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The eve of Frabjous Day was still young when Ilosovic Stayne, Knight of the Red Queen Iracebeth, stormed Marmoreal. All day long and across all of Crims, he rode hard without stop. Over woods and plains and deserts, through bogs and swamps, his horse panted and frothed at the mouth with the rapid pace its master set. A legion of blood-red knights marched behind him, and all eyes were fixed upon the White Castle that lay away to the south. An orange sun was steadily setting in the west of Witzend, marking the near end of the prophecy. Stayne grinned wide, snapping the reins. Mirana’s champion had not come, the Jabberwock of legend left unslain, and so, the White Queen had lost.
Poor thing, she’ll have no one left to turn to now.
He could hardly contain his excitement.The castle was finally besieged at nightfall, ran through by a sea of red, and while the white knights put up a valiant effort at pushing the invaders back, in the end they were no match for the might of Iracebeth’s forces. The Knave could almost admire their courage, had they not chosen the losing side. Stayne cut through the fray like a black blade, breaching the grand azure doors of Marmoreal his singular focus. For many long years now, he’d imagined this day, rehearsing every action he would take or omit, down to the words he would speak once he arrived at Mirana’s doorstep.
Mirana, you’re finished. Mirana, it’s over. Mirana, you’re mine.
It all came down to this moment; nothing else mattered. Underland could burn to ash around him for all he cared, so long as the path ahead lay untouched, solely his to take.With each marble step he ascended, his heart pounded in his head, his blood racing with liquid heat as his black cape whipped violently in the breeze behind him.His mind swarmed with all the ways he would make the White Queen come to heel, how he would drag her away from her throne screaming, snatch her by the silken white strands of her hair, mount her atop his horse, then ride off into the night back to the dungeons of Salazen Grum. His arms seizing her and crushing her delicate body against him as she squirmed atop his steed—He came to the throne room huffing like a beast, his hands screaming to get ahold of the former ruler of Marmoreal and secure his victory. Expecting to find Mirana a mess of tears and fright after the siege, perhaps splayed across her alabaster floors in a fit of sorrow, the Knave was struck dumb to find her seated upon her throne. The Queen was as tall and proud as she always was, and he could imagine her seated just like this every day since the reign of Iracebeth began. It appeared, the day of her defeat was to be no exception. And she was beautiful. Oh, so beautiful. His knees nearly buckled then and there. Across the room, Mirana looked upon him expectantly. Her dark eyes met his, and her full plum-stained lips twisted with a melancholy smile. One he knew well, one that was burned in his mind forever. “Hello Jack,” she said in that sweet sweet voice of hers. He hadn’t heard it in far too long. “I’ve been expecting you.” If not for the cluster of Iracebeth’s knights that flocked to the throne and shackled her in irons, Stayne would’ve done something entirely unbefitting of Salazen Grum’s second in command. He would’ve sank to his knees and bowed. 🌹🌹🌹
Before he was The Knave, he was the gardener.
Bush trimmer, really. His job was to cut the rose bushes in the gardens belonging to King Oleron and the late Queen Elsemere, and to manage the general upkeep of Oleron’s grounds. He loved the work, though he’d never admitted it since being elevated to the position of Red Knight. Never touched a pair of pruning shears either, instead reaching always for the hilt of his sword.
The king had discovered him while taking a carriage ride in the town Stayne grew up, a peasant village bordering the Castle in Witzend, and upon sighting his family home, Oleron demanded to know who was responsible for the beautifully kept lawn out front.
A scanty lawn it was, but Stayne took great pride in its care. Both his parents were dead, but in life, they shared a love for things that grow. They passed that love down to their only son in spades.
So it was that Stayne was offered the job of gardener by a king’s mouth, packed up the few possessions he had and went to live on the palace grounds, nervous as a rabbit caught up in a hole it can’t escape.
Once he arrived, he was struck with awe, for never had he been given such a canvas to work with, to tend. Acres of land sprouting with trees and flowering bushes and shrubs. Leaves and petals of every shape, size, and color.
In the weeks to come, he styled them all with a careful hand, never cutting too deep as to allow the greenery to grow as it might, to give the gardens a wild flourish.
‘Only help them along, son. The greens of the world have been growing a long time.’ His father’s words never left his mind once.
One sunny morning in summer, while kneeling to tend to a bush of near iridescent white roses near the far end of the castle—the color he most favored among roses—Stayne heard the most petulant feminine shriek of his life. It actually gave him a fright. He looked up in alarm, and saw that the king was strolling the palace grounds, each arm linked through the elbow of a young woman, their trio of footsteps crunching in the gravel path that led right up to the rose gardens.
His daughters, Stayne gathered, though he’d never met either one of them. Why would he? He was a peasant.
One of the ladies donned a coif of red curls and stood a foot shorter than the king. By the mottled pink flush spreading across her face, she’d been the one who’d done the shrieking. Stayne winced as he further assessed her. The size of the poor girl’s head should’ve sent her toppling over face-first in the dirt. He was surprised she’d managed to stay upright for so long.
But the other… His breath caught.
The other was crowned with a mane of dazzling white ringlets, her frame tall and lithe as a willow, enhanced by an immensely flattering alabaster gown. The neckline of her dress rested just below her shoulders, the rest of it cascading down her body, pale white and glittering like spider thread. A stark contrast to the red puffball her sister was stuffed in.
Stayne dropped his shears then and there, his jaw slack and mouth hanging open at the mere sight of her.
Mirana daughter of Oleron was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld, and would ever behold until the end of his days. A canvas in and of herself, painted in the fashion of those skilled beyond this world. And at his first sighting of her, she was smiling earnestly at the work of his hands: a holly bush he’d only just trimmed, blooming with greenish-white flowers.
“Oh, how lovely!” she said, cupping a handful of the blooms in her palm with a touch as gentle as a Flutterfly. Her voice was divine.
‘Lovely indeed,’ thought Stayne. Other than that, his mind was gone.
The gardener had all but lost his wits when there again came that bloody awful shriek. Indeed, it was the stumpy little redheaded princess who’d done it. Where her sister’s voice was divine, the red one sounded like a starved baby bird yowling to have its supper.
“Father!” she wailed, stamping her foot in the gravel and glaring at a rosebush as though the thing had just called her a name. “I wanted red roses! Red! These puny little white ones are absolutely hideous! What imbecile thought to plant something so ugly?! I want red!”
The word came out sounding an awful lot like ‘wed’ but Stayne got the message. A spike of fear coiled in his belly. Surely he was to be the one punished for such a transgression. He wished he could disappear and hide behind his bushes forever.
“Oh, Iracebeth,” the king said, rubbing at his wrinkled temples. “Calm yourself. I ordered white roses to be planted in honor of Mirana’s coming of age. You must stop this abhorrent shouting—”
“You!” The princess’s face grew all the redder when she released her wrath upon her sister, pointing an accusatory finger her way and yanking her arm free of the king’s. “Of course, it would be your fault!”
The White Lady stood there demurely, her doe-ish eyes pleading. “Racie, I’m sorry–”
“Sorry? Sorry?! You always get what you want, and I never get anything I want!”
“Iracebeth, that’s enough!” the king boomed.
The girl wasn’t having it. “I hate you! I hate you all!” She turned and ran back along the path the family had come, her crimson gown bobbing the whole way.
Stayne scoffed where he knelt, thinking of what a spoiled rotten little brat he’d just seen, yelling at her father that way, accosting her utterly blameless and enchanting sister–
With a knowing look of apology, the king slipped his arm from his remaining daughter’s and followed after the Red Princess. Mirana was left standing alone.
Mirana. He couldn’t wait to try out her name with his own lips.
Suddenly, the White Princess’s eyes were on his, and she didn’t look away. In fact, she smiled at him.
The gardener may as well have become frozen in a block of ice, for he was stock still as a dazed hare.
“Hello there!” she said, and to his horror, her soft steps took her gracefully to his side. “I don’t believe we’ve met! Are you the one who trimmed all these lovely roses?”
She knelt down beside him before he had the chance to stand up and greet her properly, cupping a rose in her hand the way she’d held the holly flowers, unbothered when her dress picked up a stain of green at the hem.
Gently, she leaned her head down to smell the rose in her palm, her eyes fluttering closed in seeming pleasure.
Long lashes, he thought. Perfect nose—
“They’re beautiful! They look almost wild! Oh, you’ve such a talent! Where did you learn?”
Now Stayne had always been the quiet sort, stuttering when he grew nervous. He was soft-spoken always and painfully shy with strangers, especially among ladies. Especially among the lady who happened to be the most comely thing he’d ever seen—
“Oh I,” he swallowed, his heart in his throat. “No, my lady. Well yes I-I trimmed them, but—”
“I’m bothering you, aren’t I?” Her eyes were on him again, Dark, alluring, captivating, and suddenly sad. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to keep you from your work.”
“N-no, never!” He shook his head adamantly, no doubt turning just as red as the princess Iracebeth. “I mean, you could never bother me. I thank you for your compliments, though I hardly deserve such high praise coming from you, Princess.”
Mirana sighed, shame coloring her iridescent, perfect face.
Oh gods, what had he done?! Said something stupid is what—
“Please, forgive my sister for what she said before. She’s…Well, she’s fighting her own battles.”
“Of course,” blurted Stayne who was in a hurry to compel that horrid shame away, and when Mirana returned to gazing at the delicate petals in her hand, longingly, he said something he never in a million years expected he would say, but the warmth blazing in his heart proved stronger than his wits.
“Would you like to help me, my lady? See how it’s done?”
Her smile would’ve been enough to melt him, had he truly been entrapped in ice. “Of course!”
🤍♠️
“What’s your name?” she asked as they strolled through the gardens together, after he’d finished up his work. She hadn’t quit his company all day.
“Ilosovic Stayne, my lady.” He cringed at the sound. His mother always did have a prideful streak, and if her son wasn’t born into nobility, he’d at least have a name that made him sound like he was. “But my friends call me Jack.”
“Jack.” She nodded. “It suits you. May I call you that?”
“As you wish, my lady.”
“Please, Jack. It’s Mirana.”
He smiled, his heart burning hot in his chest. “As you wish, Mirana.”
The path they took during that summer stroll would be the same one they took every day for a year.
🌹🌹🌹 They threw Mirana in the dungeons of Salazen Grum immediately, and her execution was to be held in three days time. A public beheading, Iracebeth’s favorite spectacle. Stayne paced up and down the corridor leading to the cavernous dungeons below, his boots trampling muck onto the crimson carpets. He didn’t have a care. Now that he had her in his clutches, he didn’t know what to do with her. He’d thought about offing her with his own blade, but that would only invoke the Red Queen’s wrath, and the next head to be on the chopping block would be his. Next, he thought of refusing her food, water, blankets. Taking away the straw pallet that would serve as her bed. Shackling her feet as well as her hands. A collar. A muzzle. His mind was a ruin, and he could do nothing. His hands were thoroughly bound with invisible rope.In a fit of rage at his own incompetency to dispense torture, he kicked a blood-colored pillar like a petulant child, pain slamming hard into his foot. He yelped, cursed, slammed his fist into the pillar next.
Enough of this.
Next, he all but flew down the stairs, spiraling down into the darkness with fury. The cold, damp walls of the dungeons were familiar to him, as he was the primary torturer that traversed these dreary stone passages.Passing by cell after cell of whimpering subjects of the Queen’s, the ones next up for the chop, he came to the end of the line, to the only cell with a window. And there, he saw her. Behind a set of black bars, Mirana was seated upon her straw pallet, staring serenely up at the moon through the window as though she were sitting within the familiar fortress of her home. In the garden perhaps.Stayne’s fists clenched, and he slammed them into the bars that lay between them in an attempt to startle her. She didn’t flinch, instead turned her head to face him, again expectantly, and with a knowing smile. It was like she always sensed him near, hovering just over her shoulder like an inky shadow.Indeed he had been her shadow for far too long. Mirana stood slowly, deliberately slow enough for him to trace the curves of her figure with a burning eye, and she positively glowed white. One of the red knights had evidently been rough with her sometime during the return trek to Salazar, for her dress was torn at the shoulder, exposing her pale, elegant collarbone to his gaze. Her throat. He gulped hard. The tops of her breasts.He’d gut the fool who’d manhandled her like a sack of potatoes as soon as he was done here. The Queen flitted over to the bars in that graceful manner of hers, and the closer she got, the more his heart pounded. The more he could smell her. Lilacs, tulips, herbs. Roses. Stayne hadn’t realized how much he missed that smell. His lungs longed for more, begged for more, craved it. She was but a breath away from him now. He could so very easily break the latch on this door, throw her to the floor and— Giving him that sad smile she offered him when he stormed Marmoreal, Mirana assessed him, her eyes stilling on the heart-shaped patch over his left socket, and she sighed. “Oh, Jack. What’s happened to your eye?He had to fight the wail in his throat, for her exhaled breath was akin to a caress. He recoiled, practically spitting the words, “Don’t you dare call me that! And it’s none of your business now is it, Rose?”If his mockery bothered her, she didn’t show it. Her hand came up to graze her fingertips against his cheek through the bars—he was that close—and he couldn’t fight the wail that escaped him then. He closed his remaining eye, an agonized groan rasping up his throat at the touch. All this time, and he hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to be touched by her hands. How soft she was. He would never forget. His skin was on fire, the flames spreading to every corner of his body, his manhood stiffening to full attention behind his leather breeches, straining to be released. To be buried within her and rutting. To be sated by the tight clutch of her—“What may I call you, then?” she breathed in a whisper that was right by his mouth. The soft skin of her lips just barely grazed his, a feeling he craved like nothing else in this world. “Tell me, how can I make things right between us? Whatever it takes, please, tell me and it shall be done. I miss you. More than anything, I miss you.” Oh, how he’d longed to hear those words. And the breathy way her voice was trembling against him only enhanced his seething pleasure. His soul ached with longing, as if it were dying and could only survive once fused with hers. He clenched his teeth. “There is nothing to be done,” he snipped, ripping himself away from her touch and drawing back into shadow. He smiled viciously at her, his fist coming to rest on his sword hilt. “The Queen wants your head, and you mean nothing to me. Less than nothing.”The sight of wetness brimming in her eyes had his guise of triumph melting to the floor at their feet.A single teardrop glimmered as it trailed a path down her cheek. “But you promised, Jack. Don’t you remember?”He was gone before she could say anything else, racing up the dungeon steps and down the maze of red halls, throwing himself inside his chambers and barricading the door. The last thing he needed was Iracebeth barging in on him while he was like this. A night crept passed, and Underland was one day closer to Mirana’s death. The Red Knight was more tormented than he’d ever been. 🌹🌹🌹
A season came and went since he met her. That summer was the best he’d known yet.
Autumn was settling over Underland, coloring it in glorious shades of crimson and gold and umber. With it brought new memories. New delights. New canvas to paint.
One evening, while taking his usual stroll with Mirana through a grove of trees shedding their leaves—by far his favorite part of each day—the gardener unearthed an astonishing discovery.
“You mean you’ve never stepped foot outside the palace walls?!”
“Oh shush!” Mirana swatted his shoulder, eyeing him with mock contempt. “You say that like it's so shocking!”
Stayne cackled, a high-pitched barb of laughter he’d never done until he met her. “Pardon me, princess,” he teased, dropping into an overly indulgent bow at her side. “I didn’t realize my lady was so sheltered.”
“Sheltered?! Why, I’ll have you know that my father has been preparing me to run a kingdom since I was a child! When would I have the time to go outside?”
At his next bout of cackles, Mirana pummeled him in the gut with her fist. Stayne yelped and fell to his knees in surprise, exaggerating a wince and rolling to his back in the grass. Truly, he felt no pain at all. Far from it, in fact. He embellished the effects of the blow anyway.
“And it seems my lady has forgotten her vows.”
“Oh please.” Mirana stiffened and turned up her nose at him. “If that hurt, you’ve really got to learn how to take a hit—”
“Do I now?” he purred.
Before she could retort, he’d already caught her by the backs of her knees and brought her down to the dirt with him, carefully, not daring to cause her any hurt. The princess shrieked with laughter and sprawled herself across his chest, lacing her fingers together over his breastbone.
It was entirely improper, but such was the ease they felt with each other. It didn’t matter that Mirana was his superior in every way, status being the most obvious. It was almost instant. Hardly a week had passed before the start of their playful jibes. He absolutely adored seeing her like this.
In her father’s court she was all serenity, a pillar of pristine marble. With Stayne she was pure joy. Wildness, much like the greens he tended.
Mirana rested her chin atop her laced fingers and stared down at him, her face a breath’s width from his. His heart was beating mad, but the lady’s focus was elsewhere, and she didn’t notice, too busy fiddling with a loose thread on his work jacket.
“You know, it’s not like I haven’t wanted to see the villages. I do. The stories you tell drive me wild with curiosity. I want to see people! And not just the nobles. And I’d very much like to see your home.”
Stayne swallowed, intently studying her face not for the first time today. He loved the feeling of her body splayed out across his, the two of them brazenly lying together out in the open in full view of any haughty courtier that should walk by.
“You shall,” he said quietly.
“When?” She rolled her eyes and huffed. “Being a princess keeps me busy all day.”
He grinned, brushing a fallen leaf from her hair. “Leaving your nights free then, my lady?”
🤍♠️
The first night they snuck out of the palace, Stayne was half mad with fear, his thoughts racing.
Surely they’d be recognized, surely they’d be caught, surely they’d have his head on a silver platter for such indiscretions. The king wasn’t known for being an especially cruel monarch, but—
“Pardon my crassness, Mirana,” he said, his eyes darting nervously from left to right as though a pack of soldiers would spring up out of the hedges and close in on him for lurking around like a vagrant. “But if you wouldn’t mind moving your royal behind a little faster…”
He was standing under the stars beneath Mirana’s private balcony, vines of ivy slithering along the castle wall. A crisp apple scent was in the air, and he felt each puff of wind acutely.
The princess had tied a sheet to one of the marble balusters and was currently shimmying her way down the wall, clad in a ‘borrowed’ servant’s dress. Stayne’s arms were lifted high, poised to catch her if she fell.
“What, do you think they’ll sick the dogs on you?” Mirana giggled, letting go of the sheet and dropping the last few feet to land soundlessly in the grass. She met Stayne’s eyes and grinned impishly. “They’re nice dogs. You’d get along with them just splendidly.”
“You’re wicked.”
“Come on. Let’s go.” She grabbed his hand and took off running through a maze of hedges. He happily let himself be dragged away, all his fear forgotten.
🤍♠️
And so, their nights were spent in the neighboring villages, their little secret for a year. Walking the cobblestone paths, glancing through windows of the shops, eating country food in the pubs, reading books in the library with the clock tower. He preferred books on botany; she often reached for volumes featuring herblore and the care of animals.
He showed her his childhood home, now owned by a fruit seller. Mirana gazed at the squatty single bedroom hovel as though it were a palace, adoring it simply because her friend grew up there.
“What happened to them?” she asked, meaning his parents. Her arms were around him at once when he told.
They talked much with townsfolk from all walks of life, Mirana charming the daylights out of every living thing she met. But she always stuck close to Stayne, including him in her conversations and drawing him out of that shy bubble he often entrapped himself in.
The villagers that knew him often elbowed him in the ribs and waggled their eyebrows when Mirana’s back was turned and her eyes were fixed through a shop window, for they didn’t realize she was the princess of their realm.
The townsfolk only knew her as Rose—the false name Stayne had thought up to disguise her. Otherwise they called her ‘Jack’s girl.’ And Stayne found himself believing that it might really be possible for her to be so, one day.
The possibility that he could ask for her hand—and that she would accept it—was a notion his mind and heart battled over daily. He’d been saving his wages for a while now, with the unconscious and unspoken hope of purchasing a ring worthy of her.
One night in the dead of winter, the pair were caught fighting against a blizzard to get back to the castle. The snowstorm had come upon them out of nowhere, disrupting their evening spent drinking hot cocoa and sampling pastries, sitting comfortably by the library’s hearth. Mirana’s head was lying on a cushion placed over Stayne’s lap as they read together on a sofa. Every few moments, she’d slip a cranberry tart between his lips without looking up from her page. His fingers were reflexively carding through her ivory locks, his other hand wrapped around the spine of a book.
Once they’d called it a night and crossed the threshold into the street, they were met with frigid cold air and a swirling mist of snow cascading down from the sky. Mirana’s first instinct was to squeal with glee and hurl a snowball at him, and after exacting due revenge, he caught her by the waist and herded her towards home.
Now, they were struggling up a hill halfway between the town and the castle, heavy drops of snow pelting them senseless, but it was obvious they wouldn’t make it the whole way tonight without freezing to death.
Luckily Stayne knew of an abandoned little cottage up ahead, situated between her world and his, and he was determined to get her there and build a fire while they waited out the storm. He keenly hated how her fingers felt like icicles laced through his, despite how much she insisted that the chill didn’t bother her.
‘Hang propriety,’ he thought. ‘She’s cold as ice.’
Once they arrived, he set to work building a fire in the dusty hearth. Also by luck, whomever had last occupied this cottage kept the wood stocked before they decided to quit it. Mirana shirked off her boots, as did he.
He helped her out of her soaked-through cloak, and she returned the favor, not stopping her undressing of him until he was free of all but his undershirt and breeches.
“What?” she asked when he shot her a look. “You want your clothes to stick to you and freeze you to death?”
Fair enough.
He didn’t dare help her out of her gown. She did that all on her own, stripping down to nothing but her chemise and stockings.
The air at once grew seethingly hot as Stayne prodded the now roaring fire with his stick. He pointedly avoided staring at the hint of luscious curves beneath the silk of her underdress. The tips of her breasts budding against the cold. The way the glow of flames glided across her skin, illuminating every swell and valley she possessed. Her skin was the color of snow, and yet it set him ablaze all the same.
That night was the first time his body had ever truly ached, a yawning pit of desire opening within him that would never again be shut.
It still wasn’t warm enough when they sat side by side before the fire, their limbs chilled to the bone from their long walk.
In a silent plea for more, they both reached for the other, finding themselves curled up in a mess of old blankets kept there by the previous owner, sprawled out before the hearth and gazing bleary-eyed into the flames. Mirana’s body was fitted to his, her face buried at his chest, steady breaths caressing his throat.
And he felt every torturous inch of her. His heartbeat was in her ears; thudding solely for her.
That desperate clutch of bodies fighting against the chill was the closest they ever got to the embrace Stayne craved—up til now—though he was tempted like he’d never been tempted before.
Mirana surely felt the straining bulge of his want pressing into her bare thigh, but soon she was asleep and he was left to fret and twitch against her all night. Hotter than the fire he tended, all his senses sharpened to attention. Wanting. Yearning.
He envisioned a plethora of salacious things that night, images dancing tauntingly in the orange-flecked shadows of the cottage. Things that would satisfy his hunger for her taste and feel. Things that would put the blaze beside them to shame.
Things like waking Mirana up with his tongue buried deep between her thighs, laving her insides like he was a man starved of food, water, and air. Like Mirana was made up of all three.
This was his most piercingly vivid fantasy, for the satisfaction of his pleasure or hers he didn’t know.
Nor did he dare.
Sleep found him eventually, light as it was.
Next morning, they spoke not a word about it. They dressed quickly and left the cottage behind, trudging home through the snow. Mirana chatted away as though nothing happened. She seemed intent to ignore the night prior.
But Stayne couldn’t ignore it. The memory would become etched into the very fibers of his skin, a brand on his soul. He would visit it more than he cared to admit in the years to come.
🤍♠️
He didn’t see the princess for three days after the night at the cottage, and he spent every minute of them worrying, constantly making a mess of his plants and bumping into things. And people.
Once while in such a haze of distraction, he’d even knocked straight into the Red Princess Iracebeth within one of her father’s many halls.
In all his months of service to the king, Stayne had seen Iracebeth maybe a handful of times in passing, though he’d been able to sketch her character through secondhand accounts—mainly from Mirana who spared the worst of her sister’s traits—but he’d long ago formed his own opinion.
“Ow!’ she shrieked, glaring up at him maliciously. Again, he was struck by the largeness of her head. “Watch where you’re going, gardener.” That last was spat as though an insult.
“Apologies Highness.” he said listlessly, continuing on his way.
When on the third day of Mirana’s absence, there came a sudden tug on his work jacket, and the whispered word “tonight” flitted inside his ear, his world was again set to rights. He turned just in time to see Mirana disappearing round a hedge, her overcoat of snowy white fur trailing behind.
He met her beneath her balcony like usual—well, much earlier than usual—and Mirana slipped down the sheet rope, smiled, and grabbed his hand like nothing was amiss. Like they hadn’t nearly fucked in the dark of that cabin.
Stayne decided to play along with her cheery antics, difficult though it was. For speaking his mind might make her upset, and he daren’t risk losing her if it was the last thing he did.
If it was only a friend she wished him to be for the time, so be it.
Once tucked within one of the many alleys of the town closest the palace—they didn’t risk venturing far what with the ground still being heaped high with snow—Mirana peered inside the window of a jeweler’s shop. Her eyes lit up, two dark pools of joy. She’d spotted something she wanted; Stayne would know that look from a mile away.
“Jack, come quickly, look!” She pointed a gloved finger to the glass, her warm breath misting it.
She looped her arm through the crook of his elbow, drawing him closer. He too looked inside the window to indulge her, spotting an array of winter-themed silver pieces. One of which seemed quite out of place: a silver rose charm dangling from a chain.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Mirana said, squeezing his arm and gazing up at him. “It reminds me of yours.”
Stayne thought of all the coin he’d saved up these past few months in anticipation of a day that seemed slightly more out of his reach now.
Forcing a smile, he asked the princess to seek out their favored vending cart up the road and fetch a cup of cocoa for them to share, as was their habit that winter.
Once he was sure to be out of Mirana’s sight, he slipped inside the jeweler’s, greeting the shopkeeper with the words “how much?”
🤍♠️
The next spring, there was a ball held in honor of the princesses’ joint coronation, a most magnanimous event.
Unable to choose a single successor between his daughters Red and White, the king wished for them both to rule in harmony upon his death, and the first to produce an heir would continue the line.
All the people of Underland were invited of course, and the castle was positively packed with travelers from all over. Nobles, courtiers…
And—no doubt—suitors.
Stayne spent most of the evening outside pulling weeds, his mood sullen as the rain clouds overhead.
The inevitable spring shower hadn’t come yet, but it was threatening.
All week he’d been subject to servants of all sorts scurrying through his gardens in preparation for the affair, trampling on his freshly mowed grass and the occasional flower.
He reasoned that there wouldn’t be a better time to clean up the mess than during the ball itself when he was sure to be left alone, so he opted not to attend.
Working his way toward the far side of the castle with pruning shears in hand, Stayne halted briefly and glanced for the first time away from his plants.
The faint light emitting through the immense windows of the ballroom caught his attention, and he heard the echo of soft, polite courtier laughter and tinkling glasses, the musicians at play. The violins were most prominent. Mirana’s favorite.
His mood soured all the more.
Though the invitation was extended to include the palace staff—which meant him—Stayne had it in mind that such inclusion was simply a courtesy on the king’s part.
He couldn’t truly be welcome at an event so important. This ball was a thinly veiled excuse to parade a horde of potential husbands in front of Oleron’s daughters. Potential kings for them to choose from.
What king had ever started out cutting rose bushes?
He kept working for a while, until suddenly he heard the back door nearest the ballroom slide open, but he didn’t look up from his work. He knew those graceful footsteps descending the marble stairs and into the garden. He knew them from the first click of the heel.
“Not enjoying the ball, Princess?” he asked snidely, pretending to be engrossed in the precise trimming of a shrub.
The footsteps trudged through the grass, stopping right beside him. A pair of glass sandals came into view, a pair of dainty feet.
“I am, though there seem to be a few people missing whom I’d very much hoped to see.”
“A shame.”
“Isn’t it?”
When it became clear that she wouldn’t relent, Stayne looked up, and became enraptured—as he always was—by the White Princess’s beauty.
Tonight, Mirana was a vision.
The dress she’d chosen to wear was her usual white, though accented with hues of lavender and black ruffles. It was a gown he hadn’t seen before, and he approved of it immensely.
And her hair was styled in ringlets, a few sections dyed with the same light purple shade as the dress. Her lips were painted lavender, her lids sparkling with white dust.
The silver rose necklace he gifted her last winter glittered in the hollow of her throat. It always did.
Mirana smiled sweetly, sadly, as she gazed down at him. “Jack, why aren’t you inside?”
He swallowed, practically having to tear his gaze away to refocus on the shrub. “I have a lot of work to do.” A snip of the shears. “Go back to your party. I’m certain you’re much missed. And I know how you love to dance—”
“I want to dance with you.”
He looked up. She was still smiling. “I’ve wanted to all night.”
At that, Stayne’s heart skipped a beat, and slowly, he stood to full height, at least two heads taller than the princess. Hesitantly, he stepped closer, searching her eyes. “You have?”
“Of course!” She swatted him like the answer was obvious, then grabbed his dirt-stained hand. “Now come on, let’s go—”
“Mirana.” He stood his ground, refusing—for the first time—to let her lead him. Her confused and clearly disappointed look nearly broke him, but he shook his head. “I can’t. Not like this.” He motioned to his grubby attire.
“Why, that’s silly! Of course you can. It’s only a bit of dirt. Please—”
“Mirana.”
She paused, stared at him, and seemed to gather why he wouldn’t budge. The music wafted louder from the ballroom, for it appeared someone had propped open the door to allow in a spring breeze.
Expecting the princess to take her leave, back to her courtiers and nobles and pretty lights, Stayne braced for the blow of her departure.
Instead, she grabbed his other hand, leading him further into the gardens, a bout of wind whipping up her dress.
He gawped, dropping his shears as he stumbled along after her. “Mirana, what in the world are you—”
“If you won’t dance with me in there,” she took both hands, enveloping one in hers. The other, she placed around her waist. “We can make due out here.”
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she breathed in the scent of impending rain. A few pink blossoms sailed down from the trees above them, landing like snowflakes in her hair. “I prefer it out here, anyway.”
When she opened her eyes, all her focus rested on him, and it made his knees tremble. Her full, painted lips twisted with a hint of mischief. “Now, may I have this dance, Jack?”
Stayne’s mouth went dry as a desert.
She was so beautiful that it was an effort to speak, to breathe. There was nothing to do but acquiesce, and acquiesce with pleasure. His hand squeezed her waist, and he closed what little distance lay between them in a pace.
His next words were a whisper, a brush of warm air against her temple, spoken far too closely to be considered proper. “Always.”
And so, they danced, their rhythm flowing with effortless ease that mirrored the way their friendship first blossomed. With her leading, him following, gently guiding her if she happened to step too close to a tree or a root.
Mirana moved like a wildflower with every step she took, practically rippling with intuitive grace and beauty. Gentleness. Like light spilling across a field of blooms, dancing upon the surface of a clear stream.
She was perfect. And she was in his arms.
Across the lawns and under the dim light of lanterns, they went, dancing even when the music was almost out of earshot, until back around the bend they came, to the patios of Oleron’s palace.
Stayne was painfully aware of how perfectly they fit together, how her hands were meant to rest in his, how her head was the perfect height to lay against his chest. The curve of her waist clutched in his fingers. The scent of lilacs and roses wafting into his nose.
At that moment, he thought that if he died like this, he would die the happiest man in the world.
On her next twirl, he seized her by the small of her back, and dipped her low in his arms, relishing her surprise as her eyes snapped open, focusing on his. Sparkling umber beneath the lantern light.
They stayed like that for a moment, staring at each other, unmoving while the music played on. Hardly breathing.
“Jack,” she said at last, and the way her voice trembled was new. As was the way she gazed at him, like she was seeing him for the first time. A blush spread rosy across her cheeks, her chest, and then her hand delicately raised to caress his cheek.
Stayne couldn’t help his raspy groan. She’d no idea how long he’d been waiting for this. “Yes, my rose?”
A raindrop fell. Then another, and all of a sudden they were caught in a downpour. Mirana’s startled laughter was like a spring breeze, and Stayne lifted her up in a bridal hold and carried her back to the patio at a full run, until they were safe from the deluge under the shade of an awning.
The both of them were soaked through like wet rats.
“Oh my,” Mirana laughed, ringing the excess water from her hair. “I’m sure I look a real mess, don’t I?”
Indeed her cosmetics were smeared, her dress wilted and stained brown with mud at the hem. And she’d never looked more enchanting.
Stayne stared at her intently. “Never.”
She caught his gaze, but before she could reply, her father swept outside wearing an opulent tunic and purple cape, his head topped with a golden crown. “Mirana, your debut speech!” One look at her, and Oleron’s brow furrowed, but he merely shrugged off his shock. He knew his daughter well after all. “No time for a change now.”
The king guided her inside, but before the door closed, Mirana glanced over her shoulder at Stayne. “Thank you for the dance,” she said breathlessly, and was gone.
Unable to quite catch his breath himself, Stayne sank down to his haunches against the wall. He couldn’t stand for another moment.
His heart was racing, his thoughts a swarm in his head. What would she have done had the storm not come upon them? Would she have kissed him? Would he have kissed her? What would it mean? When could he ask for her hand? When could he marry her?
The sound of male laughter dragged him out of his madness.
Stayne turned and found a trio of young men strolling the patios, glasses of bubbling cider in their hands. Their attire was smart and ornate. Clearly they’d come from wealth.
One of them, a yellow-haired aristocrat, swaggered over close to the gardener, a look of amusement plastered on his pudgy face.
“Have a look, gents! It’s Mirana’s plaything! Scrawny little fellow, isn’t he? Why, he’s besotted! Look at him, all red in the face like that!”
“Suppose he’ll have his heart broken like a fool when Oleron marries her off.”
“Good thing she’ll be well and breached by the time he does. Little groundskeeper did all the hard work for us!”
A flash of anger stole through Stayne, and he scrambled to his feet. Unfortunately, as was his way when his emotions got all tangled up in a knot, he began to stutter. “D-don’t talk about Mirana like that!”
His words inspired another fit of guffaws, but the boys paid him no mind. “Or what? What are you going to do, groundskeeper?” said the first with a sneer. “Prune us to death?” His hyena laugh echoed all the way through the doorway to the ballroom.
Through the door the groundskeeper was not welcome.
Sinking down to his haunches again, Stayne was left alone to wallow, or so he thought.
A shadow of a red heart had been watching him from the windows, and curiously, Iracebeth sauntered outside to have a look. The phrase ‘Mirana’s plaything’ caught her attention and interested the Red Princess tremendously.
“You, Gardener,” she addressed him. “Is that all you aspire to be?”
🌹🌹🌹 The second night since Mirana’s capture, Stayne found himself sidled up against the wooden door to the dungeons, half sitting, half lying there like a bedraggled dog. He’d been here all day, staring at the same wall decal of a gaudy red heart across from him. He was surprised he hadn’t borne a hole through it with the intensity of his glare. Or taken it out the old fashioned way, with a quick slash of his blade.He’d yet to go down and pay Mirana a visit today. The problem was he didn’t know what to say, or if there was anything left to say. So, he would sit here until the reign of Iracebeth was long over, fidgeting with the handle of his blade. When a high-pitched shriek went up from the dungeons—Mirana’s shriek—he instinctively snapped up to his feet and shot down the spiral staircase, sword drawn, blood racing. He came upon her cell at a full on sprint, expecting the worst—that she’d somehow hurt herself, or an intruder had come upon her to inflict some harm—but he found none of that. Instead, Mirana was crouched by the wall with her back to Stayne, trying her best to aid a dormouse in its escape through a crack in the mortar. The Red Knight scoffed. “What in the world are you doing?” She didn’t look at him, instead waving him to her. “Quickly, come! The poor little fellow needs our help!”“You really expect me to drop what I’m doing and come to the aid of vermin?” Stayne sneered, but his hand was already on the keys at his belt, sticking the fitting one into the lock. He huffed and rolled his eyes as he strode inside the cell. “Move.” Crouching down beside her, he yanked the mouse out of its hole, and the little thing bowed at him, squeaking its thanks, before scampering off through the bars and somewhere deeper into the dungeons. Once it had gone, Mirana turned and smiled at The Knave earnestly, clasping her hands together. “Oh, thank you Jack!” “I wonder why you didn’t just kill it?” “My vows—”“Your vows have only served to get you into trouble,” he hissed in her face, notably ignoring how beautiful she looked with the moonlight streaking through her hair. Also, her dress was still arousingly askew, making his mouth water. “Your vows shift the blame off yourself because someone else has to do all the dirty work for you.” Her smile saddened, and she touched his cheek as she did yesterday, tentatively. “You weren’t always this way.”“Don’t touch me,” he spat, unfurling to his feet and striding back the way he came, slamming the cell shut behind him. He returned to his place in front of the door to the dungeons, and he stayed there all night. 🌹🌹🌹
“A knight?” said Mirana. Her eyes were wide. “A knight in Iracebeth’s guard? But Jack, when did she—”
“Last night during the ball! Just think of it, Rose! I’ll have money, enough for a house! I’ll be given a steed and a title and… Why do you look at me that way? Aren’t you happy for me?”
The two were taking their usual stroll through the garden, the flowers in full bloom. Bees were buzzing cheerfully by their faces, and the air smelt of fresh daffodils and lillies.
“Well yes, but…” The princess was hesitant, disapproving. Stayne felt it in her posture.
“But what?”
“But will it make you happy?”
“It’ll make me rich! Rich enough to…” Here he went quiet, fingers brushing Mirana’s, wrapping his hand in hers as they walked. He caught her gaze and held it. “It’s what I want.”
After a while, Mirana nodded her understanding, squeezing his hand. “Alright. I’m glad for you, then.”
Some of the liveliness returned to her manner. “Racie couldn’t have knighted a better man.”
He sighed. “Thank you.”
He wanted to say: Why don’t you knight me instead?
🤍♠️
The days were long and hard for those belonging to Iracebeth’s guard. The training brutal.
Stayne hardly ever saw the gardens anymore, let alone had the time to sneak away to the towns with Mirana at night. In fact, with the waxing of spring, he hardly saw Mirana at all. This saddened him more than anything, but he knew if he stuck with his training and saw it through to the end, the reward would be well worth it.
With a knight’s earnings—and title—he could marry her without a qualm. He could finally be worthy of her hand.
What few strolls they did take together were infrequent and often interrupted. The Red Princess seemed to have a knack for knowing when Stayne was in the company of her sister, and a herald was almost always sent to collect him for some insipid errand or another as soon as they said their hellos.
Their habit of walking the palace grounds fizzled out completely within a month of Stayne’s knighthood.
But now that he was a member of the Princess’s guard, he took his supper at the grand dining table in Oleron’s meal hall.
It was wonderful, well, for all of a few days. He sat of course beside Mirana, and they were free to chat away as much as they wished. One night though, he went to his usual place at her side and found a portly man seated there instead, chowing down heartily on a lamb shank.
Mirana looked up at him instantly, and she didn’t need to speak to get the message across. The look on her face spoke for her. ‘Sorry, Racie’s doing.’
Conveniently, a place was carved out for Stayne at the Red Princess’s right hand. He blew out a sigh and trudged over to it. There he’d sat ever since come dinner time.
While his days were spent with a sword in his hand and soreness ripping through his ever-growing and aching muscles, Mirana’s days were spent over a cauldron. That’s what the knight called it, anyway, to tease her. Her fascination with herblore had blossomed, and when she wasn’t at her father’s side learning the duties of her role, she was enraptured by her books, mixing potions and salves, and other strange things he couldn’t name.
Though he didn’t understand it, he supported her in her endeavors all the same.
She also kept the company of animals and courtier friends she favored, a fact that Stayne admittedly was jealous about.
The most common way they saw each other now was to meet beneath the boughs of a Tumtum Tree overlooking the castle just outside the palace walls, where, for a while, they were left undisturbed.
These times were spent catching up, telling each other about their days spent apart. Truly, they often related the details of a few weeks at a time in the other’s absence.
Stayne almost always showed up to these visits with new scrapes and bruises, and Mirana patched them up for him. He knew how much she loathed seeing any creature suffer—and that included him, to his delight—but she swallowed her delicacies and sewed him up without complaint. Her painkilling potions worked like a charm, and soon there were less wounds to tend the more he practiced his bladeskill. Still, there was one problem he couldn’t seem to shake.
“They all laugh at me, Rose. They say I’m too soft.”
“Well, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing!”
“It is when you’re a knight. Even my horse laughs at me. Of course, he’s a real pain in the—”
“Ah, ah,” she wagged her finger, looking up from smearing a dollop of salve across his bare chest. “Living creature.” Spoken like a song.
“Right, your vows.” He rolled his eyes, propping his weight on his elbows in the grass. Sniffing at his chest, he scrunched up his nose at the pungent, earthy scent winding into his nostrils. “What’s in that stuff of yours anyway? I’ll wager it reeks from here all the way to Snud.”
“Frog droppings.”
“…what?!”
Mirana smiled. “A joke. Crushed thyme. And frog droppings.”
Stayne recoiled, staring down at the green glop she was still lathering on him in droves. “Ugh! You’ve gone and turned into a witch!”
“A witch who just saved you from fever and infection, Sir Ilosovic.” That last was said with good natured-sarcasm.
“Hmm. Well, you could’ve done so without using what comes from the foul end of a frog—”
“Yes, yes…”
Once satisfied with her work, Mirana leaned back and settled on her knees, eyes drifting over the scabbed red stripe again. “What happened this time?”
“Fellow slashed me while I wasn’t paying attention.”
She winced. “Where’s your focus, if not on an incoming sword?”
Stayne went quiet, turning his attention to the droopy branches of the Tumtum tree swaying all around them. “Can’t get out of my head, I suppose.”
Mirana seemed to ponder this, but interestingly, her gaze remained fastened on his bare torso. He noticed because it stayed there for a long time, even shifting to his enlarged biceps and abdominal muscles, drifting slowly up again.
“Mirana?” he said. His voice was low.
“Hm?” The princess hummed, then—seeming to come out of her haze— she gave herself a shake, clumsily packing her medicinal wares into a basket.
Returning her eyes to his, she said. “Well, try pretending you’re coming to the aid of someone you love. Do you think that would help?”
His throat bobbed, and he hungrily took in the blush that’d spread across her face while she ogled him.
“It’s worth a try.”
🤍♠️
Stayne had never been much for travel in his youth. Never had the time for it either. From the age of twelve years old, he helped his father keep lawns for a multitude of patrons—primarily noble families, primarily those whose homes were situated nearest the village he grew up. And he didn’t mind the confinement at all. Diversion from routine made him ill at ease.
Now that he was a knight, his duties undoubtedly would require him to leave the palace every now and again to ensure the safety of the realm. Iracebeth’s safety particularly.
The prospect of leaving the castle for any extended time unsettled him greatly. He already saw too little of Mirana these days, but he at least had the comfort of sleeping under the same roof as her—grand though it was. To be away from her at any distance was cause for distress.
That summer—during the same year as the princesses’ coronation ball—Stayne was given his first travel assignment.
With his training complete and his bladeskill near unmatched by his peers—Mirana’s advice that day under the Tumtum tree worked wonders—he was to join the two princesses during their debut tour across Underland. Mirana and Iracebeth were tasked with showing their faces to their subjects, inspiring a sense of familiarity and loyalty to them, so that when Oleron’s time as king drew to a close, the transition of power wouldn’t be too jarring for the realm.
A host of red and white knights would accompany them, Stayne at the front of the line. His place among the ranks was rapidly ascending along with his skillset. All his work was finally starting to pay off.
Iracebeth complained and whined when one evening at dinner her father announced the start of the debut, but Mirana was overjoyed. Stayne smiled at her from his seat at the Red Princess’s side; he knew instantly that she would be thrilled, giddy as she was all those nights sneaking off into town with him last year.
She met his gaze at once, no doubt her thoughts mirroring his.
Near the end of their venture, Stayne was the one giddy as a fool. For he had never seen so many exotic flora in his life, and he had Mirana to share the experience with, the latter being the best of it.
It seemed to him that they were always drawn together in admiration of the beautiful things of their world.
When he wasn’t strapped to Iracebeth’s side as her glorified shield, he gladly hopped off his steed to join Mirana in marveling at whatever plants they happened to be passing by, helping the White Princess collect herbs for her stores, strolling with her through rural towns when he was permitted leave. These times he tucked away safe in his memory, cherishing them dearly as they reminded him of earlier days.
As for the debut itself, the peoples far and wide of Underland adored her. He knew they would.
Mirana’s gentility and kindness inspired them all—no doubt her immeasurable beauty only enhanced such inspiration—while Iracebeth seemed to fade into the din of their growing love for her sister. This vexed her much. Stayne was already beginning to pick up on the signs of his benefactor’s wrath.
By the end of the fortnight, he was certain the whole of the kingdom would be clad in white. He would be as well should Mirana merely speak the word.
Iracebeth kept her guard dressed in black, with the intent to intimidate likely, but as no wars had broken out in Underland for centuries, Stayne wondered why she sought to inspire fear. Was it not so much better to be loved?
On the return journey home, Mirana insisted on riding by the borders of the Outlands, in an effort to leave no subject of hers unaided and excluded. Her generosity was boundless. Stayne knew as much intimately and adored her for it.
The trek was eerie though, through misty bogs and swamps where only the oddest of folk dared to dwell. This inspired much uneasiness among the ranks on either side, and Stayne was the picture of caution, always looking out for potential threats to the one whom he considered his future bride.
Out of nowhere during one of their final nights abroad, a mass of forest green appeared bounding out of a tree and attacked Mirana, making off with something from her person before stealing off into the night.
Stayne’s heart nearly gave out at her startled scream.
“Oh, my bracelet!” she cried, looking across at him from atop her steed. Her doe-ish eyes were wide and brimming with tears. “It was my mother’s!”
The sight of her sorrow was all he needed. Though he wasn’t a member of her guard, Stayne snapped his reins in a fury and was riding off in the direction of the bandit at a speed matched by none.
His midnight black horse neighed haughtily below him, galloping instinctively under his rider’s command. “And just what do you think you’re—”
A harsh dig of his spurs shut him right up, and from that moment forth he never questioned his master again.
By now all of Mirana’s knights were riding hard across the plain, but Stayne outrode them all, his thoughts sharpened down to a sword point’s focus.
Find the bandit. Wring its sorry neck. Get back to Mirana.
He caught up with the culprit leagues ahead of the White Guard, discovering a three-foot-tall talking toad splayed flat on his back in the mud—having evidently fallen out of a tree—shaking and hollering as Stayne approached with sword drawn and eyes furious.
Kill it.
“Please, sir! I didn’t mean to hurt her! Course I didn’t! Never! The princess Mirana is a treasure!” The toad cowered low, crying and whimpering now as it curled itself into a ball. With a shaky green hand, he offered the bracelet to Stayne—a simple band of gold, encrusted with white diamonds.
“I only needed a little something to get by. My family is barely surviving is all, I’ve got little ones to look after! We had a hard winter last! Oh please sir, don’t kill me! I promise never to steal again! Cross my heart!”
Though The Red Knight of Underland had unbridled anger rippling through him in waves, something stayed his hand that night. He snatched the bracelet from the thief’s three-fingered hand, and with the other, he dropped a handful of coins from his purses into the muck by the toad’s feet.
“Cross your heart,” Stayne said, teeth clenched with barely-contained rage. “The next time you assail my Queen will be your last. Go now and see to your little ones.” He rode back to the royal party, stolen jewels in hand.
When he returned, Mirana had dismounted her horse, and she came running the moment she saw Stayne approach.
“Jack! Oh, Jack, are you alright?! Are you hurt? Come here!”
He dropped down from his steed, warmed to the core by her concern, and presented her with the bracelet. “My lady,” he said, still panting from the exertion of his ride.
She took it at once and threw her arms around him. He did the same, holding her tight to him on the outskirts of that bog. There they stayed, for how long he hadn’t a clue.
“Stayne.” Only Iracebeth’s icy cold voice could sour his mood at a time like that.
Reluctantly, oh so reluctantly, he pulled himself away from Mirana, who clasped the bracelet in her hand.
“Yes, your Majesty.”
The Red Princess’s face was a welt of fury, and Stayne braced himself for his immediate termination from her service. Truly, he didn’t care if she did discharge him. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Though it was obvious the princess was fighting mad, Iracebeth pretended to examine her nails nonchalantly from atop her litter held aloft by card-knights.
“Not only did you abandon your post tonight,” she said. “But you’ve failed to even catch the thief. Tell me, what did you manage to accomplish besides riding mad through the swamp after a bauble?”
“I did succeed in catching the thief, Majesty. Only, I let him go.”
Iracebeth narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“What?” At his side, Mirana was eyeing him with wonder, clutching her mother’s heirloom tight to her breast.
Stayne nodded. “Yes. The pitiful creature said he had mouths to feed at home. I thought it fitting to feed them from my own purse, rather than to allow him to steal from my Queen.”
“Your Queen?” sneered Iracebeth. She was practically steaming from the ears.
Again, he didn’t care. All his attention was Mirana’s at that moment, every last bit. Her gaze was filled to the brim with love, and overflowing still. There was no other word for it. Pure love.
“Yes,” he replied. “My Queen.”
Stayne decided something then. The moment they crossed the threshold of the palace, he would ask Mirana to be his wife. He could wait no longer. He’d waited long enough.
He’d had the ring for weeks.
🤍♠️