The petulant princess, p.1
The Petulant Princess, page 1
The Petulant Princess
M. A. Frick
Copyright © 2024 by M.A. Frick
First Printing
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact mafrick.author@gmail.com.
Without in any way limiting the author's exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to "train" generative artificial intelligence technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited.
Cover art by Zhandre Dex G. (MC Damon)
Chapter headers by Canva.com
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Also by M.A. Frick
The Fate Unraveled Trilogy
Forcing Fate
Following Fate
Fulfilling Fate
Contents
Content Warnings
Dedication
1. Prologue
2. Chapter 1
3. Chapter 2
4. Chapter 3
5. Chapter 4
6. Chapter 5
7. Chapter 6
8. Chapter 7
9. Chapter 8
10. Chapter 9
11. Chapter 10
12. Chapter 11
13. Chapter 12
14. Chapter 13
15. Chapter 14
16. Chapter 15
17. Chapter 16
18. Chapter 17
19. Chapter 18
20. Chapter 19
21. Chapter 20
22. Chapter 21
23. Chapter 22
24. Chapter 23
25. Chapter 24
26. Chapter 25
27. Chapter 26
28. Chapter 27
29. Chapter 28
30. Chapter 29
31. Chapter 30
32. Chapter 31
33. Chapter 32
Epilogue
M.A. Frick
Thank-you!
But Dragons?
Content Warnings
As always, I listen to my readers. They have asked that I provide a trigger warning due to the contents of this book.
CONTENT WARNING:
Themes of SA are explored in this book. They are directed at a side character and happen off page, however that character relives the scene in dialogue. Please contact me at mafrick.author@gmail.com for more context.
To all the girls who never wanted to be the princess.
Prologue
In my mind, Sainte Nytestorm stood out among everyone else. In the midst of my world’s darkness, he shone like the brightest star. His constant proximity, his mere presence, was a soothing balm to my childhood wounds. It was he who saved me, rescued me from a sure death at the hands of my mad brother, Prince Regent of Wynterborne.
That night, the chill in the air had nothing to do with the foul weather and everything to do with my brother’s resentment. At six years old, I was bereft of my mother, who died giving birth to me, and my father, who succumbed to Winter’s Bite not two days prior.
I recalled the chilling sensation of pressing myself into the corner, seeking solace against the unyielding, icy stone wall. All I had for warmth and concealment was a thin tapestry, barely enough to shield me from the passing soldiers. Shouts rang out for me, harsh and demanding, chased by my brother’s hysterical laughter, echoing down the frigid corridors. Confused and scared, hopeless and cold, I hid, not knowing where to go or who to run to.
My brother was so much bigger, and my father was no longer there to protect me from his unpredictable bouts of violence and rage. Throughout my youth, Adastrus incessantly boasted of his impending kingship, and our father deflected his claims by reminding him of my potential to ascend the throne. However, with his demise, this only painted a target on my back. So I huddled behind the thick brocade, relying on its meager protection from my brother and the soldiers under his command.
Then Sainte found me.
Compared to my slight frame, he was a giant. He towered over, lifting the tapestry while I gripped the fabric with my tiny fists, as if it was my sole anchor to safety. He didn’t smile, didn’t offer words of comfort. In fact, I couldn’t recall a single moment he held my hand or coddled me as a child. It wasn’t in his nature.
I could still taste that surge of terror as he stooped low, then hoisted me over his broad, mail-plated shoulder. His pauldron dug into my abdomen with every jarring step as he rushed us out of the castle. Despite the pain, I was too terrified to emit anything more than a whimper.
The outside air of Wynterborne was no more friendly than inside. Bitter wind whipped and slashed, blowing up great gusts of snow. The blizzard was in full force, and few dared to brave the Howls of winter. This contributed to Sainte’s success of wrapping me in a blanket and placing me on his horse unseen. The discomfort of sharing a saddle seeped through every tense muscle in my body with each jolt and turn. A frigid sting scraped against my throat as winter threatened to inflict its bite upon me, as it had my late father. I stifled my cries, and Sainte did his best to care for a child on the cold, lonely road.
Together, a young girl and a soldier, we survived. He led us south toward the warmer nation of Gladier. Then, with greater determination, pushed through to the warm coastal nation of Tilamuik, and into the Meeds, where I found my home.
He left me with a household of seven children, making me the tenth member of their family. I don’t remember his departure, only waking to find he was no longer there.
On my eleventh birthday, I fought with Kelsie, the mother who took me in. If memory serves, it was an argument concerning whether or not I would eat the boiled squid—which, to this day, I still refuse. I stormed out of the house in tears, not only because she shouted at me, but because the rest of the children laughed at my refusal. To them, it was as normal as porridge, but to me it was as foreign as… well, squid.
The rickety shack bore no yard. It was crammed with multiple homes along a narrow, dirty alley. I sought solace beneath the decrepit branches of a stunted tree and sobbed. I cried for the familiar foods of my homeland, for the loss and abandonment that wreaked havoc on my heart. Alone. Truly alone.
“Ghehent, Elspeth.”
Even if he spoke in the native tongue of Muik, I would have still recognized that voice. I blinked away my tears and swiped at my wet cheeks as I squinted into the southern coast’s perpetually bright sky.
“Sainte?”
In answer, a shadow blocked out the sun, shielding my small stature. His broad frame loomed overhead, sword at his hip, battle ax strapped to his back. Still, I knew in my bones I had nothing to fear from this man.
“Why are you here? Alone?” He spoke in High Wynter, the language used in Wynterborne Castle, yet not a soul that shuffled through the alley paused to take note.
The passing years softened the edge of his gruff, curt voice. It wasn’t unusual for him to check in on Kelsie and I. Though now he took time to speak with me, ask after me with a gentleness I was unaccustomed to. I shrugged and stood, dusting off my torn, tattered dress that frayed at the seams. My stare focused on the dirty cobblestones beneath my feet, unable to meet his cool blue gaze as I formed my lie.
“It’s dinner time,” I said in Common Muik. “I’m not hungry.”
It felt like a betrayal to lie to him, as if I let him down by refusing to eat what the family provided while so many others went hungry.
“Some sweets then?” His voice caught on the last syllable as he still used High Wynter.
With a strange blend of shyness and joy, I smiled up at him, reveling in the fact that he hadn’t forgotten me or my birthday.
At the markets, we splurged on treats, spending far too much coin. When we settled on the soft, hot sand at the beach to dig in, the little girl and big soldier didn’t draw a second glance from the bustling crowd.
That was the first day I realized I had a crush on my savior.
It worsened every year he visited.
And so did I.
I rebelled against the household, shirking my duties, refusing to help where I was needed. My temperament grew loud and obnoxious, disrespectful and entitled. Heated disputes led to raised voices and harsh insults until I stormed off to the beach to cool down. Every passing day strengthened my awareness—I didn’t belong here. Sainte paid the family handsomely for my care, so much that they refused to abandon me regardless of how poorly I treated them, and I tested this theory often.
On my sixteenth birthday, my world came crashing down.
Over the last three years, he pinpointed me no matter my whereabouts in the city. It became a game of sorts, to have him seek me out. I ventured into the slums, where—considering the vileness of the upscale parts of Landing’s End—the worst of creation found themselves. With my hood up, hands shoved into the pockets of my torn trousers, and knives secured in my boots and tucked up against my navel, I shuffled through the riffraff, waiting for a familiar voice to surprise me in my native tongue.
I wandered there for the better part of the day, and as the sun crept toward the sea, the stone in my gut grew heavier. My heart longed for Sainte’s comforting presence, his silent solidarity of my id entity. He knew who I was. Irritability tiptoed in, and sour thoughts darkened my mind. Did he care? Was he worried? Had he forgotten about me? Had he spent all those years feeding a child’s dream, only to bring it all down with a laugh at the expense of a trusting young girl?
I ripped through the slums, heading to the beach with a rush of curses under my breath. I, the princess without a castle, dreamt that my knight cared enough to visit me once a year. Wynterborne required weeks of travel. Apparently, I wasn’t worth the effort.
“Oi, wench!”
I grumbled and ignored the comment, thinking it was aimed at someone else. Clad in my ‘sibling’s’ trousers, I could pass for a boy at a glance, but closer inspection would reveal my budding femininity.
A hand landed on my shoulder and jerked me around. I slapped it off as my heart took off racing. I’d been in street fights before, but none with—I raced to count—eight boys behind the leader.
The one who touched me sneered. “Ha! Told you it was a girl!”
He bore the classic slum traits: clothes too big for his frame and teeth that seemed as if a bright new apple might rip half of them out. His disheveled, matted hair hadn’t been attended to in years, and a thick layer of sweat and dirt smudged the smelly scumbag’s skin from head to toe.
“What of it?” I lifted my chin with a taunting leer. A quick glance behind showed at least three more figures blocked any escape.
He retrieved a rusty knife with jagged chips along its blade and pretended to pick dirt out from under his fingernails. “If you’re down here, sweets, you must be looking for a good time.”
“Looking for the exit,” I grumbled, and shifted my feet to put my back against the brick wall.
“Well, I’m sure we could help with that, for a modest fee, of course.”
He cocked his head to admire his dirt-caked nails, then peered up with hooded eyes. The whites were yellow from malnutrition or the spirits he drank. Either way, dread slid down my spine. I shrugged, then pulled my coin purse out of my trousers and tossed it.
He caught it with quick, nimble hands—at odds with his sickly thin frame. “Oh, that will help too.” He waved the crusty knife back and forth in a mocking manner, as if daring me to challenge him. “Sweet lass, I won’t need this, right?”
My teeth ground together as he bent to secure his blade in his threadbare boot.
As soon as he lowered, a cascade of black armor plummeted from the rooftop and crashed onto his back. His frail figure crumpled under the weight of the newcomer, and my heart took off like a startled rabbit. A giddy smile lifted my cheeks as the men beyond shuffled with frantic nerves, drawing their feeble weapons.
Sainte straightened and adjusted his grip on his battle ax. “Killip Gheten.”
Happy Birthday.
I beamed like a fool, lounging against the wall as he made quick work of those who dared try his talent with a blade. After he dispatched two thugs with ease, the rest stampeded away.
“I knew you would find me,” I said.
My cheeks ached from the strength of my grin as he knelt to wipe his ax on a dirty cloak. The gore and loss of life were hardly worth considering. It came with existing in Landing’s End. I crossed my arms and propped against the grimy wall, trying to appear more confident than I was.
Sainte grunted as he rose to study me. “Always.”
My face warmed and tingled as his gaze tracked every inch, from my worn boots up to my orange hair. The strange hue came from attempting to lighten my sable locks with a potion I bought from a port witch. She warned me my heritage would not be hidden so easily. My head resembled a botched painting, an unnatural clash of bluish-black roots and carrot-colored strands that made it hard to look at without cringing.
“You’ve grown.” Always High Wynter—it never faltered. He understood Common Muik, but never used it. He was far too proper for that.
“I have.” I shoved off the wall and closed the gap between us in two swift strides.
As I gazed up at him, he pulled back to keep a distance between our faces, confusion swirling in his sky-colored eyes. With a sly grin and wink, I spun on my heel and started for the beach. I tried my best to saunter as I’d seen women in the lewd district do and heard him cough and clear his throat behind me. I held in my giggle and headed toward my favorite hideout.
He arrived a moment after I settled my bare toes in the tidepool. I stared out over the ocean, hood down, soaking up the sun’s hot rays. It was a secluded area, framed in by coarse gray rock, facing the sea. I came here to listen to the waves as I worked out my anger and hurt. The little creatures in the pool didn’t mind my curses as much as Kelsie did.
My eyes fluttered shut as my head fell back, embracing the heat warming my face. With no need to look, I heard him nudge my boots aside, then settle next to me. When he didn’t speak, I cracked open one eye. A scowl weighed his rugged features, his dark brows scrunched together in thought as he peered over the green-blue water. It was suspiciously calm today. I took in his broad crooked nose, his long, thick lashes that could make any tavern wench jealous, and his thin lips set above a cleft chin.
Something in me liked this perplexed version of my soldier—confused and uneasy. I held a fair amount of confidence that I was the only soul that could make him so unsure of himself. When his frown settled on me, I grinned, holding his gaze as it danced across my face.
“Must be hot in all that armor,” I teased.
Aside from the night he rescued me, he donned that same hard-boiled leather armor. I assumed it was lighter for the trek through nations to see me.
I received a grunt in response.
“Did you bring me a present?” I straightened, scooting close enough that my knee brushed against his thigh.
He stared at the contact as if I would spread a disease through our trousers.
“Yen,” he murmured in the affirmative and reached into a large pouch at his side. He used the movement as an excuse to create space, and when he angled toward the sea again, he resettled with a gap between us.
He held a delicate wooden snowflake adorned with the whitest yarn I’d ever encountered. In the sunlight, its brilliance was almost blinding, forcing me to squint as I examined its intricate design. As I accepted it from his palm, I marveled at its unmatched softness, unlike anything I touched before. There wasn’t much about Landing’s End that was soft. This was a treasure.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, rubbing the threads.
“Perhaps you have outgrown the toys I bring.” He winced, as if mentally berating himself.
I laughed, spinning the snowflake at the center of my palm. “Never.”
“Remember your homeland.” His words quieted as he gave my orange hair a gentle tug.
I recognized his good intentions, but I didn’t want to think about that. His potential disapproval of my hair and my rejection of my heritage was a topic I’d rather avoid. Gods above knew I endured enough criticism from the witch when I bought the potion.
“I remember you,” I said, a bit more forcefully than I should have. “You’re the one who cares. I don’t see anyone else remembering my birthdays or bringing me tiny treasures.”
A muscle in his jaw feathered as his attention returned to the ocean. “No one?” he asked. “No boy?”
A rough edge tinged his words with an emotion I didn’t understand. I threw my head back and laughed up at the sun. I mentally praised every god that I knew, reveling in this feeling. He was asking if I had a crush. I could pretend to interpret his tone as jealousy, rather than concern for a princess separated from her kingdom, but it didn’t matter to me either way.
With an open smile, I shook my head and let my gaze linger on his lips. “No one, Sainte. No one but you.”
My response seemed to scare him more than the prospect of another boy doting on me. I basked in the warmth of his genuine care and concern.
When we headed home to Kelsie, we stopped by a street vendor to grab hot food and sweets. I found every excuse I could to touch him—playful shoves, bumping my hip into his as we walked. A wrinkle of confusion embedded between his brows, and I loved it. I don’t know which was more intoxicating, being free with a man I liked, or his glances of pure bewilderment, as if I was a strange creature he never crossed paths with before.
