Alternate Universe. Forget everything.
Written in 61 minutes.
The port city of Wymoor had once been a bustling center of trade and commerce, its docks teeming with goods and people from every corner of Tyrathenia. It had been the shining jewel in the tiny kingdom of Rhigwyn, the envy of many.
Those days were long past, with little left but the fishermen and smugglers. The pubs, once packed to the brim with travelers and dockworkers, had dwindled until only the Hare and the Hound stood at the end of Berry Lane, and on a blustery winter night, there were few inside the common room.
But Mother Mary Mae Ward could always be found on a stool in the corner, telling her tales to the lost children of the village. She collected them — one left orphaned when the storms washed her fishermen father away at sea, two more who had survived the sweating that had swept through the region the year before, and another who had no family to call their own and never had. He’d simply showed up one day that summer, and everyone knew to send him to Mother Mary Mae.
Tonight, she told the children their favorite story — of another lost child no different than they —
“But that’s not true, Mother Mary,” little Violet piped up, sitting cross-legged in front of the old woman. The girl spoke with a lisp, her smile revealing the gap where she’d lost her two front teeth. Her sunny blond hair was clean and braided back in twin tails that hung down her back. She was the youngest of Mother Mary Mae’s brood, still believing her father would wash up alive on the shore.
Still young enough to believe in dreams.
“Not true?” Mary Mae said with a laugh. “Why do you say that?”
“She’s not a lost child, she’s a lost princess,” James said with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know much, Mother, but my father weren’t no king. And who knows what my mother was.”
Mary Mae lifted her brows. “Who’s telling this story, Master James? You or I? You asked for the story—”
“Not me—”
“I like this story,” said the little boy with no family at all. He had no surname, and only answered to Danny. “And it’s my turn to pick!”
“So it is, Master Daniel. It was a night just like this, more twenty years ago,” Mary Mae said, lowering her voice to a hush. “The castle had settled down for the night, and all were tucked in their beds. But almost none of them would see the morning.”
Across the room, a man sat at the long oak bar, a pint of ale in his hand. Locks of dark blonde hair fell across his forehead as he half-listened to the old woman’s story. She’d been telling it nearly as long he could remember — though he liked it no more now than when he’d been one of Mary Mae’s children, crowded around the stool, hanging on her every word.
The story had changed over the years, details emphasized, pauses added for drama, but the facts were true enough. Twenty-four years earlier, the royal family had been slaughtered in their beds, the only survivor the young boy prince, Steven, who had reigned as a puppet king until his death only a few weeks earlier. He’d been three when he’d lost his family, and had never been worth much. Under the weight of his advisors and the rule of the regent, the kingdom had fallen into ruin. Only the capital city prospered — they cared little for the rest of the land, including Wymoor.
No one had ever been held account for the murder of the king, the queen, the queen mother, or their servants.
And no one had ever learned the fate of the youngest member of the family — the six-month-old little girl who had fallen into tales and myth as the lost princess. And one day she’d return to slay the evil dragons to restore Rhigwyn to its glory and take her place on the throne.
It had been nothing but a foolish story when he’d been seven years old, and now that he had seen more than thirty summers, it seemed even more fanciful. The princess was long dead, and there was no one left to help them.
After the story had finished, Mary Mae ushered her children off to their beds. She made her way over to the bar, touched the man on his shoulder. “It’s rare to see you in here on a night like this. Will you sit a while and tell me what brings you here?”
He hesitated, then lifted his mug, followed her to a nearby table. Old habits died hard, he thought, pulling out a chair, helping her to settle. “I’m not here to see you, Mother Mary.”
“I know.” She’d always seemed so old to him, even as a child, but now he saw more evidence of her age. The thick braids she wore had once been a deep coal black, and were now the color of the slate, lines in the corners of her eyes dug more deeply, crinkling when she smiled. But her smile was as warm as ever, as if it had been only hours since they’d seen each other and not months. “You never are, to my everlasting regret, though you’re welcome anytime. All my children will always have a place here.”
“Even though you fill their heads with nonsense?”
Mary Mae tipped her head to the side. “You still think it nonsense? Why? Because it comes from the mouth of a woman and not Valentin Cassadine?”
He pressed his lips together, looked down. “You’ve never cared for their family, but they’ve stayed when others left—”
“Ah, yes, the generosity of the Cassadine family. My boy, did I fail you so miserably that you’d rather throw your lot in with men like Valentin?”
There was an itch between his shoulders. “It was never you, Mother.”
Mary Mae set her hand over his, the dark skin stark against his weathered golden complexion, reminding him again that for all the years he’d called her mother, it was a term of endearment and not of blood. “Then, tell me, Jason, when did I lose you?”
He opened his mouth, then shook his head. “Tell me what you need here, and I’ll see it done. Food, clothes for the children?”
She sighed, drew her hand back. “We’re fine here, though I thank you.”
“Mother—”
“Ah, I see you’ve found a way to occupy your time since I was delayed.”
The new voice broke the spell, and Jason lifted his head to find Valentin Cassadine looming over them, his long coat over one arm. He wore a smile, though it had none of the warmth or comfort of his foster mother. His eyes were cold, not very different than the gray waters of the ocean beyond their doors.
Jason drew back. “Catching up with an old friend. Thank you for the conversation,” he told Mary Mae. “You’ll tell me if you change your mind.”
“Aye, Jason. I’ll keep you in my thoughts.” She rose, and shifted her expression, her back straight, bearing as regal as the royalty whose tales she waved nightly. “My lord Cassadine, please have my seat. My girl will see bring you an ale if you wish.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Mary Mae swept away, and Jason was relieved, through the air was chillier, emptier without her. Some of the light had dimmed in the room, the shadows lengthening.
Valentin took the chair that Mary Mae had vacated. “Apologies for my tardiness. The roads leave a great deal to be desired.” He sniffed, glancing around. “I’d quite forgotten you grew up here. I ought to have selected another meeting place.”
Jason very much doubted that Valentin would forget a detail like that or that he had not been late by design. Though Mary Mae might like to think Jason was in service to the Cassadine lord, the truth was simpler. Jason no had no loyalty to anyone save himself and the coin that paid for his drink, his food, his shelter, and the occasional woman. Tonight, just like other nights, it was coin given by Valentin. Tomorrow it might be another.
“You said that you had a job for me.”
“Yes. I regret that it has to be at this time of year. Ghastly season, winter.” Valentin flicked impatient eyes to the curly-haired blonde who brought the ale, waited for her to leave before returning his focus to Jason. “I’ll be removing to Tonderah tomorrow, and I have something that I require you to deliver to me there.” He paused. “Well, someone.”
It was no surprise Valentin was heading to Port Tonderah, the capital city. Jason was surprised he had not already gone. One of the few redeeming qualities of the Cassadine family was their staunch opposition to Cesar Faison, the royal advisor who had acted as the king’s regent all these long years, and had engineered the marriage of his daughter to the dead king.
With Steven’s body growing cold in his grave, and no heir in sight, Faison and his cronies were looking to secure his daughter’s hold on the throne, but a fight was brewing, and Jason was sure Valentin saw himself on the other side, perhaps taking the throne himself. Jason didn’t care who took the thankless job as monarch, as long the coin continued to flow.
“Where do you want me to go?” Jason asked.
“The far corner of the kingdom, on the other side of the island entirely,” Valentin said. “It will take you several days to travel there and even longer to Tonderah. There’s a village there…”
—
The village of Shadwell was not known for its warm community. Those who called it home did so because no one asked where you were from or cared where you were going. As long as you minded your business, looked after your land, and committed no crimes, a person could become almost invisible.
And that was just the way Elizabeth liked it. She’d called Shadwell home for nearly eight years now — the quaint little cottage at the end of the land with a small stable for her horse and cow, a garden that saw most of her needs met, and enough room and light to earn her keep as seamstress for the local shop.
It was not the life she’d planned as a child, but she’d learned over the years to embrace the quiet and the safe. She’d hoped to be forgotten by the outside world, and for many years, she believed she had been.
But in the days since news had traveled the long distance from Tonderah that the king had died, she’d felt a chill in the air unrelated to the winter winds. A raising of the hair on her neck, an itch between her shoulders, gooseflesh on her arms. Something was coming, and perhaps she ought not be there when it arrived.
She lingered too long, too hopeful that she was wrong, too reluctant to leave her sanctuary, and when something finally arrived, it came with the sound of hoofbeats coming up the lane.
Elizabeth went to the window of her home, saw the horse at her gate, the man hitching the reins to the post. Her heart began to pound, but then she realized it was not who she’d expected. This man was younger, broader in the chest, his hair longer—
Perhaps a lost traveler? Eager to redirect him and send him on his way, Elizabeth stepped out of the house, onto the path, her welcoming smile dimming when he met her eyes, the cold wintry blue.
“Are you Elizabeth?”
At her sides, her hands fisted, and Elizabeth slowly nodded. “Aye. Have you been sent to fetch me?’
“Yes. Valentin apologizes he can’t escort you personally, but asked me to make sure you reach Port Tonderah safely.”
For a moment, the world was quiet, just the whistling of wind through the nearby branches. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Elizabeth wanted to hope, she wanted to dream —
She had to be sure.
“And once I’m there?” she asked.
The man furrowed his brow, a bit confused. “You’ll be married. You are his betrothed, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said with a sigh. “I suppose I am.”
