The Crimson Crown

The rhythmic sound of sponges scraping against stone filled the corridor as the three of us worked. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting long, diagonal shadows across the floor. My knees ached, my arms were sore, and the weight of the rebellion looming in my mind made every movement feel heavier.

The telltale ache in my bladder had been building steadily, and I sighed, trying to focus on my scrubbing. I shifted slightly, the pressure mounting until I finally let out a quiet, resigned breath. Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I allowed myself to relax, the warmth spreading through my diaper as the tension in my body eased.

It was humiliating, of course—the soft swelling between my legs, the quiet crinkle that seemed deafening in my ears. But after days of enduring Mistress’s inspections and the strange normalcy of this routine, the relief far outweighed the shame. I kept my head down, scrubbing diligently as if nothing had happened.

Next to me, Clara let out a soft sigh, her posture relaxing as well. She didn’t say anything, but the faint flush on her cheeks and the subtle shift in her position told me everything I needed to know. Despite her stoic front, she, too, was learning to endure.

Dorian, on the other hand, could have adapted better.

I glanced over at him as he scrubbed, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His shoulders were tense; his brow furrowed deeply as he shifted uncomfortably. I could see the tightness in his jaw, the faint tremble in his hands as he struggled against the inevitable.

“Dara,” Clara said softly, not looking up from her work. “Stop fighting it. You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

“I’m not doing it,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low but filled with defiance. “I refuse.”

Clara finally paused, sitting back on her heels and fixing him with a pointed look. “And what’s your plan, then?” she asked, her tone edged with exasperation. “Hold it forever? Because I hate to break it to you, but Mistress will find out. And when she does, it won’t just be you she punishes.”

Dorian’s eyes flicked to mine, and I could see the desperation behind his indignation. I offered him a small, understanding smile. “She’s right,” I said gently. “You don’t have to like it, but... it’s better this way. Trust me.”

His face flushed deeply, and he muttered something under his breath that I didn’t catch. For a few more moments, he continued scrubbing, his movements growing more strained as he fought against the inevitable. But then, with a soft, defeated sigh, he froze.

I looked away, giving him a semblance of privacy as he finally gave in. The tension in his posture melted away, replaced by a rigid stillness as he soaked his diaper. His cheeks burned crimson, and he avoided our gazes as he resumed scrubbing, his movements mechanical and tight.

Clara didn’t say anything, though I caught the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth. For my part, I felt a strange mixture of sympathy and irony. The proud prince who had once coaxed me into diapers now found himself in the very same position, fighting a battle he couldn’t win.

As the minutes stretched on, the tension between us eased, the focus returning to our work. The rebellion was still at the forefront of my mind, but for now, we scrubbed in relative silence, the unspoken understanding between us growing stronger with each passing moment.

The sound of our sponges scraping against the stone echoed faintly through the corridor, broken only by the occasional shuffle of feet or soft sigh of exertion. We had settled into a rhythm, the monotony of our work blending with the quiet tension of the day. But as the silence stretched on, I found myself glancing over at Clara, curiosity gnawing at me.

We’d spent days together—scrubbing floors, sharing meals, enduring Mistress’s punishments—and yet, I realized how little I actually knew about her. She had become a constant presence, a steadying force in this strange, humiliating existence, but her past was a mystery.

“Clara,” I said softly, breaking the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

She glanced up from her work, raising an eyebrow. “You can ask,” she said, her tone cautious but not unkind.

“What was your life like before this?” I asked, gesturing vaguely to the corridor around us. “Before the castle, before... all of this.”

Clara paused, her sponge stilling against the floor as she sat back on her heels. For a moment, her expression was unreadable, her gaze distant as if she were weighing how much to share. Then, with a faint sigh, she leaned against the bucket, her hands resting in her lap.

“I grew up in a small village,” she began, her voice quiet but steady. “We weren’t wealthy, but we got by. My parents were farmers, and I was the eldest of four. Most of my childhood was spent helping in the fields, looking after my siblings, doing whatever needed to be done to keep the family afloat.”

She paused, her fingers idly tracing the rim of the bucket. “When I was sixteen, there was a bad harvest. Crops failed, livestock died... it was hard. My family struggled to make ends meet, and my parents started looking for ways to bring in more income. That’s when the castle came into the picture.”

Dorian and I exchanged a glance but stayed silent, letting her continue.

“They needed servants here,” Clara said, her tone growing more bitter. “And my parents saw it as an opportunity. A way to provide for the family. So, I came here. At first, it wasn’t so bad. The work was hard, but it was honest. I earned enough to send money back home, and for a while, that was enough.”

Her gaze darkened, and she looked down at her hands. “But then the war came. The castle changed. Everything changed. The work became grueling, the punishments harsher. And when Thryne took over...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Well, you’ve seen it for yourselves.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling heavily in my chest. “Do you still hear from your family?” I asked hesitantly.

Clara shook her head. “Not for a long time,” she admitted, her voice tinged with sorrow. “When Thryne’s forces came through, they destroyed everything in their path. My village was right in the way. I don’t know if my family survived or...”

She didn’t finish the sentence, her shoulders slumping slightly as she picked up her sponge again. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, her tone firm but hollow. “All that matters now is getting through each day.”

“It does matter,” I said softly, leaning closer. “You matter, Clara. Your story, your family—they matter.”

She glanced at me, her expression softening slightly. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Dorian, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat. “Clara,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “When we get the kingdom back, when we rebuild... you’ll have a place in it. You’ll have a future.”

Clara’s lips twitched into a faint, bittersweet smile. “Let’s just focus on surviving today,” she said. “One thing at a time.”

The conversation faded as we returned to our work, the silence now tinged with a deeper understanding. But, something else bugged me, a question that had been lingering at the back of my mind although never voiced.

“Clara,” I said softly, not wanting to intrude but feeling the need to speak. “Why did you help me? From the moment we met, you didn’t have to... you could have ignored me, kept to yourself. But you didn’t. Why?”

Clara’s hand paused mid-swipe, her head tilting slightly as if considering my question. She sat back on her heels, letting out a quiet sigh. “You remind me of someone,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone I cared about a lot.”

Dorian and I exchanged a glance but stayed silent, waiting for her to continue. She didn’t look at us, her gaze fixed on the bucket as if it held the answers to questions she hadn’t yet asked.

“Her name was Emmeline,” Clara said after a moment. “She was... my younger sister. We were close despite the age difference. She was bright, full of life, always dreaming of something bigger than our little village. She wanted to see the world, to make a difference.”

Clara’s voice softened, tinged with both fondness and sorrow. “But she was fragile. Always catching colds, always sickly. Our parents were too busy with the farm to give her the attention she needed, so I stepped in. I looked after her, cared for her, did everything I could to make her feel loved.”

Her hands tightened into fists, her knuckles whitening as her voice grew heavier. “When the famine came, Emmeline took it the hardest. She was already weak, and the lack of food... was too much for her. I did everything I could, but it wasn’t enough. She...” Clara’s voice broke, and she swallowed hard, her shoulders trembling. “She died in my arms.”

I felt my chest tighten, my heart breaking for her. “Clara,” I whispered, reaching out to place a hand on her arm.

She shook her head, blinking back tears as she looked up at me. “You remind me of her,” she said, her voice steady but laced with emotion. “Not because you’re fragile or weak, but because you have that same light in you. That same hope, even in the worst circumstances. I saw it the moment I met you, and I knew... I couldn’t let it fade. Not again.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. I didn’t know what to say, but the weight of her confession filled me with both gratitude and resolve. She had lost so much and endured so much, and yet she still found the strength to help me, to guide me, to believe in something bigger than herself.

“Clara,” I said softly, my voice trembling with emotion. “Thank you. For everything.”

She gave me a faint, bittersweet smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Don’t thank me yet,” she said, her tone lighter but still tinged with sadness. “We’ve got a long way to go.”

The three of us returned to our work, but the atmosphere had shifted. Clara’s story lingered in my mind, a reminder of the pain she carried and the strength she found in spite of it. Her unwavering support wasn’t just for me—it was for Emmeline, for the hope she had lost and the chance to help someone else hold onto theirs.

As the rhythmic motion of scrubbing filled the air, Clara’s story lingered in my mind like an unshakable shadow. Emmeline. Her name echoed in my thoughts, a haunting reminder of all Clara had lost and endured. The depth of her pain was unimaginable, yet here she was, strong and steadfast, guiding me through this impossible journey.

I stole a glance at Clara, her face calm but focused as she worked. It was as if she’d buried the weight of her sorrow, channeling it into the care and determination she showed for me. For us. I bit my lip, my heart aching with gratitude and guilt. She had given so much and sacrificed a lot. And what had I done for her in return?

I paused, sitting back on my heels as the resolve within me solidified. I couldn’t undo Clara’s pain or bring back her sister. But I could promise her something—something real, something that would endure.

“Clara,” I said softly, my voice breaking the quiet.

She glanced up, her brow furrowing slightly. “What?”

I hesitated, gathering my thoughts before meeting her gaze. “When we get the kingdom back—when, not if—I promise you, I’ll make sure you’re cared for. Just like you’ve cared for me.”

Clara blinked, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and skepticism. “Liliana, that’s... sweet, but—”

“No,” I interrupted, my voice firmer than I’d intended. “This isn’t just words, Clara. I mean it. You’ve been there for me when I didn’t even know how to stand on my own. You’ve guided me, protected me, and supported me through things I didn’t think I could survive. You’ve sacrificed so much, and I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

Her eyes softened, and she looked away, her fingers tightening around the handle of her sponge. “I’m just doing what needs to be done,” she said quietly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you everything,” I countered, my voice trembling with emotion. “And when this is over, when the Winds bless us, and we take back the kingdom, I’ll make sure you never have to feel that kind of loss again. I swear it.”

Clara was silent for a moment, her shoulders tensing slightly before she let out a soft sigh. “You’re a stubborn one, you know that?” she said, her tone lighter but still carrying a hint of sadness.

I smiled faintly. “I’ve been told that before.”

She glanced at me, her lips twitching into a small, reluctant smile. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t make promises you can’t keep, Your Grace.”

“I don’t intend to,” I said, my voice steady with conviction.

We returned to our work, the silence between us now warm and filled with unspoken understanding. My mind still swirled with thoughts of Emmeline and Clara’s loss, but it only strengthened my resolve. Clara had given me so much, more than I could ever truly repay. But I would try. I would give her a future worth fighting for, a life free from the shadows of the past.

The hall was finally finished hours later; every stone was scrubbed clean until it gleamed faintly in the dim torchlight. My arms hung limp at my sides, the muscles burning from hours of repetitive motion. My back ached, my legs felt like lead, and every movement sent a dull throb through my body. Clara groaned softly as she pushed herself upright, her face tight with exhaustion, while Dara stretched, wincing as he rubbed his lower back.

“Finally,” Clara muttered, her voice laced with relief and weariness.

I nodded, forcing myself to stand despite the protests of my aching legs. The three of us gathered our buckets and sponges, the simple task feeling monumental after a day that had stretched endlessly. We moved in silence, the weight of fatigue pressing down on us as we shuffled back to the cleaning closet.

The familiar room greeted us with its dim, cramped space and the faint smell of soap. We placed our buckets and sponges back in their spots, the small clatter echoing in the quiet. I glanced at Clara, her face pale but determined, and then at Dara, who avoided meeting my eyes as he fidgeted with his apron.

“We’re not done yet,” Clara said, her voice firm despite the exhaustion etched into every syllable. “Mistress will be expecting us.”

The mention of Mistress sent a fresh wave of dread washing over me, but I nodded. There was no avoiding it—inspection was as much a part of our routine as scrubbing floors and enduring the crinkle of our diapers. Together, we left the closet, the oppressive silence of the castle wrapping around us as we made our way to Mistress’s office.

Her door loomed ahead, and my stomach twisted into knots as Clara knocked lightly before pushing it open. Mistress sat at her desk, her piercing eyes immediately snapping at us as we entered. A slow, cruel smile spread across her lips as she stood, motioning for us to step forward.

“Well,” she drawled, her voice dripping with condescension. “Let’s see how my little helpers have fared today.”

We lined up in front of her, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure she could hear it. Clara was the first to step forward, standing stiffly as Mistress approached. With a practiced hand, Mistress lifted Clara’s dress, her fingers deftly checking the front and back of her diaper.

“Good,” Mistress said with a mocking smile. “Obedient, as always.”

Clara stepped back, her face carefully blank, though I could see the faint tremble in her hands. Mistress turned to me next, her sharp eyes scanning me with predatory amusement. I held my breath as she lifted my dress, her hands moving methodically as she inspected my diaper.

“Still following instructions,” she said with a smirk. “How delightful.”

Finally, Mistress’s gaze landed on Dara, and I saw his shoulders stiffen, his hands clenching at his sides. Mistress’s smile widened as she approached him, clearly enjoying his discomfort. She lifted his dress with deliberate slowness, her hands lingering as she checked his diaper.

“Well, well,” she purred, her tone dripping with mockery. “It seems even my newest charge is learning to comply. Good. Very good.”

Dara’s face burned crimson, his jaw tightening as he stared fixedly at the floor. Mistress stepped back, her gaze sweeping over the three of us with smug satisfaction.

“You’ve done well today,” she said, her voice lilting with mock praise. “But don’t let it go to your heads. There’s always room for improvement, and I expect perfection from my little helpers.”

With a dismissive wave, she motioned toward the door. “You may go. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

We left the office in silence, the tension between us palpable as we walked down the corridor. My cheeks burned, my muscles ached, and the weight of Mistress’s control pressed heavily on my mind. But even in the midst of my humiliation, a spark of defiance lingered.

Tomorrow would come, and with it, another day of struggle. But we were more than just servants, more than pawns in Mistress’s game. We were the future of the Four Winds, and no matter how long it took, we would reclaim our kingdom.