Days flew past as Jeralia carried out the daily routine she had followed for five years. It had been unchanged, but now tinged with tension She dared not repeat the mention of thaumaturgy to Myrril again, a man who, despite all his love and attention for the closest thing he had to a niece, never said things more than he needed to. It didn’t matter to who. That made her bitter, but she was a princess—a woman who had standards to respect, and her own duties to fulfill.
Her lessons with the children incorporated more material correlating to combat, logistics, and strategy, and less that had to do with the arts, sciences, and humanities. The reports coming in from the nobles near the border to the south began to align more with one another, with sightings of mobilization by scouts becoming common and lords and ladies wondering what to do in the event that their subjects could not access their reserves of produce and the parcels on which said produce grew.
Upon relaying the news to her father, she would try to suppress the worry building up in her chest, but a man who had done many years sitting on the throne could sense it, even without thaumaturgy. Almost no one else could see the anxiety behind her veil or helmet, and even Dyso was rarely able to, despite being only a handful of people who could see her face uncovered. But he knew. The best he could do was to tell her to have her reports sent to Myrril or his aides, who would then deal with them. At least that way, some of the burden would be taken off of the princess’s shoulders. Indeed, Jeralia was proud and strong in every sense, but her anxiety and inability to act without it in the most crucial situations was an issue, a reason why Myrril had been made regent and not her, even though she had already reached the age of majority by the time one had to be chosen.
During these many days, Myrril had given her another task, another item to deal with in between the responsibilities she already had. It was to oversee a refreshing of the entire Ballandon property. Shrubs, bushes, and trees were to be pruned with absolute precision, and the grass had to be cut to the perfect height. Years of grime was washed off of the outer walls, even on the high towers that were spread across the tall outside walls. Pieces of furniture that were past their golden days were replaced with ones coming straight from the workshops of master carpenters and joiners, while others were cleaned up enough to look as though brand new. It was Princess Jeralia’s job to hire workers required for the various jobs, and to make sure they were doing it according to specific standards. Jeralia didn’t know why she was being made to do this.She suspected it to be a distraction from the topic of thauamaturgy, or a way to keep her away from the front lines. However, Jeralia knew that the centuries-old Ballandon, which had been only minimally cared for, was long overdue for a more lasting touch-up. She welcomed it.
Each evening after her meetings with the various officials, overseeing days and even before, Jeralia would slip down into the servants’ courtyard. This particular night was warm, and was thick with the scents of bread, cider and old stone. Like it always was. The workers gathered there, laughing, eating and resting from the day’s toll. They straightened a little, but their princess waved them back to ease. She absolutely adored being in the presence of the servants as they relaxed, as they reminded her that she was a person just like them. She treated each the same way a civilian would treat a neighbour, inquiring about how their day went, and how their food tasted. Jeralia had never eaten solid food in her life, but hearing the stories and smelling the fumes and juices on the servants’ hands and clothing through her veil made it feel like her nonexistent stomach was full each time she left it.
One tired girl in her late teens caught Jeralia’s attention.
“You did well today, Amel,” Jeralia said warmly. “The tapestries in the great hall looked finer than the banners of kings.”
The girl blushed scarlet.
Jeralia extracted a small jar of crimson paint and a delicate brush that accompanied it from her satchel. She placed a stool at the courtyard’s edge and gestured for the girl to sit.
The princess and heir of Osharis knelt on the warm stone before Amel.
Quietly, gently, she took the girl’s hand in her own, and began to paint each chipped, work-worn nail with careful strokes. Painting nails was something Jeralia loved to do. After seeing visiting noble ladies don painted nails from a young age, she became eager to do it on herself, having guards borrow bottles of paint from their wives and daughters to experiment with it. Eventually, it became one of the most important ways to show her femininity without having to take off her veil or helmet. She adored painting her own nails, and she loved painting other peoples’ nails whenever she got the chance.
Around the two young women, the noise faded, as if night itself leaned closer to watch. Amel peered at Jeralia, wide-eyed.
“Your Highness,” she whispered. “Why do you hide your face?”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Jeralia paused, brush posed above the last finger.
“Some things are prettier when kept hidden.” She said softly.
Amel nodded slowly, unsure whether to feel honored or afraid.
Jeralia finished the last nail and raised the girl’s hand to the lantern light.
“There,” Jeralia said. “Now you’re ready for anything.”
Amel beamed, showing off her new nails proudly to the others.
Seeing her innocent smile made Jeralia happy. That night, unlike many before, she slept a little easier.
--
The next day had Jeralia waking up almost as early as most days, though she would allow herself an hour or two of sleeping in. No one would care or reprimand her for it, because it was her day. The one day of the week where she could do the things she pleased and only as she pleased. It was a break from the mountain of responsibilities and simultaneous relative lack of agency she had in her life. A long, warm bath was how she started this day off, before grabbing one of the many books on the rustic shelves in the palace library. In her solitude, her eyes would trace the lines written by the hand of an incredibly talented and thoughtful author. She would do this till noon, reading either fictional literature or books based in reality. She'd borrow a few for the week, using them to write teaching material for her students. Some were long poems about the founders of the country, supposedly ancestors of her and her father. Others told stories, both romanticised and realistic, about more recent events like the First Osharian-Mizanian War, fought six decades earlier. Then, there were stories that no average visitor to the library could distinguish as being either reality or fiction, such as the many books about the Crimson Witch, one of which Jeralia pulled out, although she was sure she had read that particular copy dozens of times.
The Crimson Witch was said to be a demon-like entity that could change the very way people acted and functioned. In exchange for giving great power, she would receive extra years to her life. Well, that was what that book declared, as many others like it did.
The Crimson Witch was, simply put, a freak of nature, something not meant to exist.
A freak of nature, Jeralia thought. Just like myself.
Shoving that morbid thought aside, she finished reading the novel and returned it, before leaving the library for the tiny chapel, reserved for members of the royal family and those specifically allowed by them to enter it.
Jeralia entered alone, as always, and lit a few candles, before kneeling at the prayer bench. Then, she began to pray. Not to a specific deity, as the chapel was originally intended for, but many. Because the true God may not have been the one worshipped mainly in Osharis, but with its freedom of religion for all, there was no issue. With her hands on the bench, she quietly called out to deities from many nations, tribes, populations and communities, inside Osharis and out. She prayed for the health of her father, the security of her kingdom, and prosperity for the people of Osharis and its ‘allies’, though in truth, such nations were only neutral towards them.
But the prayer she desired an answer to more than anything, as selfish as it was, was to make whatever it was that was underneath her veil or helmet to become normal. As she prayed and meditated, she sometimes imagined herself having thick, blonde locks of hair as her father once had, and the smoothest, blemish-free skin. A beautiful face people could look at. She would shed tears sometimes, but they were brief and offered some release when she was not supposed to anywhere else. That day was her happy day, when she could truly feel like herself and do what she enjoyed.
As she gently rubbed her veil against her face to wipe her watery eyes, a knock sounded from the chapel’s old door.
“Your Highness, you are needed elsewhere.” a familiar gruff voice spoke politely.
Jeralia turned around and quickly rose to her feet.
“Is that you, Merek? Just open the door.”
The guard captain, who had served in that position for a decade, had beads of sweat clinging his short brown hair to his forehead, making him look older than his 35 years. It might have been from the blistering summer heat, but it could’ve also been due to another, more unlikely cause that Jeralia really did not like—anxiety.
“Your Highness, your presence is being requested by Regent Myrril and His Highness in the king’s chamber.”
Jeralia straightened her back.
“This is strange. Why are you calling me Your Highness? What happened to the usual ‘princess’, or ‘milady’? The jokey way you talk to me. You’re acting really serious, you know.”
“Because it is serious,” Merek said, hating having to speak so formally to a woman who was like a younger sister to him. “It’s an emergency summoning from Regent Myrril.”
“No, wait,” Jeralia took a couple steps forward. “Is that really true? Uncle Myrril would just come talk to me himself in private. He’s always done that. Why can't he come here?”
“This is protocol that His Highness put in place decades ago. I have to be here and inform you to act a sort of witness. I can’t tell you what it is they want to speak to you about. Please, come with me.”
Jeralia sighed quietly and briefly lifted her veil to blow the candles out so that it not a glimpse of what was under could be seen, even though Merek had seen her face several times and was allowed to see it. It was more so that she was trying to hide her own anxiety.
Is it the about the war? She thought as she crossed the main courtyard, into a hall, and up a flight of stairs behind the guard captain. He’s had to have given me a commanding position near the border. That has to be it, right?
