The ballroom’s opulent silence, thicker than the clotted cream served earlier, pressed in on Lenka. The threat still burned in Lenka's ears. He truly meant it. Pipin. Her Pipin. She looked past Casimir’s protective stance, past the disgraced nobleman, to the four men who claimed her as a childhood friend. Their faces, usually a confusing blend of earnestness, mischief, stoicism, and gloom, now mirrored the court’s horrified confusion. The air thrummed with a nervous energy, the residual magic from their earlier outburst still clinging to the chandeliers like static. “No,” Lenka said, her voice cutting through the stunned quiet. It wasn’t a denial; it was a guttural, primal sound of defiance. Her hands, calloused from farm work, clenched into fists. “You want to know the truth? Fine. You’ll get it.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes sweeping over the four royal figures. “My name isn’t Ilona Koszta. It’s Lenka Varga. I’m a pig farmer from the Vaska Moors. And that… that worm, Lord Kaspian, he owns my debt. He was going to take my prize-winning pig, Pipin, for his Midwinter Feast.” Gasps rippled through the onlookers, but her gaze was fixed on the Princes. Matyas looked utterly lost, his kind features crumpling. Casimir’s jaw tightened, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword, not in threat, but in a gesture of bewildered protection. Laszlo’s charming smile had vanished, replaced by a stark, uncharacteristic solemnity. Stefan’s brow furrowed, his eyes, usually distant, now sharply focused on her. “Pipin… he’s clairvoyant, see? He snorted a prophecy about a golden medallion and a court ballroom, so I spun a yarn about Kaspian needing his missing niece to secure a royal betrothal. I tricked him into a deal: I’d impersonate Lady Ilona, win a royal dowry, buy Pipin back, and then disappear back to my farm forever.” “The Sunstone relic,” Stefan muttered, his voice a low hum, as if the pieces of a complex equation had locked into place. “That’s it,” Lenka confirmed, pointing to the necklace. “He put it on me. And then… then you lot started spouting nonsense about wooden pigs and sword training and roof pranks and morbid poetry. All because of this damn thing.” She tapped the gem, gold flashing in the flickering candlelight. Matyas took a hesitant step forward. “But… the memories, Lady Ilona. The swing under the old oak, the day I saved you from those bullies…” His voice trailed off, a visible shudder passing through him as if his mind was rejecting a foreign body. Casimir’s hand dropped from his sword hilt. “The training… the hidden courtyard. We spent hours there. I remember your form. How could that be false?” His voice was a raw, confused rasp. Laszlo, for once, was silent, his usual roguish grin completely absent. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his eyes darting around the ballroom, as if searching for a hidden exit from this bewildering reality. “All the pranks… the mud pies we threw at the Chancellor’s wig… was none of it real?” The question came out cracked and hollow. Stefan’s eyes, usually veiled by a thoughtful haze, sharpened with an almost painful clarity. “The curse,” he breathed, his voice barely audible. “It isn’t just warping memories. It’s fabricating them whole cloth, twisting them into something palatable, something that anchors to whoever wears the stone. It’s a parasitic illusion, feeding on our desires for a true bond.” Lenka watched them, bracing for the inevitable outrage, the accusations of fraud, the crushing disappointment. But instead, a strange stillness settled among them. The discordant hum that had occasionally afflicted them was gone, replaced by an unnerving, almost painful silence. Their faces, stripped bare of the curse’s influence, showed individual distress – Matyas, a deep, wounded hurt; Casimir, a dawning comprehension mixed with betrayal; Laszlo, a bewildered sense of loss; Stefan, a chilling scientific understanding of the deception. “I… I’m sorry,” Lenka said, the words scraping her throat. “I never meant to hurt any of you. I just… I had to save Pipin.” Matyas looked up, his eyes wide and wet, but no longer filled with the saccharine sentimentality of the curse. “You… you did all this for a pig?” The question was innocent, almost childlike, but in his voice was a dawning respect. “For love of your animal?” Casimir stepped forward, his gaze piercing. “You risked everything. For a life of obscurity. For your pig.” He looked at Valeriu, then back at Lenka. “My memories of you were of a delicate flower. But the truth… the truth is a fierce, courageous woman who would defy a kingdom for what she loves.” A faint smile touched his lips, free of the curse’s possessive intensity. Laszlo let out a short, incredulous laugh, devoid of his usual japing. “So, all the roof climbing, the rule-breaking… it wasn’t some glorious return to childhood mischief. It was just… you being you. A real firebrand.” His eyes sparkled with honest regard. Stefan, too, was looking at her with an intensity that lacked its usual morbid undertones. “The bond,” he murmured, holding up his hand, which was now faintly glowing with a soft, steady light, reflecting the stone. “The curse cracks when exposed to untainted, selfless devotion. It couldn’t withstand your truth.” He met her gaze. “We may not share a childhood, Lenka Varga, but we share a purpose now.” “Kaspian wants to kill your pig at dawn,” Matyas said, his voice firm, no longer just a fawning swain, but a prince who understood stakes. “We cannot let that happen.” Csilla Fekete, who had been observing the entire spectacle with shrewd, unblinking intensity, stepped forward. “So, the great Lady Ilona is a pig farmer. And my family’s debt is still monumental.” She sighed, a long-suffering sound. “Fine. You saved my hide, you exposed that toad. And you’re clearly incapable of doing anything quietly.” Her lips twitched. “Count me in. I know the palace’s hidden passages. And,” she added, a glint in her eye, “I have a spy network that extends to the stable boys.” “Then it’s settled,” Casimir stated, drawing his sword with a decisive flourish. “We retrieve Pipin.” Stefan had already pulled out a finely detailed map of the palace from his satchel, tracing a route with a sharp finger. “The main court gate will be heavily guarded after Lord Kaspian’s… incident. We’ll need an egress through the old service tunnels beneath the kitchens. They lead directly to the outer wall.” “Splendid!” Laszlo grinned, a real, unburdened smile. “A proper escape! Just like we always wanted, eh, Lenka?” Lenka felt a surge of something she hadn’t expected: a peculiar warmth, a strange sense of camaraderie, even amidst the chaos. These men, for all their past absurdities, were choosing *her*, the real her, the pig farmer, not some fabricated memory. And they were doing it for Pipin. “Alright,” she said, her foul mouth unable to resist. “Let’s get this pig and get out of this ridiculously opulent prison before dawn paints these walls the same color as Kaspian’s face.” Under the cloak of the pre-dawn hours, a strange procession slipped through the darkened corridors. Casimir, silent and watchful, led the way, his sword a dark sentinel. Laszlo, surprisingly nimble and quiet, disarmed the few sleeping guards, his movements precise and practiced. Stefan, illuminated by a small, self-sustaining arcane glow, navigated them through the labyrinthine tunnels, muttering complex incantations under his breath to muffle their footsteps. Matyas, ever the loyal heart, carried a burlap sack filled with fresh feed and a water skin, murmuring reassuring words to an imaginary Pipin. Csilla, her usual haughty demeanor replaced by a grim efficiency, acted as their scout, her knowledge of the manor's lesser-known nooks and crannies proving invaluable. They emerged into the biting night air on the outskirts of the capital, a stolen royal carriage, commandeered by Csilla’s stable boy contacts, waiting for them. The horses, spurred by Laszlo’s surprisingly gentle hand, galloped through the waking countryside, the sky bleeding from bruised purple to pale grey. Lenka watched the horizon, her knuckles white against the carriage sill. Every moment was precious. Every hoofbeat counted. Pipin’s life. As the first slivers of golden light touched the distant Vaska Moors, the familiar, earthy scent of turnip mash and damp soil reached her. The carriage skidded to a halt outside her mud-splashed gate. Lenka leaped out before it fully stopped, the others following close behind. The farm was eerily quiet. Too quiet. No familiar snorts, no gentle grunts from the pigsty. The butcher’s cart, a heavy, wooden contraption, stood abandoned near Pipin’s pen, its door swinging idly in the breeze. But it was empty. A cold sweat broke across Lenka's collarbone. She lunged toward the pen, ribs seizing. The straw was disturbed, a shallow trough overturned. And there, pinned to the rough-hewn wood of Pipin’s fence with a rusty nail, was a single, ominous note. Scrawled in a crude, spidery hand, two words stared back at her: ‘The Great Pig is mine.’

Four Princes and a Pigsty