The Crimson Crown

Clara cleared her throat loudly, cutting through the thick haze of emotion between Dorian and me. “As touching as this is,” she said, her tone low but firm, “we really need to get moving before someone realizes we’re down here.”

Dorian turned his head, noticing Clara properly for the first time. His brow furrowed in confusion, his sharp gaze assessing her quickly before he glanced back at me. “Who is this?” he asked, his voice still raw but steady.

“Clara,” I said, offering a small, grateful smile to her. “She’s been helping me. I wouldn’t have made it this far without her.”

Clara shifted uncomfortably, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “And I’d rather not get executed for my troubles,” she muttered. “So unless you two have a brilliant plan, we need to figure out how to get out of here. Fast.”

Dorian straightened slightly, though his movements were still slow and stiff. His chains may have been broken, but the marks they left on his body—and his spirit—were still fresh. “She’s right,” he admitted, his voice heavy with reluctance. “There will be time to mourn later. For now, we need to focus on escaping.”

“We can’t just walk out the front door,” Clara said, her brow furrowing as she paced the small cell. “The guards will recognize you in an instant.”

I glanced at Dorian, my mind racing as I tried to think of a solution. She was right—we couldn’t stay here. But without a plan, we were just as likely to get caught as we were to escape. My thoughts turned to the Winds, to the power they held. I could feel Summer still humming faintly within me, but it wasn’t the right fit for this situation. No, what we needed now was something subtler.

“Spring nurtures,” I murmured to myself, my mind drifting to the lessons Dorian had taught me. “Summer strengthens. Autumn hides.” Or so the books had told me.

Dorian’s gaze snapped to me, his sharp mind clearly following the same thread of thought. “Autumn,” he said, his voice low. “It can mask us.”

I nodded, my pulse quickening as the idea took shape. “We can disguise you,” I said, glancing at Clara. “The guards expect to see servant girls down here, not...”

“A battered prince,” Dorian finished dryly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the situation. “You’re saying you can make me look like one of you.”

“It’s risky,” Clara said, crossing her arms as she studied him. “But it could work. Do you think you can channel enough of the Wind of Autumn to pull it off?”

I hesitated, the memory of Autumn’s fleeting touch during my lessons surfacing in my mind. It was the most elusive of the Winds, requiring patience and precision to channel properly. But we didn’t have time to doubt.

“I can try,” I said, my voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at me. “But you’ll need to play the part, too. The Winds can mask your appearance, but if you don’t act the part of a servant girl, the guards will see through it.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “Act the part?” he asked, glancing down at his battered frame. “I’m not exactly built for subtlety.”

“You’ll have to try,” Clara said firmly. “It’s our best shot.”

Dorian sighed heavily, nodding reluctantly. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes as I reached for the Wind of Autumn. Its energy was quieter than Summer or Spring, a faint, rustling whisper that curled around me like falling leaves. I focused on that whisper, letting it grow and spread as I placed my hands on Dorian’s shoulders.

The warmth of the Wind flowed through me, wrapping around him like a cloak. His features softened, his battered frame seeming smaller, more delicate. His tattered clothes shimmered faintly, transforming into the simple garb of a servant girl. When I opened my eyes, I barely recognized him.

Clara stared her mouth agape. “That... that actually worked,” she said, her tone filled with disbelief.

Dorian glanced down at himself, his movements awkward as he adjusted to the illusion. “This feels... strange,” he muttered, his voice still unmistakably his own.

“Try to keep quiet,” Clara said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the doorway. “We don’t have much time.”

I followed quickly, the lingering hum of Autumn fading as exhaustion crept in. Our disguise wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to give us a chance. Now, all we had to do was escape before anyone realized the prince was walking among them, hidden in plain sight.

As we climbed the narrow, winding staircase, the air felt heavier with every step. The faint crinkle of our movements mingled with the soft rustle of Dorian’s altered garb, a constant reminder of the precarious illusion we were relying on. Clara led the way, her posture stiff but purposeful, while I followed closely behind, supporting Dorian as his weak legs struggled to keep pace.

The faint light of the dungeon’s entrance grew brighter as we neared the top. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat louder than the last, and I could feel the tension radiating from Dorian. He kept his head down, his long hair partially obscuring his face, his silence an unspoken promise to stick to the plan.

But as we emerged into the corridor, the two guards from earlier stood at their post, their sharp gazes locking onto us instantly. Their expressions shifted, suspicion flickering across their faces as their eyes narrowed.

“Hold on,” one of them said, stepping forward and blocking our path. “There were two of you when you went down.”

My stomach twisted, dread crawling up my spine as he glanced at Dorian, his eyes narrowing further. “Who’s this?” he demanded, his tone sharp.

Clara didn’t miss a beat. She straightened her posture, her expression twisting into one of mock exasperation as she planted her hands on her hips. “You’re seriously asking that?” she said, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Didn’t Mistress tell you to stop questioning every little thing?”

The guard blinked, taken aback by her sudden boldness. “What are you talking about?”

“She sent us down to clean, and then this one,” Clara gestured to Dorian, who shrank back slightly, “had the nerve to sneak off and try to shirk her duties. I caught her wandering around down there like she owned the place! Had to drag her back up myself before Mistress finds out and flays us all.”

The other guard snorted, his lips twitching into an amused smirk. “Shirk her duties, huh? Typical.”

Clara sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “Honestly, it’s a wonder any of us get anything done with the way some of these girls behave. Mistress will have a fit if she finds out we didn’t finish the East Wing on time because of this nonsense.”

The first guard frowned, his suspicion wavering as he glanced between us. “You sure she’s not up to something else? Down there isn’t exactly where girls should be wandering.”

Clara rolled her eyes, her tone sharpening as she leaned in slightly. “You think I have time to deal with anything other than cleaning floors? She’s a lazy servant, not a spy. Unless you want to explain to Mistress why the East Wing isn’t spotless by lunch, I suggest you let us pass.”

The guard hesitated, his jaw tightening as he considered her words. Finally, with a gruff sigh, he stepped back, waving us on. “Fine,” he muttered. “But keep her in line.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Clara said with a pointed glance at Dorian, her tone laced with mock severity. “She won’t be slacking off again.”

I ducked my head, hiding my expression as we hurried past the guards, my heart pounding so loudly I was certain they could hear it. Clara’s quick thinking had bought us a reprieve, but I knew it was only temporary. Once we were out of sight, I let out a shaky breath, glancing at her.

“That was... impressive,” I whispered, my voice filled with awe and gratitude.

Clara shrugged, though her cheeks flushed faintly. “Just keep moving,” she muttered. “The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

We didn’t look back, our steps quick and deliberate as we made our way deeper into the castle, each of us acutely aware of how close we had come to disaster—and how much closer it still lingered.

We ducked into the cleaning closet, the door closing behind us with a soft click. The air inside was thick with the smell of soap and damp cloths, the shelves neatly lined with buckets, brushes, and sponges. I leaned against the wall, my legs trembling from the tension and exertion of the morning, while Clara wasted no time grabbing the supplies we’d need.

Dorian, on the other hand, stood stiffly near the door, his expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief as he watched Clara fill a bucket with soapy water. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low but incredulous. “We need to get out of here, not clean floors.”

Clara shot him a sharp look, her hands moving quickly as she grabbed a sponge and thrust it into his hand. “We are getting out of here,” she hissed, her tone brisk. “But if you think we can just stroll out the front gates without anyone noticing, you’re delusional. The guards will be everywhere once they realize you’re gone.”

Dorian stared at the sponge in his hand like it was some foreign object, his jaw tightening. “And you think scrubbing floors is going to help?”

“It’s called blending in,” Clara snapped, shoving a bucket into his other hand. “Three servant girls scrubbing the East Wing? Nobody’s going to give us a second glance. But if we’re running around looking suspicious, we’ll be caught before we can even think about escaping.”

She turned to me, handing me my sponge and bucket. “Liliana gets it,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “Right?”

I nodded, my heart still racing but my resolve firm. “She’s right,” I said, glancing at Dorian. “If we act like we belong here, the guards will overlook us. It’s the only way to stay out of sight until we figure out our next move.”

Dorian let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as he stared at the bucket and sponge in his hands. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but he didn’t argue further.

Clara grinned faintly, her expression triumphant as she pushed the door open. “Welcome to servitude, Your Highness,” she said with a smirk, leading the way back into the corridor. “Try to keep up.”

We moved quickly and quietly to a stretch of the East Wing we hadn’t cleaned yet, the faint sound of our footsteps and the sloshing of water filling the otherwise empty halls. The moment we set down our buckets and knelt to begin scrubbing, the tension in the air seemed to ease ever so slightly.

Dorian grumbled under his breath as he dipped his sponge into the soapy water, the sight of him on his hands and knees almost surreal. But as the minutes passed and the routine of scrubbing floors took over, the faint clatter of armored footsteps echoed in the distance.

My heart leaped into my throat, my hands pausing mid-scrub as the sound grew louder. Clara, however, didn’t flinch, her movements steady and deliberate as she continued working.

“Keep scrubbing,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t look up. Don’t stop.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my hands to move again, the sponge dragging across the stone floor with mechanical precision. Dorian followed suit, his jaw clenched, but his head bowed as the footsteps came closer.

Two guards passed by, their conversation low but urgent. One of them glanced briefly in our direction, his gaze skimming over us before returning to his companion. They didn’t stop, their focus elsewhere, and soon, the sound of their footsteps faded into the distance.

I let out a shaky breath, glancing at Clara, who gave me a small, reassuring nod. The plan was working, at least for now. As long as we kept our heads down and our hands moving, we could make it through the day unnoticed.

The hours dragged on as we scrubbed, the repetitive motions a numbing rhythm that did little to ease the tension humming beneath the surface. The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors we meticulously cleaned. Dorian’s movements were clumsy, his unfamiliarity with the task evident in the way his sponge missed spots or left streaks behind.

“Like this,” I said softly, leaning closer to guide his hand with mine. “You need to keep even pressure, or it won’t clean properly.”

He glanced at me, his lips pressing into a tight line, but he didn’t argue. His pride was clearly bruised, but I could see the determination in his eyes as he adjusted his movements. I couldn’t help but feel a faint flicker of pride as he started to improve, his strokes becoming steadier and more deliberate.

Clara smirked faintly from her spot nearby, her gaze flicking between us as she worked. “Welcome to servitude,” she teased under her breath. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, is it?”

Dorian grunted in response, his focus firmly on the floor. I exchanged a small, knowing smile with Clara before returning to my section of the stone, my sponge dragging across the surface in smooth, practiced motions.

As the hours passed, the monotony of the task settled over us, the faint sounds of our scrubbing filling the otherwise silent hall. The repetitive movements gave my mind too much time to wander, my thoughts drifting to everything that had happened, everything still to come. My heart ached with the weight of it all, but I pushed the emotions aside, focusing on the task at hand.

It wasn’t long before I felt the familiar pressure in my bladder, a gentle but insistent reminder that nature wasn’t going to wait. I hesitated for a moment, glancing at Clara, who worked silently nearby. Her movements were brisk and efficient, her focus unwavering despite the strain of the day.

Taking a slow breath, I relaxed, letting the warmth spread through my diaper. The sensation was oddly soothing, the quiet relief almost comforting in the midst of everything else. I shifted slightly, the crinkle of the padding barely audible as I returned to my work, my face warm with residual embarrassment.

“Clara,” I murmured, keeping my voice low so Dorian wouldn’t hear. She glanced up, her brow raised in question.

“Mistress’s orders,” I said pointedly, giving her a meaningful look. Her face flushed slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line as she registered my reminder.

She huffed quietly, her shoulders stiffening as she resumed scrubbing. “I know,” she muttered under her breath. “You don’t have to remind me.”

I offered her a faint, sympathetic smile before returning to my section of the floor. The reminder wasn’t meant to shame her, only to keep us both mindful of the expectations placed on us. Mistress’s cruel whims were a constant shadow over our lives, and the consequences of disobedience were too severe to ignore.

Dorian, oblivious to the exchange, continued his work, his movements gradually becoming smoother under my guidance. Despite the grim circumstances, a small part of me felt a flicker of hope. We were making it through the day, blending into the castle’s backdrop as just another set of nameless servants. For now, that was enough.

The sun had climbed higher in the sky, its light streaming through the windows in warm golden beams as the three of us worked our way toward finishing the stretch of floor we’d been assigned—or, more accurately, had assigned ourselves. My hands were sore from the scrubbing, my knees aching from hours spent on the hard stone, but I ignored the discomfort. The promise of lunch dangled before us like a carrot on a stick, but there was one last matter to address.

As we gathered our supplies to head back to the cleaning closet, I leaned closer to Clara, keeping my voice low so Dorian wouldn’t overhear. “Did you...?” I asked, my words trailing off pointedly.

Her face flushed, her brows knitting together in a mix of irritation and embarrassment. She gave a short, curt nod. “Yes,” she muttered under her breath, avoiding my gaze as she hefted her bucket. “Are you satisfied? Or do you want to check yourself?”

“I’m just making sure,” I replied, though my cheeks burned just as brightly as hers. “We can’t risk Mistress deciding we’re disobedient. You know what happens then.”

Clara’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue further. We both knew the stakes were too high to let anything slip, no matter how humiliating.

When we reached the cleaning closet, Dorian began to move inside with us, his bucket swinging awkwardly in his grip. I placed a hand on his arm, stopping him before he could step through the doorway.

“Dorian,” I said softly, glancing toward the corridor, “I need you to go ahead to the dining hall. Get lunch and keep your head down. Clara and I will catch up.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Why can’t I just wait here with you?” he asked.

Clara snorted softly, shaking her head. “Trust me,” she said dryly. “You don’t want to meet Mistress.”

His confusion deepened, but he didn’t press further. “Mistress?” he echoed, his voice low but curious. “Who is she?”

“Someone you don’t want to cross,” I said, my tone sharp but not unkind. “Just trust us, Dorian. We’ll handle it.”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking between us before he finally nodded. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice reluctant as he handed over his bucket. “But don’t take too long.”

“We won’t,” Clara assured him, giving him a gentle nudge toward the corridor. “Go on. Act like you belong there, and no one will question you.”

Dorian hesitated for a moment longer, his expression wary, before turning and walking away, his footsteps echoing faintly as he disappeared down the hall. I let out a slow breath, the tension in my chest easing slightly as I turned back to Clara.

“You ready for this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Clara rolled her eyes, though her shoulders stiffened. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, her tone laced with irritation. “Let’s get this over with.”

Together, we carried the buckets into the closet, bracing ourselves for what was sure to be another humiliating encounter with Mistress. If it meant keeping Dorian safe and our cover intact, we would endure it. For now, that was all that mattered.