The Crimson Crown

The warmth of Clara’s embrace lingered even as she shifted, her reluctance clear in the way she held onto me for just a moment longer. Finally, she pulled back, her arms loosening as she sat up, the crinkle of her diaper unmistakable in the quiet room. She ran a hand through her messy hair, her expression soft but persistent.

“We need to get moving,” Clara said gently, her voice tinged with regret. “Mistress will expect us to be ready.”

I nodded faintly, the reality of the day creeping back into my thoughts. As much as I wanted to stay in the cocoon of warmth we had shared, I knew she was right. With a sigh, I shifted onto my back, the sheets rustling as Clara tugged them away. The cool air was a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the bed, and I shivered slightly as Clara got to work.

Her movements were efficient, though I could tell she was still adjusting to the new dynamic between us. She untaped my diaper carefully, her nose wrinkling slightly but her expression otherwise composed as she folded the soiled padding and set it aside. The wet cloths were cool against my skin as she cleaned me, her hands gentle but deliberate.

“You’ll get the hang of this soon enough,” Clara murmured, offering a faint smile as she reached for a fresh diaper. “Not that I’m thrilled about the practice.”

I managed a weak chuckle, her attempt at humor a small comfort against the lingering embarrassment. She slid the fresh diaper under me, taping it snugly into place with practiced efficiency before stepping back. “All done,” she said, nodding toward me. 

I sat up, the crinkle of my fresh diaper loud in the stillness as I stood and gestured toward the bed. Clara hesitated for a moment before lying down, her cheeks flushed as she avoided my gaze. I reached for the supplies, trying to mimic her efficiency, as I carefully untaped her diaper and folded it away.

The mess didn’t bother me as much as I thought it might. My focus was on Clara, on her quiet vulnerability as she let me take care of her, trusting me in a way that felt both humbling and intimate. I worked quickly, wiping her clean and sliding a fresh diaper beneath her, taping it securely in place.

“There,” I said softly, offering her a reassuring smile. “Ready to face the day?”

Clara sat up, adjusting herself awkwardly as she avoided meeting my eyes. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she muttered, though her tone was lighter than before.

We moved in unison, retrieving our servant’s dresses from the wardrobe and slipping them on over our diapers. The fabric felt stiff and scratchy against my skin, a constant reminder of the role we were forced to play. Clara helped me smooth the crinkles from my skirt, her movements brisk but precise, before we turned toward the door.

“Let’s get through this,” Clara said, her voice steady as she placed a hand on the doorknob. “One step at a time.”

I nodded, squaring my shoulders as we stepped into the hallway, ready to face whatever the day had in store for us. For better or worse, we would endure it together.

The morning air was cool and heavy as Clara and I made our way through the dimly lit corridors toward the dining hall. The soft echo of our footsteps and the faint rustling of our dresses were the only sounds in the quiet castle. I adjusted my skirt slightly, the crinkle of my diaper underneath a constant, humiliating reminder of my situation. Clara walked beside me, her expression set and unreadable, though her occasional fidgeting betrayed her lingering discomfort.

As we passed by the meeting room, the door creaked open, and a familiar, sharp voice cut through the silence.

“Stop right there, girls.”

I froze, my heart sinking as Mistress stepped into the hallway, her commanding presence filling the space. She gestured for us to step inside, her expression cold and calculating, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

Clara and I exchanged a nervous glance before obeying, our steps hesitant as we entered the meeting room. Mistress closed the door behind us with a soft click, her sharp eyes sweeping over us like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Good,” Mistress said smoothly, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. “I’ve been meaning to check on my little protégées this morning.”

My stomach twisted with dread as she approached, her gaze locking onto me first. Without a word, she reached down, lifting the hem of my dress to expose my diaper. My face burned with shame, my body stiff as she inspected me, her fingers brushing lightly over the padding.

“Hmm,” she murmured thoughtfully, a smirk playing on her lips. “Still dry, for now. I expected better, Liliana.”

She let my dress fall back into place, turning her attention to Clara, who was already blushing furiously. Mistress repeated the process, lifting Clara’s dress with deliberate slowness, her smirk widening as she examined the fresh diaper underneath.

“Well,” Mistress said, stepping back and clasping her hands behind her back. “It’s clear to me that diapers have made you both far more docile and compliant. I’m pleasantly surprised.”

Neither Clara nor I dared to respond, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air.

Mistress’s expression grew sharper, her tone turning cold. “When you return from your first shift of work today, I expect you both to report to me immediately for inspection. And I will expect those diapers to be soiled.”

My cheeks flushed deeper, humiliation flooding me as I fought to maintain my composure. Clara stiffened beside me, her jaw tight, though she said nothing.

“Do I make myself clear?” Mistress asked, her gaze piercing as it flicked between us.

“Yes, Mistress,” we murmured in unison, our voices barely above whispers.

Her smirk returned, and she stepped back, waving a hand dismissively. “Good. Now, off you go. Don’t keep your work waiting.”

We turned and hurried from the room, the heavy door closing behind us as we stepped back into the hallway. My heart was pounding, my chest tight as we resumed our walk to the dining hall, the weight of Mistress’s words pressing down on me like a physical burden. Clara was quiet, her movements stiff, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the faint tremble of her hands.

As humiliating as it was, there was no choice but to endure. Mistress’s grip on us was unrelenting, and for now, all we could do was follow her commands and hope to survive the day ahead.

The dining hall buzzed with its usual subdued chatter as Clara and I shuffled through the line to get breakfast. The bowls of porridge were the same as always—bland, lukewarm, and distasteful—but I took mine with quiet resignation, following Clara to a table near the edge of the room. My mind was too preoccupied to care much about the food.

We sat in silence, the clink of spoons against bowls filling the space between us. Clara seemed lost in thought, her expression unreadable as she took slow, measured bites. I stirred my porridge absently, my gaze flicking around the hall before settling back on her.

A question had been nagging at me since Mistress’s inspection, and it grew louder in my mind with every passing minute. How did Clara always seem to know where we were working for the day? I hadn’t questioned it before, too exhausted and overwhelmed to notice, but now the thought dug into me, persistent and insistent.

I hesitated, my spoon hovering over the bowl before finally setting it down. “Clara,” I said softly, keeping my voice low so the other servants wouldn’t overhear. “How do you always know where we’re working each day? Does someone tell you?”

She blinked, glancing up from her bowl with a faint frown. “No one tells me,” she said simply, shrugging. “I just know the East Wing well enough by now. We rotate through the same areas, so it’s easy to figure out what needs to be done.”

I chewed on her words, my mind racing as an idea began to take shape. “So... we don’t have to work in a specific spot?” I ventured carefully, watching her reaction. “As long as we’re in the East Wing, I mean.”

Clara tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing. “I suppose not,” she admitted, though there was a note of caution in her tone. “But why does it matter? Mistress doesn’t care where we are as long as the work gets done.”

Her words settled something inside me, a faint spark of determination igniting in my chest. I didn’t respond immediately, instead focusing on my bowl, stirring the porridge absently as I mulled over the implications.

If we could choose where to work, then I could choose where I needed to be. My heart thudded at the realization, the pieces falling into place. I had no intention of sharing my thoughts with Clara just yet—not until I was certain of what I needed to do—but her answer had confirmed it. There was an opportunity here, one I couldn’t afford to waste.

Clara raised an eyebrow, her spoon pausing midair as she studied me. “What are you thinking, Lila?” she asked, her tone skeptical.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, forcing a small smile. “Just... curious, that’s all.”

Her frown deepened, but she didn’t press me further, returning her attention to her meal. I took a slow, measured breath, my resolve strengthening as I formulated my plan. There was still work to be done—both in the East Wing and beyond—and I would find a way to make my next move, no matter how small.

For now, I kept my thoughts to myself, focusing on the task ahead and the quiet determination that had begun to settle over me.

The meal ended in quiet efficiency, the clatter of bowls and spoons mixing with the subdued murmur of the dining hall as Clara and I returned our dishes. My thoughts were a swirling storm, Clara’s earlier words replaying in my mind as I tried to piece together a plan. She was right—Mistress didn’t care where we worked as long as the job got done. That knowledge was both terrifying and liberating, an opening I hadn’t anticipated.

Clara didn’t seem to notice my distraction as we left the hall, heading back to the cleaning closet. The familiar smell of soap and damp cloths greeted us as we stepped inside, the shelves neatly stocked with buckets, sponges, and brushes. Clara moved with her usual precision, gathering her tools quickly while I lagged slightly, my mind still focused on the faint memory of a door I’d seen the day before.

“Let’s go,” Clara said, her tone brisk as she lifted her bucket. “We don’t have all day.”

I nodded, grabbing my supplies and following her into the corridor. The faint sound of our footsteps echoed off the stone walls as we made our way toward the East Wing, the weight of our task settling over me. But unlike the day before, I had a purpose now—a quiet determination that fueled my every step.

As we entered the wing, the familiar sight of the sprawling halls greeted us, their cold grandeur a stark reminder of the kingdom’s fall. My eyes darted around, scanning the area as I tried to remember the exact location of the door I’d seen. It had been faint, barely noticeable in the dim light, but I was certain it was there—a small, unassuming door tucked away in the shadows.

“There,” I said softly, gesturing toward a stretch of floor near where I thought the door was. “Let’s start here.”

Clara paused, glancing at me with a faint frown. “We worked this section yesterday,” she said, her tone skeptical.

“Not all of it,” I countered quickly, keeping my voice steady. “And it’s close to the throne room. Mistress will be pleased if we focus here.”

She hesitated, her gaze flickering between me and the spot I’d indicated before sighing and setting her bucket down. “Fine,” she said, crouching to dip her sponge into the soapy water. “Let’s just get it done.”

I followed her lead; my movements were deliberate as I began scrubbing the stone floor. My eyes, however, kept darting toward the shadows, searching for the faint outline of the door.

The sound of scrubbing filled the hall, the rhythm of our work steady and methodical. Clara didn’t question me further, her focus on the task at hand, while my thoughts churned with possibilities. The door was my key—my chance to take a step toward reclaiming what had been lost.

The door loomed ahead, unassuming but imposing nonetheless, flanked by two guards in the yellow and black of Caltheris. Their spears rested against the wall, their postures relaxed but alert. My stomach churned as Clara and I approached, the weight of their presence making every step feel heavier. I could feel Clara’s eyes on me, her confusion and skepticism palpable, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

As we neared, one of the guards straightened, his sharp gaze landing on us. “What are you two doing here?” he asked, his tone clipped and suspicious.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to remain steady. “We were told to clean the floors,” I said, holding up my bucket as proof. “This section hasn’t been done in days.”

The guard’s brow furrowed, his gaze narrowing as he glanced at Clara, then back at me. Behind him, the other guard snorted, his grip tightening on his spear.

“You expect us to believe that the Mistress sent you here?” the first guard said, his tone incredulous. “The East Wing’s a big place, girls. Plenty of floors to clean without bothering us.”

I hesitated, my mind racing for a response. “It’s not about what Mistress wants,” I said quickly, trying to sound earnest. “It’s about what the new King wants. And if he sees the mess inside... well, I doubt he’ll be pleased.”

The second guard let out a low chuckle, his posture relaxing slightly. “She’s got a point,” he muttered, nudging his companion. “You want to deal with the King if he finds grime on his precious floors?”

The first guard groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine,” he grumbled, stepping aside. “But make it quick. And don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to.”

“Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice steady as I stepped past them, Clara following reluctantly.

The door creaked open, revealing a narrow stairwell that spiraled downward into the shadows. The air grew cooler as we stepped inside, the faint smell of damp stone wafting up to meet us. My heart pounded, each step echoing faintly as we descended, Clara’s footsteps close behind.

Once we were out of earshot, Clara grabbed my arm, pulling me to a stop. “What are you doing, Liliana?” she hissed, her voice low but sharp. “What’s down here? What are you trying to find?”

Clara’s expression was a mix of frustration and worry, her hands tightening around the bucket she still carried. “You’re going to get us killed,” she muttered, shaking her head. “If Mistress finds out, or those guards...”

“They won’t,” I said firmly, though my voice trembled slightly. “We’ll be quick. Just... trust me, Clara. Please.”

She stared at me for a long moment, her jaw tight, before letting out a reluctant sigh. “Fine,” she said finally. “But if this goes wrong, you owe me. Big time.”

I nodded, a flicker of gratitude warming my chest. “It won’t,” I promised, though the uncertainty still lingered at the edges of my thoughts.

Together, we continued down the stairwell, the faint glow of a distant torch casting long, flickering shadows against the damp stone walls. My pulse quickened with each step, the weight of what I was about to do pressing heavily on my chest. The air grew colder as we descended, the faint, metallic tang of the dungeons creeping into my nose. This wasn’t just a gamble—it was treason against the occupiers, a desperate bid for freedom.

I glanced back at Clara, her face a mix of confusion and worry as she carried her bucket tightly against her side. She still didn’t fully understand, but I couldn’t explain it to her here, not yet. The guards might’ve been too lax to see us as a threat, but I couldn’t risk even a whisper reaching the wrong ears.

The truth was, I wasn’t here to scrub floors. These stairs led to the prison cells deep beneath the castle. And if I were right, if Dorian were still alive, he’d be down here somewhere. Bound, battered, and beaten, but alive. And if I could free him—if we could escape together—then we’d have a chance to reclaim the kingdom that had been stolen from us.

I tightened my grip on the handle of my bucket, each step filling me with equal parts determination and fear. There was no turning back now.