Chapter 1
I dart between the bustling stalls, my arms laden with vibrant carrots and plump tomatoes. The scents of fresh herbs and smoked meats weave through the air, a tapestry of everyday life in the heart of the marketplace. I dodge a merchant's haphazard display of colorful spices, my chestnut hair swaying behind me as I maneuver with practiced ease. "Morning, Davina!" calls out the baker, his hands dusted with flour. His grin is as warm as the loaves he bakes. I flash him a smile that doesn't falter, even when my basket digs into my skin. "Lovely day, isn't it?" I reply, my voice carrying over the din of chattering vendors and haggling customers.
My gaze lands on an elderly woman, her back bent like a willow, her fingers clawing at the straps of her overloaded bags. Without hesitation, I sidestep to her, my own burdens momentarily forgotten. "Let me help you with that," I say, slipping one of her bags from her grasp. Her eyes, milky with age but sharp with spirit, meet mine, and something like gratitude flickers there. "Thank you, dear." Her voice cracks like old parchment. I adjust the bag on my hip and offer her my arm. Together, we navigate the chaos. My feet are sure, my path clear. This is my world, where every soul has a story, and today, I am part of hers. "Where to?" I ask, ready to take on the weight of the world if that's what she needs. Because in this maze of life, I am no mere passerby. I am Davina Sorin—resilient, resourceful, and kind. And this place, these people, they are the threads of the home I've woven without memories of any other.
A hush falls over the marketplace. It rolls in like a dense fog, swallowing up the laughter and bartering, leaving an uneasy stillness in its wake. I tense, my spine straightening as I sense the shift in the air—a charge, electric and cold, that heralds his arrival. Prince Caspian Ambrosia strides into view, his tall form cutting through the crowd like a scythe through wheat. People scramble to make way, their movements hurried and fearful. His presence demands space, commands eyes, and twists guts with apprehension. I watch, the bag of vegetables heavy in my grip, as he moves with the absolute assurance of one who has never been denied. He wears arrogance like a second skin, tailored to his frame. Those cold blue eyes, pale as winter skies, sweep across the bustling scene. He looks at the stalls, wares, and faces and sees nothing but objects in his kingdom's inventory. There is no warmth in his gaze, no recognition of the lives before him—just a prince taking inventory of his possessions.
His lips twist in a sneer, a silent decree of superiority etched into every line of his aristocratic face. With each dismissive flick of his wrist, he discards the efforts of those who toil for their daily bread. A laugh, sharp and bitter, escapes me. This man, born to privilege, knows nothing of struggle, of the comforting weight of a hard-earned meal in one's arms. As he passes, I stand rooted, a lone reed in a sea of subservience. My fingers tighten around the produce, the texture of the rough canvas grounding me. I am Davina Soren of the marketplace, daughter of the common soil, and I will not bow. My heart beats a rebel's tattoo, fierce and unyielding, even as the prince's shadow falls over me.
The prince's entourage sweeps through the market like a cold wind, scattering people and produce in its wake. His boot catches the edge of an apple vendor's cart, upending it with a careless flick. Red and green orbs roll like scattered jewels across the cobblestones, a day's labor trampled underfoot. I watch, fire igniting in my chest as he strides on. Not a glance backward, not a single word. My hands yearn to curl into ball fists, my blood boils as I fight the urge to hurl a wayward apple at his retreating back. "Watch where you're going!" a fruit seller cries out, voice trembling with the futility of his plea. The prince does not respond and does not acknowledge the existence of the voice or its owner. Anger simmers within me, boiling over as I witness the despair etched into the faces around me. My lips part, a silent snarl as the prince's disregard for anything other than his own reflection becomes painfully clear. He is a tempest, uncaring and destructive, and we are nothing but leaves caught in his gale, and I refuse to be swept away and watch him treat these people like scum caught on the bottom of his shoe.
I lock eyes with him. Prince Caspian Ambrosia, the storm in human form, stands across the bustling square. The crowd between us thins like mist, revealing his cold blue gaze set upon me. There's recognition, a flicker of surprise, and then that smirk - a cruel twist of lips that speaks without words. "Peasant," his eyes seem to mock. My heart hammers, fierce and loud, an echo of rebellion. I hold his stare, defiant. The noise of the marketplace fades into a distant hum, and for a breath, it's just him and me, predator and prey. But I am not hunted. I am the storm rising. He turns away first, a dismissive pivot on his heel as if our shared gaze was nothing but a speck of dust on his royal cloak. And that's when I know. I can't let it stand—not this time. The produce in my arms feels like the weight of my tolerance, heavy and unbearable. With resolve steeling my spine, I drop my bounty. Apples roll, a cascade of reds and greens tumbling across cobblestone—a mirror of my own unrest. "Enough," I whisper to myself.
A single step forward becomes two, then three. My path is clear, drawn by the trail of scattered fruit, leading me to stand against arrogance incarnate. My pulse races, a drumbeat to action. I will be heard. And I will not be dismissed. My feet carry me forward, my voice cleaves through the din of barter and trade. "HEY! IMPERTINENT PRICK!" It rings out, sharp as a bell. He halts, an imperious turn of his head, those cold blue eyes settling on me once more. A sea of faces turns, following the unheard command in my cry. "YOU Will CALL ME YOUR GRACE, You unworthy peasant scum!" He says, each word a dagger aimed at me, "Well, I am sorry your Gracely Impertinent Prick but Your contempt for these people is unworthy of your title." The marketplace holds its breath. I stand tall, rooted like the ancient oaks outside the village. "Unworthy?" His voice drips with disdain, frost creeping over the cobblestones between us. "And who are you to judge the worth of royalty?" "Someone who sees," I shoot back, the fire in my words unyielding. "I see the toil in their hands, the struggle in their eyes. You owe them your respect." He laughs, a sound that grates against the morning air. "Respect is earned, peasant girl. What have they done to earn mine?"
"More than you've ever done to earn theirs," I retort, stepping closer, feeling the space shrink between us. My defiance is a banner unfurled in the wind, visible for all. His smirk falters a crack in his armor of arrogance. "Watch your tongue," he spits, threat lacing his tone. "Or what? Will you silence every voice that speaks the truth?" My challenge hangs heavy, a gauntlet thrown at his feet. We're locked in this dance of wills, a duel of words sharper than any blade. The market fades into a backdrop, our confrontation the only scene that matters now. His cold blue eyes flash, a storm brewing in their depths. "You dare challenge me?" His words are a whip crack in the silent marketplace. "Every soul deserves dignity," I say, standing my ground. My heart thunders, but my voice doesn't waver. "Even from a prince." Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Heads tilted, eyes peeking from behind stalls and baskets. They're watching, witnessing this unraveling of royal decorum. "Bold words for a nobody who will soon be dead once my guards take to my Kingdoms dungeons," he sneers, inching closer. His presence looms over me, trying to squash the rebellion he sees before him.
"Maybe it's time nobodies have a say, And It is not your kingdom, It is your fathers." I counter, unwavering. He leans in, his breath a frost. "Consider this your first and last warning," Caspian hisses, voice low and threatening. "Speak out of turn again, and you'll regret it." His teeth begin to grad across each other and I can see that his blood has begun to boil deep inside. My gaze locks onto his, unflinching. "I'm not afraid of you." A hand grips my shoulder, firm yet reassuring. I glance sideways. It's Marlon, the blacksmith's apprentice, broad-shouldered and soot-streaked. His nod is subtle, a silent pact of solidarity. He stands with me. Caspian's glare slices through our alliance, but he says nothing more. With a final, contemptuous look, he turns on his heel, cape swirling, leaving a trail of unease weaving through the air. As he disappears into the throng, whispers flood the space he vacated. The market breathes again, the moment passing like a shadow chased away by the sun. But the threat lingers, a serpent coiled in the grass, and I know this isn't over. Something has begun today, something that can't be undone. I square my shoulders, ready for whatever comes next. I am tired of the Royal family thinking we are the lesser living creatures on this planet and I am going to make that change. I am going to make them see what is going on and what they are doing to their people. I do not care how long and where it takes me but I will show the King what he has done and what that Bastured child of his has done.