The Crimson Crown

As we stepped out of the room, Clara’s hand found me, gripping my arm just firmly enough to get my attention. “When we pass the headmistress,” she whispered, her voice low but urgent, “you address her as Mistress. Keep your eyes down, and don’t speak unless spoken to. Do exactly as she says, Lila. No mistakes,” she said, using my fake name now that we were outside the privacy of our dorm.

Her words sent a chill through me, and I nodded faintly, my throat tightening as dread settled in my chest. The corridor felt longer and colder as we approached the main room, the imposing figure of the headmistress standing just beyond the open doorway. She was speaking with another servant, her sharp voice carrying down the hall as Clara and I fell into step, our footsteps soft and careful.

In the room stood two girls, their backs to us and their skirts hiked. Before I could turn my gaze aside, I caught the telltale signs of redness in their cheeks, poking out from their undergarments. I felt shame washing through me, as well as pity for the two girls as they were forced to stand there on display. I could only hold that I wouldn’t be joining them.

The headmistress turned as we entered, her hawkish eyes immediately landing on us. Clara dropped her gaze instantly, her posture straight but submissive, and I hurried to mimic her, forcing my trembling hands to still be at my sides.

“Mistress,” Clara said respectfully, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.

I hesitated for only a moment before repeating her, my voice barely above a whisper. “Mistress.”

The headmistress’s eyes narrowed slightly as she approached, her gaze sweeping over both of us with sharp, meticulous precision. She circled us slowly, her shoes clicking softly against the stone floor as the air grew heavier with every step she took.

“Hands,” she snapped her voice like a whip.

Clara extended her hands immediately, palms up, and I followed suit, my fingers trembling as I held them out for inspection. The headmistress’s cold fingers brushed against mine, turning them this way and that, her gaze scrutinizing every inch.

“Clean,” she muttered, more to herself than to us. “Good. At least some of you know how to present yourselves,” she said, glancing at the two girls who stood dutifully, their hands in front of them, their red rears facing us.

Her gaze moved to Clara’s dress, her hands tugging at the hem and smoothing out an invisible wrinkle before giving the fabric a faint sniff. Satisfied, she moved on to me, her sharp eyes narrowing as she examined every detail of my outfit.

The moment her fingers gripped the waistband of my dress, my breath caught. She tugged at the fabric, her lips pursing slightly as though she sensed something amiss. My heart pounded, my cheeks burning as I forced myself to stay still, my gaze fixed firmly on the floor. The faint crinkle of my diaper beneath the dress seemed deafening in the silence, and I clenched my hands tightly to keep from trembling.

The headmistress sniffed lightly, her frown deepening for a brief, terrifying moment before she released the hem and stepped back. “Acceptable,” she said curtly, her tone clipped. “Barely. See to it that you maintain this standard.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Clara replied smoothly, her voice steady and practiced.

I echoed her weakly, my voice shaking slightly. “Yes, Mistress.”

The headmistress gave us one last sharp look before waving a dismissive hand. “Go. Don’t waste any more time..”

Clara didn’t hesitate, nudging me gently to follow as she turned on her heel and strode from the room. I moved quickly, my legs trembling beneath me as we exited, the tension in my chest finally easing as the headmistress’s sharp gaze disappeared behind us.

When we were far enough down the corridor, Clara glanced at me briefly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That was close,” she muttered, her voice low. “You’ve got to hold it together, Lila. The headmistress doesn’t miss much.”

I nodded faintly, my cheeks still burning as I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The humiliation of the inspection clung to me like a second skin, but the relief of passing unnoticed was almost enough to outweigh it. For now, at least, I had escaped discovery. But the fear of what might happen next loomed like a shadow over every step I took as we continued our duties.

We returned to the cleaning closet in silence, the weight of the headmistress’s inspection still pressing heavily on my chest. Clara moved with her usual brisk efficiency, filling a fresh bucket of soapy water and grabbing a sponge. I followed her lead, though my hands still trembled faintly as I worked, the sound of the water sloshing in the bucket a temporary distraction from the dread that lingered in the back of my mind.

As we made our way toward a new section of the East Wing, Clara glanced at me briefly, her sharp eyes assessing. “You’ve got to keep your head down more,” she said quietly, her voice low but firm. “Servants don’t stand out. You need to blend in, be invisible.”

I nodded faintly, clutching the bucket tightly as I followed her. The corridor stretched ahead of us, the dim light from the windows casting long shadows across the stone floor. Each step echoed faintly, the sound of our footsteps mingling with the faint hum of distant activity.

“Act more submissive,” Clara continued, her tone measured. “When someone speaks to you, lower your gaze. Don’t look them in the eye unless they demand it. And when you answer, keep your voice soft and respectful. You don’t want to give anyone a reason to notice you.”

Her words stung, but I knew she was right. The anger and pride that had fueled me earlier in the day were dangerous here—liabilities that could cost me everything. I swallowed hard, nodding again as I focused on the rhythm of my steps, the soft crinkle of my diaper beneath my dress a constant, humiliating reminder to stay in line.

Clara slowed as we approached a new section of the wing, her gaze scanning the empty corridor before motioning for me to stop. She set her bucket down with a soft clink, kneeling beside it and pulling out her sponge. “Stay low,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Servants are meant to be beneath notice—literally. When you’re scrubbing, keep your head down. It’s easier to avoid trouble that way.”

I followed her example, setting my bucket down and kneeling on the hard stone floor. The chill of it seeped through my dress, and I bit back a wince as I dipped my sponge into the soapy water, the faint scent of soap filling the air.

Clara worked quickly, her movements steady and practiced as she scrubbed the floor. “You’ll get used to it,” she said after a moment, her voice softening slightly. “The routine, the rules. It’s not easy, but it’s better than drawing attention. Trust me on that.”

I nodded again, my focus shifting to the floor as I mimicked her motions, the repetitive rhythm of scrubbing oddly calming despite the weight of my thoughts. Each stroke of the sponge felt like a small act of penance, a humbling reminder of how far I’d fallen and how much I still had to endure.

Clara didn’t say much more as we worked, but her occasional glances and quiet suggestions guided me, her presence steady and grounding in a way I hadn’t expected. The sting of humility was sharp, but with every swipe of the sponge, I reminded myself of what was at stake. My kingdom, my people, Dorian—everything I had lost and everything I hoped to reclaim.

For now, though, all I could do was keep scrubbing, my head low and my resolve quietly growing with every passing moment.

The quiet of the East Wing was broken only by the soft swishing of soapy water, the rhythmic scrubbing of sponges against stone, and the occasional crinkle of my diaper. Clara and I worked in tandem, her occasional murmured instructions keeping me focused despite the ache in my arms and the weight of my humiliation. The monotonous task was almost soothing, lulling me into a false sense of calm.

But then I heard it—the faint echo of footsteps approaching from the far end of the corridor.

Clara froze, her sponge suspended mid-swipe as she tilted her head, listening. My heart lurched, and I straightened slightly, my hand tightening around the handle of the bucket. The steps were measured, deliberate, but light—not the heavy boots of guards or the intruder king’s retinue.

As the figure emerged from the shadows, my breath caught. Father Aelindor, the Keeper of the Winds, strode toward us, his robes flowing behind him like a soft breeze. He was alone, his movements unhurried, his face calm. The absence of chains or escorts struck me immediately—how was he free? How had he avoided the fate of so many loyal to the crown?

Clara tensed beside me, her posture stiffening as her eyes flicked to mine briefly. I knew what she was thinking—this wasn’t normal. The Keeper had no business wandering the corridors unguarded, not when the castle had fallen into enemy hands.

Father Aelindor stopped a few paces away, his gaze sweeping over the scene with an unsettling serenity. “Diligent work,” he said softly, his voice carrying an odd warmth that belied the tension in the air. “Such devotion to duty is commendable.”

My heart raced as his eyes landed on me, his piercing gaze holding mine for a brief, heart-stopping moment. I froze, unable to look away, the weight of his stare both comforting and terrifying. Did he know who I was? Did he recognize me? The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at his lips, and I had my answer.

“Sometimes,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful, “we are called to walk paths we never expected. To endure trials we never imagined.” His words were measured, his tone deliberate, and I knew they were meant for me.

I lowered my gaze quickly, mimicking Clara’s submissive posture, but the Keeper’s presence lingered like the quiet hum of a storm building on the horizon. He took a step closer, the faint scent of incense and aged parchment wafting from his robes.

“The Winds do not abandon their chosen, even when the skies grow dark,” he continued, his words barely louder than a whisper now. “They stir, even in the smallest of moments, ready to rise when the time is right.”

My chest tightened, my breath shallow as his cryptic message sank in. He knew. He saw through my disguise, through the borrowed dress, and the deference I wore like armor. But he didn’t expose me. Instead, his words carried a strange reassurance, a promise that the Winds hadn’t forsaken me, even if I had nearly forgotten them.

Clara, for her part, remained silent, her head bowed, but I could feel the tension radiating off her. She didn’t know what to make of this strange man or his odd words, and I didn’t blame her.

Father Aelindor lingered for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping over us once more. “The Winds have their way,” he said finally, stepping back. “Even when we cannot yet see where they blow.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, his robes trailing softly behind him as he disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. The echo of his footsteps faded, leaving only the quiet drip of water and the distant murmur of the castle.

Clara was the first to break the silence, her voice sharp but hushed. “Who was that?” she asked, her eyes wide as she turned to me. “And what the hell was he talking about?”

I shook my head faintly, my mind spinning with questions of my own. “That’s... Father Aelindor,” I murmured, my voice unsteady. “The Keeper of the Winds.”

Her brows furrowed, and she glanced toward the direction he’d gone. “The priest? Why isn’t he locked up? Or worse?”

I didn’t have an answer, but the unease in my chest only deepened. The Keeper’s presence was as mysterious as his words, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew far more than he had let on. Still, his message lingered in my mind, like a faint breeze stirring the embers of hope. ‘The Winds do not abandon their chosen.

For now, though, Clara’s sharp gaze pulled me back to the present. “Let’s get back to work,” she said firmly, dipping her sponge into the soapy water. “We can’t afford to get caught slacking.”

I nodded mutely, returning to the task at hand, but the Keeper’s words echoed in my mind with every stroke of the sponge. There was more at play here than I could see, and I couldn’t afford to ignore it.

The hours stretched on as Clara, and I worked, the rhythmic scrubbing of the floors and the soft sloshing of soapy water the only sounds in the dim corridor. My arms ached, my knees throbbed against the hard stone, and every movement felt heavier than the last. But as my thoughts lingered on Father Aelindor’s cryptic words, a flicker of determination sparked within me.

The Winds do not abandon their chosen.

The phrase echoed in my mind, a quiet mantra that filled the emptiness left by despair. I closed my eyes briefly, focusing on the faint hum I’d felt before—the subtle warmth that stirred in my chest whenever I’d connected with the Wind of Summer. Without drawing Clara’s attention, I took a slow, steady breath, imagining that warmth spreading through my limbs.

It was subtle at first, like the faintest breeze on a still day, but as I leaned into the sensation, I felt the strain in my arms and legs begin to ease. The exhaustion that had weighed so heavily on me just moments ago seemed to lighten, replaced by a quiet energy that pushed me forward. Each stroke of the sponge felt smoother, each movement less burdensome.

Clara didn’t notice the change, too focused on her work, but I couldn’t help the small, secret smile that tugged at my lips. It wasn’t much—just the faintest touch of the Winds—but it was enough. Enough to remind me that I wasn’t powerless, even in this bleak situation. Enough to remind me of who I was.

As the evening wore on, the repetitive motions lulled my thoughts back to Dorian. The soft crinkle and squish of my freshly soaked diaper beneath my dress, so humiliating in the moment, brought back flashes of his voice, his touch, and the way he’d guided me with patience and love. The memory of his praise, his whispered encouragements, made my chest ache with longing. Where are you, Dorian? The question repeated itself in my mind, unanswered and haunting.

The warmth of Summer’s Wind wasn’t enough to dispel the chill of uncertainty that gripped me whenever I thought of him. Was he safe? Was he hurt? Did he even know I was still alive? The thought of him suffering at the hands of the intruders made my stomach twist, and I scrubbed harder, the motion fueled by anger and desperation.

But with every movement, the squish of the soaked padding between my legs brought me back to my current reality. The humiliating bulk was a constant reminder of how far I’d fallen, but even so, it grounded me in the strange, conflicting emotions that had kept me going. Embarrassment, anger, hope, and love—all tangled together, pushing me forward when I thought I had nothing left to give.

“Lila,” Clara said softly, breaking me from my thoughts. Her voice was calm but firm, her sharp eyes flicking to mine briefly. “You’re slowing down. Stay focused.”

I nodded faintly, swallowing hard as I forced myself to return my attention to the floor. The Winds of Summer stirred faintly within me again, easing the tension in my arms as I worked. Clara didn’t notice the change, but I could feel it—like a quiet reassurance that, despite everything, I wasn’t alone.

As the lantern light began to dim and the evening stretched on, I found myself clinging to that small, secret comfort. The Winds hadn’t abandoned me, and neither had the memory of Dorian. Somewhere, beyond the walls of this castle, he was waiting for me. And with every passing moment, I grew more determined to find him.