Nysa winced. "Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you."
He blinked at her, his brows knitting. "Who are you?"
"I'm Nysa," she replied, stepping forward, emboldened. "Who are you?"
The boy looked vaguely amused. "You don't know?"
She shook her head. "Should I?"
He studied her for a long moment, then straightened his shoulders slightly. "I'm Auren."
"Well, Auren, you're talking to a fountain. You're weird."
"Am not."
"Are too."
"Am not!"
She giggled. "Fine. You're just a little weird."
"I was thinking," he smirked, and it changed his whole face—softened it.
"Out loud," she teased.
He looked her over. "You're not from here."
"Nope. I came with my uncle. He's a woodworker."
"Oh." His tone shifted slightly. "A tradesman."
"Is that bad?"
Auren hesitated. "No. Just... different."
They were quiet for a moment. The birds sang overhead.
"You like flowers?" she asked.
He nodded. "I come here when I'm bored."
"Must be nice."
"It's boring, really," he muttered.
"I don't believe you. You've got gardens and fountains and fancy halls... You've probably never had to clean sawdust from your skirts."
That made him laugh—a genuine, surprised sound.
"Do you wanna play?"
Nysa hesitated. "Won't I get in trouble?"
He shrugged. "Only if someone sees."
That answer felt both exciting and dangerous. She grinned. "What are we playing?"
"Tag?"
"I'm in a dress," she said, motioning to her simple blue frock.
"I'll run slow."
"Alright, but if I fall, it's your fault."
He laughed, already turning to give her a head start. "One… two… three—run!"
She squealed and darted across the garden, sandals slipping on smooth stones. He chased her through flowerbeds and around hedges, both of them laughing breathlessly. Nysa was fast, but he was taller, and she shrieked when he caught her near the fountain.
"My turn!" she gasped, and he barely escaped her swinging hand, leaping behind a trimmed hedge.
They played until their legs were sore and their hair clung to their faces. Finally, they collapsed near the fountain, panting and giggling.
"You're funny," the boy said.
"You're alright," she replied, nudging him with her foot.
Auren reached into the fountain to flick water at her. "Don't get used to it."
She yelped and splashed him back. It became a short, silly battle, their laughter echoing in the walled garden.
But as Auren tried to leap over the fountain's ledge, his foot slipped.
"Auren!" Nysa screamed.
He crashed into the water with a splash, his arms flailing. In the chaos, his fingers snagged the chain around her neck. The pendant snapped free and landed somewhere in the grass behind her.
Water churned.
Nysa didn't hesitate. She jumped in after him, reaching for his arm as he sputtered.
"I've got you!" she cried, pulling him toward the edge.
The commotion caught the attention of the nearby guards. Shouts erupted.
"Prince Auren!"
Nysa froze.
Prince?
Strong arms lifted Auren from the fountain. Another guard grabbed her arm.
"What happened here?!"
A sharp voice echoed through the garden. Nysa froze.
A tall man in royal blue stormed toward them, followed by a servant. "Prince Auren!"
Auren's smile vanished. "I fell."
The man's gaze turned to Nysa. "And who is this?"
"I—I'm sorry!" Nysa stammered, twisting against the guard's iron grip—but he wrenched her backward, shoes scraping the ground as he dragged her away.
The servant stepped forward, taking Auren by the arm. "Come, Your Highness, you'll catch your death in this mess."
They led him away, barely glancing at her.
---
Nysa stood trembling, her soaked dress heavy on her shoulders. The guard had hauled her through the corridor like a sack of grain, her struggles useless against his grip. Now, dumped near the doorway of her uncle's meeting chamber, she stood trembling—dress soaked, hair clinging to her neck, the murmur of business negotiations seeping through the door.
"Prince," she whispered to herself. "He's the prince?"
The steward's voice had been loud enough for everyone to hear. "Consider your contract with the palace terminated. His Highness cannot associate with…" A pause, his nose wrinkling as he eyed Nysa by the door—her dress patched, her knees mud-streaked. "...your kind."
Uncle Jorren didn't yell. That was the worst part. He just stood there, his calloused hands hanging limp at his sides.
Now, in the cart, Nysa clutched her soaked skirt, shivering. She didn't understand commissions or contracts, but she understood the way Jorren's shoulders slumped, like someone had cut his strings.
"M'sorry," she whispered, tears mixing with fountain water on her cheeks.
Jorren didn't look at her. Just gripped the reins tighter, his knuckles white. "You don't go near the palace again."
Not you're bad. Not it's okay. Just a wall built between her and the only place that had ever felt like magic.
---
Later that night, after changing into dry clothes and scrubbing the mud off her arms, she curled up in the corner of her tiny room. Her hair was still damp, and her body ached from the fall.
She reached up, as she always did, to touch her pendant. Her fingers met bare skin.
Her breath caught. She searched the floor. The pockets of her dress. Nothing.
"No, no, no…"
Tears welled in her eyes. Her mother's gift. Her last piece of them. Gone.
She buried her face in her arms and sobbed, alone with the weight of her loss.
---
The next morning, Windale greeted the sun with its usual quiet hum. The scent of fresh bread wafted from bakeries, and shopkeepers unlocked their doors to sweep dusty floors. But for Nysa, the world was still and heavy.
She hadn't slept. Not really. Her eyes were raw, and her chest ached from crying. The pendant—her pendant—was gone. Every time she thought of her mother's soft voice and the warm touch of her hand fastening the chain around her neck, a fresh wave of grief swept over her.
She ran her fingers across the hollow of her neck again, hoping the pendant would somehow be there. It wasn't.
Downstairs...
.
.