Life in the Palace of Khore is not, as they say, 'all it is cracked up to be.'

I find myself frequently unoccupied, roaming its endless corridors without purpose, my skirts whispering along the elegant marbled flooring. It is during these moments I feel the most alone, like an antique doll resting on the highest ledge of an equally ancient bookshelf. Pretty to look at, yes, but utterly useless.

It continues to baffle me that my widowed father only requires the aid of my brother to operate this kingdom. I pretend that it doesn't bother me that my lowly position as princess in no way warrants any semblance of respect. But, of course, it does. Because as my father hastens to remind me, I'm but a spoiled child who whines her way into people's hearts, and I am in no hurry to affirm his judgments.

I concentrate on my strut, the well practiced placement of my feet, which are comfortably fastened inside a pair of tall, leather riding boots. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. With each step, the front of my lightweight fabrics pillows outward. I'm wearing a simplistic off-white riding dress, complete with fitted bodice and emerald overcoat lined in gold foil. It's casual, and thoroughly inappropriate for an encounter with any member of the Court, but I'm not concerned with this considering my immense irrelevance anyways.

Tall windows, stained in every color imaginable, send filtered light dancing across the hall. My eyes trace the familiar artistries, taking in their grandeur. I silently thank the heavens that I don't find myself anywhere near the royal quarters today, as this would force me to gaze at stained glass family portraits, which would only exacerbate my gloom.

My fingers curl around the strap of my cross-body bag and pull it tighter around me. Inside are small riding necessities, primarily small parcels of food. The rest of the tack I need will be stored in the stables, surely.

I found a corner and push through an unimpressive wooden door built into the wall. Immediately, I am showered with glorious rays of sunshine, dappled by the partial cover of cherry branches above. Winter is fast approaching, so the delicate petals that typically embellish these trees are gone, save for the few that remain scattered across the floor of the courtyard. These remnants are squashed in places, littering the edges of the walkway from having been stepped on so often.

If I had any influence whatsoever, I might ask a groundskeeper to dispose of them.

Although the rays of the sun are warm against my fair skin, I'm bitten by chill to the core. I shiver, my fingers flexing against the urge to hug myself childishly.

As I traverse the clearing, which is surrounded by well-kept hedges, two figures surface in my vision. Just ahead, somewhat obscured by a decades-old Gothic gazebo. They exchange hurried whispers, as if this is a private meeting place and not a highly accessible palace facility.

I inch forward, leaning against the trunk of a cherry tree, my fingers toying with its bark as I listen. With a start, I recognize the voices as Vincent and my father, King Cyrus, himself. They're arguing.

"No. You can't do that." This is Vincent. His voice is tinged with righteous fury.

"Educate me, son," Father growls, "as to where you acquired the nerve to speak to your King with such abandon."

"You know as well as I that what you're doing is wrong. Inexcusable. If you think for a second—"

"Tread carefully, boy." My father's voice rises in volume with each hateful syllable. "You continue to remind me of why I am doing this in the first place. You are decidedly incapable of ruling in my absence, and your granted abilities are entirely unimportant."

"Let us not forget, Father," Vincent's voice trembles in response, "Which of us is responsible for that."

A deadly silence follows this comment. It doesn't take much context for me to understand exactly what my family is talking about.

"Let us not forget that I am your King!" My father's booming shout is so immense that robins flutter from the skyward branches above me. This does not distract him, though. "I am your King, and I am hers. My jurisdiction knows no bounds. This is not a discussion."

When Vincent pauses, my arrhythmic heart threatens to escape my chest and take my lungs with it, because I can't see any way in which he makes it out of this encounter alive.

Eventually, though, he takes an audible breath and regains his footing. "As much as she is your subject, she is my sister, and I will not stand idly by as she is violated once again by the man who declares himself her king."

My lips part, allowing a gasp to slip through them. It must be very quiet out here, because despite the roaring in my ears, both my father and Vincent snap their heads in my direction. I gather my white skirt hastily and press myself against the tree. After a few moments pass and I haven't been apprehended, I return to my original position.

"Leave me," says the King. His voice is raw and weak, no doubt under strain from his cataclysmic shouting.

Vincent doesn't respond, only brushes past our father briskly. Hugging the tree trunk, I allow my eyes to wander to my brother. His fingers are twitching, fidgeting with the hems of his clothing as he strides towards the castle. As he passes by me, he falters for a moment - as if sensing my presence - before continuing on with a firm jaw.

[--->*<---]

True to character, I don't let this oddity deter me from my regular equestrian duties.

Heels clicking against the polished stone floors of the stables, I make my way to the shed near the back. Although, it's a bit unfair to call this structure a shack, consider the building is framed with beautifully weathered bricks and stone arches.

I push through the door, welcoming the familiar scent of must and sweat. To anyone else, this medley might present as disgusting. To me, it's an eternal glimpse of childhood. Of happier times.

Besides, I'm virtually the only person who regularly visits this sector of the castle grounds. It's my understanding that we have a few stable hands who occasionally tend to the horses, but they aren't paid enough to do much else. Which is fine by me, because I enjoy the responsibility. It's a pleasant distraction.

I waste no time in collecting my usual saddle, girth, nan's bridle. I shove the former over my shoulder with a grunt, readjusting my posture to account for the weight. On my way back out the door, I tuck a turquoise saddle pad under my elbow.

It seems the stablehands have been hard at work in terms of grooming, because although most of our horses are absent from their stalls, the ones that are here are visibly cleaner. Their manes and tails are free of knots, and the dirt that usually coats the areas around their hooves has been washed away. The only steed that hasn't been tended to is mine, Nimbus.

His black coat is still ruffled, and pink sand clings to his mane. The groomers obliged not to care for him today, per my request. Or maybe they didn't care at all that I had asked this of them, as the severely underpaid are quick to overlook a job. I don't blame them.

I assemble Nimbus' attire, as I do daily, and mount myself upon his back. He flicks his tail in greeting, always the silent steed.

We trot down the cobblestone path, towards the South entrance, Nimbus sidestepping eager little plants reaching for his hooves. Like any other day, I've come for an escape from castle life, but today there's a bit more on my mind.

I nod firmly at the guard stationed at the South Gate. His eyes flick to mine for a moment, but he offers me no other acknowledgment. I scoff, gesturing rudely at him once he's behind me, and then back to the landscape ahead. The morning sun rests lazily on the horizon, cradled by the distant mountains.

It's supposed to be pretty, but all it does is remind me that today is a new day, full of as much suffering as the last.

Once I am confident that I have put enough distance between the guard and I, I pull back on Nimbus' reigns to encourage him to pivot. Kicking my heels into his flanks, we gallop towards the East.

I have business in Mooreville, despite the fact my father would murder me if he knew.