Chapter 4

The guards of Camelot's imposing royal palace remained like statues, flanking the entrance to King August's private chamber. The sharp, disapproving click of the tongue cut through the silence as the heavy door closed, leaving Richard outside with his tumultuous thoughts.

The prince's footsteps, driven by a mix of anger and determination, echoed through the majestic corridors of the castle. Each step was an echo of his frustration as he struggled to conceal his emotions from the watchful eyes of the palace guards and servants. His clenched fists silently expressed the inner storm consuming him.

A cruel laugh reverberated through the corridor, interrupting Richard's tense march. Isobel, the prince's sister, emerged from a nearby room, her eyes gleaming with malice. "How is poor Elizabeth, brother?" she taunted, hiding a smile behind her hand. "Has your heroine recovered?"

Ignoring the provocation, Richard proceeded toward a room guarded by one of the loyal royal guards. The tension in the corridor reached a new level with Isobel's cutting words.

"How is the heroine?" Richard inquired of the guard. "Has she been consuming anything in the past few days?"

"Only solid foods, sir. Any liquid, and she goes into a crisis, especially if it's red, like wine," replied the guard politely.

"You understand, don't you, brother?" Isobel mocked, her laughter echoing through the corridor. "Your plaything is broken; you've failed."

Richard's eyes sparked with anger, his expression now unable to hide the frustration brought on by his sister's venomous words. "You..." he began, but Isobel interrupted him.

"Don't make that kind of expression," she said, smiling, skillfully dodging the sword that had been drawn from the sheath of the guard beside Richard and flying towards her. "You're a prince; how will you appear before the people with your face covered in wrinkles?"

"Princess!" exclaimed the guard, rushing to Isobel. It was his sword; any incident would be his responsibility. "Forgive me; I should have been more careful."

Richard smiled as he placed his hand on the doorknob. "You should also be careful with your face, sister," he said, slowly opening the door to the room where the heroine, Elizabeth, was. "After all, how else will you prostitute yourself to the summoned heroes and manipulate them without it?"

Isobel's smile disappeared, her face now dark. She brought one hand to her face, her fingers now stained red.

"Wretch!" exclaimed the princess, the sword embedded in the corridor wall returning toward the prince like a fierce magical spear. The accompanying wind swept through everything in its path, shattering the nearby windows and leaving a trail of destruction.

The guard remained on his knees before the princess, awaiting her forgiveness. After all, despite his prompt apology, it was evident that the incident was in no way his fault. His innocence was clear.

In a war between two kings, it's not the sovereigns, those who observe everything from their thrones and command as if they were incarnate gods, who pay the price. It's the people, whether the poor facing food shortages and excessive price increases or the soldiers sent to death in great numbers, serving merely as pawns in the hands of their respective lords.

Unlike kings, the battle between princes and princesses is somewhat more restrained and controlled, in a way, veiled, not directly affecting the people on a large scale but those around them, typically those who live or frequently visit the royal castle. Unfortunately for that poor guard, he falls into the first category.

"Princess, I..." the guard began, but a gentle breeze enveloped his body, initially comforting. The windows were open, so perhaps that wind was natural. However, why was everything suddenly slowing down? Why wasn't his reasoning functioning as it should? Why was his vision gradually darkening? And why... was he now looking at the feet of that cursed princess?

"Clean up this place," commanded Isobel as she walked away from the corridor. "And don't forget to fix these windows." The princess's voice echoed distantly, but the maids heard her words clearly.

"Yes, as you wish, milady," replied the four women who followed her, bowing with a serenity that contrasted with the recent brutality. Showing no reaction to the decapitated body of the guard before them, they acted as if it were a recurring scene. They placed the body on a large red cloth, two of them holding the edges to lift it. Without hesitation, one of them picked up the head with bare hands and positioned it on the poor guard's corpse; to them, this was just another ordinary day.

While two women carried the body outside, the others remained to clean the blood that had spread across the corridor floor. One maid wiped the floor diligently, while the other focused on cleaning the slightest splatters that had reached the walls. An organized and coordinated effort revealed a routine that seemed very familiar to these women.

Those carefully performed actions suggested that this was not the first time they faced such dark and disturbing tasks. The normality with which they dealt with the situation made it clear that, for this group, handling traces of violence in the palace was just a daily part of their responsibilities.

As they finished cleaning the blood, for some reason, the door to the room where the prince had entered earlier flew to the other side of the corridor, and the room where Elizabeth and Richard should have been exploded. The prince emerged, crossing the hole where the door had been, and looked at the two women in the corridor; they shivered at the sight of his expression, as his genuine anger was not being contained in that moment.

"When you're done, clean up this place as well," ordered Richard, his voice laden with authority and anger, his eyes boiling with fury.

The maids said nothing, not even a single word; they didn't dare nod their heads. All four maids were accustomed to dealing with Isobel, the princess who, on the surface, seemed to be the most dangerous among the siblings. However, who else would be more frightening and dangerous than the one who becomes completely unpredictable when his anger reaches its peak, if not him?

The maids exchanged glances; both knew what the other was thinking. Why did he explode the heroine's room in that way? The two walked toward the room. The destroyed walls and the shattered bed along with all the other furniture in complete ruin, but where was Elizabeth? If not even her body was in that place, then... did the kingdom's heroine... escape?

****

The frigid air, sharp as ice blades, pierced the lungs of anyone daring to breathe deeply. It was an atmosphere so cold that even the act of inhaling was a painful experience. The snow, carried by the strong wind, seemed to dance in the air before settling on the already whitened landscape.

The once solid ground was now covered by a thick layer of snow, forming a white trail leading to unknown places. The wind blew fiercely, creating swirls of snowflakes that rose in the air before dispersing again. Each step was marked by increasing resistance, as if the very environment sought to discourage any attempt at progress.

The biting cold intensity reached the bones, making them stiff and hindering the simple act of walking. The frigid air insinuated itself through layers of clothing, challenging any attempt at protection. It was possible to feel the bite of the cold, a constant and persistent presence that enveloped one's entire being.

Surrounding her, the Frozen Peaks rose imposingly, touching the sky in a spectacle of natural grandeur. Majestic and imposing mountains, their ridges adorned with sharp peaks, surrounded by clouds that seemed to embrace the highest summits.

The falling snow added a silent layer to the environment. It was challenging to distinguish the line between the ground and the sky, as everything was shrouded in a white cloak reflecting the twilight light in a dazzling way.

The solitude of the Frozen Peaks was tangible, a presence that hung in the air, echoing in the valleys between the mountains. The wind, whispering through the canyons, carried with it the distant echo of an untouched and majestic yet hostile landscape.

In the midst of such a landscape stood Elizabeth, the heroine of the kingdom of Camelot. Despite being surrounded by the penetrating cold, she had only one thing on her mind, a phrase that never left her head for the past few weeks: "Hate me, I don't care. But before you become strong enough to face me, do something similar again, think yourself superior to others without any apparent reason, discriminate against others just because of their race, and that same lesson will repeat. I have plenty of free time; I don't mind spending a little of it on some ignorant people. Remember that."

Approval had already been given. If hatred wasn't an issue, Elizabeth would make it one. From that moment on, a scene like that would not be repeated, not before those eyes; she promised.