The tavern was alive with the cheerful chatter of the evening crowd, the air thick with the sound of clinking mugs and hearty laughter. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the waft of brewing mead, and the fire crackled by the hearth, casting a warm glow that softened the lines of weary faces. After a long day's toil, it seemed as though the entire village, wearied but relieved, settled into a quiet repose, united in an unspoken sense of release as the evening fell.
Edeana sat across from Devlin at a small table near the fire, soaking in the warmth. The meal before them—a large platter of roast beef, fresh bread, and vegetables—was hearty and comforting, and for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to simply enjoy it. The simple pleasures of good food, a warm fire, and the hum of life around her made the world feel momentarily still. She wasn't used to this—quiet, genuine peace—but she found herself leaning into it. There was something about the soft firelight, the crackle of embers, and the sound of Devlin's steady chewing that soothed her more than she expected.
Devlin, ever composed, appeared wholly at ease. His movements were deliberate, as though the world's troubles were something he had long learned to never show on his face. From time to time, his gaze drifted toward her—not inquisitive, nor insistent, but rather as though to quietly reassure. She offered him a faint smile; he inclined his head in return, the gesture subtle, almost imperceptible.
However, as she spied Captain Knightley entering the tavern, Edeana could not help but feel a strange sense of unease stir in the pit of her stomach. It was a quiet disquiet, as though something in the air was slightly out of tune. The day's earlier events clung to the edges of her mind like a strain of vaguely familiar music, just beyond recognition.
As the sensation deepened, a pressing need for fresh air overtook her—a desire to clear her mind, to escape the tightening grip of her thoughts. "Excuse me," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the unsettling feeling, "I shall return shortly."
Devlin gave a small nod, his smile warm but knowing. She rose gracefully, smoothing the folds of her skirt, and made her way toward the door. Stepping outside, the cool evening air greeted her like a gentle, silent embrace. The sharp bite of the chill, though startling, was strangely comforting, and with it came the earthy scent of wood smoke and damp soil—a fragrance that stirred a deep, nostalgic ache within her, faint yet undeniably familiar.
The outhouse, small and tucked behind the tavern, was where she had decided to go for a moment of solitude. As she walked, her boots crunching softly on the ground, she felt an odd lightness, as if something old and heavy had quietly lifted from her shoulders. The sounds of the tavern faded away, and for a moment, it was just her and the night.
It was then that she heard the faint shuffle of footsteps—a slow, deliberate pace—approaching from behind. She turned to see a bent, frail woman with silver strands of hair slipping from beneath a worn scarf. Her back was curved in a slow stoop, and her hands rested on a gnarled walking stick. But it was her eyes that held Edeana's gaze. They were striking—clear and sharp, as though they could see beyond the years, piercing straight through to things hidden beneath the surface.
Edeana hesitated, unsure of the woman's intentions, but the old woman spoke first, her voice soft but carrying a strange weight. "Forgive me, my lady," she said, her accent unfamiliar, "but you look so much like her."
Edeana tilted her head, curiosity piqued more than startled. "Her?"
The old woman's eyes grew distant, as though remembering something long past. "Princess Clementina of Caleabion."
The name hit Edeana like a stone dropped into still water. Caleabion. The name stirred no clear image in her mind, but she had seen it before—on a map tucked away in Mr. Kellies' office, where the grounds steward often kept his things. The map, old and fraying at the edges, had been filled with lands she'd never heard of. Caleabion was one of them, lying to the east, wealthier than Eldenhart, though little else was ever said about it. There was a certain mystery around it, as though it were a place few had been, and even fewer spoke of.
She frowned slightly, her brow furrowing. "Princess Clementina? I... I don't know much about Caleabion."
The old woman nodded slowly, her gaze unwavering. "You sound like you grew up in the North. I wouldn't fault you for not knowing much about Caleabion. The people have always kept to themselves, even more so in recent years."
Edeana studied her more closely. The woman didn't seem like some wandering storyteller with a penchant for tall tales. Her eyes—sharp and clear—were steady, and her tone was matter-of-fact. There was an odd depth in the way she spoke, as if each word carried a weight far beyond what she said.
"I was born and raised by the sea," the woman continued, her voice softening with memory. "I moved here to Eldenhart after I married—more than thirty winters ago now. My husband was from here." She paused, the corners of her mouth turning down slightly. "I don't make the trip back often, but I still go now and then."
Edeana listened, the odd sense of unease growing. The old woman spoke of a life full of stories, but the weight of them was carried only in the subtext of her words.
"I was visiting family when the princess disappeared," the woman said, her voice thickening with sorrow. "Princess Clementina of Caleabion—such a spirited young woman. The King's youngest and only daughter."
Edeana felt her heart give a sudden, unsettling lurch. She had never before heard mention of the princess, nor of her disappearance. The gravity in the woman's tone suggested this was no mere gossip, but a tale laden with sorrow. It was the first she had heard of such an event.
"I... I am unfamiliar with this tale," Edeana confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "The princess was taken, you say? Was she taken from the palace?"
The old woman's eyes clouded with something deeper—grief, perhaps, or something darker. "Indeed. They said her highness was snatched in the middle of the night from her chambers. They searched for her for an entire year, but not a trace could be found. No ransom. No word. Nothing. In time, they abandoned the search, though whispers persist that the King still seeks her to this day. His hope has all but faded now, but his heart remains broken, weighed down by the absence of his beloved daughter."
Edeana swallowed hard, her throat tightening as a strange pang settled in her chest. She had known loss—everyone did—but the image of a father searching endlessly for his daughter, a love that grew more desperate with time, was almost unbearable to think about.
"Do I really look like her? Perhaps it might be the colour of my hair, or perhaps even my complexion?" Edeana asked, her voice trembling slightly, betraying the unease she felt creeping into her bones. She couldn't help it; there was a tension crawling along her skin.
The old woman's gaze remained unwavering, not a flicker of hesitation in her expression. "It's true, you do share that fiery red hair and fair complexion, but what strikes me most is how your eyes mirror hers—such a rare, deep shade of green, like the sea at dusk. And that dimple on your cheek…" She gave a small, knowing smile, her gaze softening. "It's in precisely the same place."
Edeana's breath caught in her throat. "I'm not saying you are the princess," the old woman continued, her voice soft but insistent. "I'm not even suggesting it, not exactly. You're far too young to be her." She shook her head slightly, as though trying to ease the tension in the air. "It's just when I saw you just now, there was an uncanny resemblance that I can't help but follow you."
Edeana could only nod, her mind racing, but she felt an unexpected weight in her chest. "She must have been a woman of great kindness, to be so deeply loved by her people."
The old woman's smile softened, a wistful sadness in her expression. "Yes. She was truly the people's princess."
The silence lingered, heavy with the unspoken. Edeana studied the old woman, wondering if there was more to this conversation than she could understand. The woman took a step back, her gaze flicking briefly to the tavern door.
"Well," she said, her voice quieter now, "I've said my piece. Thank you for indulging an old woman." She smiled at Edeana in a way that seemed to close the conversation. "I must be off now—mi girl will be fretting, no doubt, muttering that I've wandered off again."
With that, she turned and shuffled away, her movements slow but purposeful, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as she had arrived.
Edeana stood there for a long moment, the cool night air brushing her face. She didn't know what to make of the conversation—or of the strange connection the woman seemed to sense between them. Her gaze dropped to the ground, where her footsteps had left faint impressions in the dirt. She turned back toward the tavern, but just as she reached the door, she heard Devlin's voice calling her name.
"Edeana?"
She turned, her heart racing, the weight of the moment still heavy in her chest. She couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter had somehow marked the beginning of something she wasn't ready for. Something she couldn't yet see.