pinto, trailed behind, his posture relaxed as if taking an afternoon stroll.
Lira shifted beneath me, restless. I tried to soothe her, murmuring reassurances. The silence in the maze was thick, punctuated only by the distant thud of hooves and the chirping of unseen birds. I focused on staying calm, on projecting the image of a damsel in distress, even as my mind raced, dissecting Voren’s words, Matyas’s reaction.
Then, Lira stumbled. Not a gentle misstep, but a violent lurch that threw me forward. My grip on the reins tightened instinctively, but the sudden movement caused something to give. A sickening *snap* echoed, shockingly loud in the enclosed space. Lira neighed, a high-pitched shriek of pure terror, rearing violently. I clung to her mane, my knuckles white, as she bucked and spun, slamming me against the hedge. Thorns tore at my borrowed riding habit, sharp pain blooming across my arm.
The seat rig slipped. One side sagged precariously, and I felt the sickening slide as I lost my purchase. Lira, panicking, bolted, crashing through a low section of hedge. I dragged off-balance, boot snagged in an iron loop, bouncing inches above gravel as she tore around high boxwood turns. The world became a blur of green foliage, brown earth, and the terrifying thunder of hooves. This was no accident. This was an attack.
A blur of grey flashed into view. Matyas. He was shouting something, his face a mask of concern and something else – grim urgency. His stallion, powerful and agile, moved alongside Lira, and he leaned over, reaching for me. His hand clamped around my arm, not gently, but with a firm, almost painful grip. “Hold on, commoner!” he ordered, pulling me with a strength that felt more like a yank. He tried to hoist me, but Lira continued to thrash, fighting his horse, fighting me. His efforts, though well-intentioned, only seemed to exacerbate the chaos, treating me like a sack of grain to be wrestled into submission. I cried out, a protest caught in my throat.
Suddenly, a flash of chestnut and white. Casian. He appeared as if from nowhere, his pinto moving with a dancer’s grace, weaving between the two struggling horses. Instead of trying to grab me, he reached for Lira’s bridle, murmuring to her in a low, soothing voice I hadn’t known he possessed. His hand stroked her neck in steady, deliberate strokes, murmuring in a rhythm meant entirely for her. He didn’t try to force her, but coaxed her, guiding her with an artist’s delicate touch. Lira, miraculously, began to calm, her terrified whinnies subsiding into shaky breaths. She slowed, then stopped, her flanks heaving. Casian looked down at me, his usual smirk replaced by focused concern.
With Lira still, Casian unhooked my boot from the metal loop, fingers grazing my ankle. “Are you alright, Kata?” he asked, his voice soft, devoid of its usual playful sting.
“I…” I gasped, pushing myself upright, my entire body aching. I stiffened as my hand, still clutching the sheared strap, rose before my eyes. It hadn’t simply torn under pressure. A razor had sliced halfway through the thick hide, scoring a clean groove so the remainder would shear under weight. This was no sabotage designed for bruised pride; the cut guaranteed a shattered spine.
I glared up at the dense hedge boundaries, the hovering drones, and the two brothers beside me, hunting for guilt. This was an execution attempt.