By morning, the manor swelled with activity. Seamstresses fluttered around her like pale birds, pinning and trimming and murmuring about “angles” and “light.” The rose-colored gown they pressed upon her was delicate as breath—thin silk over gauze, dyed in a hue called blush of dawn. Too fine for her rough palms. Tiny silver threads coiled through the fabric, catching the morning light.

  They brushed her hair until it sparked gold, weaving in narrow ribbons the color of wine. “To match the festival’s palette,” one whispered. “The people love harmony.”

  Elowen said nothing. She let them paint her face, clasp the thin circlet of glass and silver over her brow, adjust her posture until she could hardly breathe.

  She’d been caged before; this was merely a prettier prison.

  When they led her outside, the day was already fever-bright. The Feast of Crowns roared through the capital like a living creature. From her open palanquin, she could see the whole city: marble balconies dripping with banners, gold and crimson crowns hung from every arch. Perfume mixed with the stench of roasted meat and the smoke of incense sticks burning before the gilded statues of past kings.

  The streets overflowed. Children clambered onto barrels, vendors shouted over the music, and petals—real and paper—spilled through the air. Coins flashed like sparks.

  Elowen sat perfectly still. Every movement felt measured, watched. The palanquin was carved from dark cedar, edges gilded, its canopy draped in silk embroidered with storm sigils—mocking her title, The Shield of Storm. Two guards flanked her, faces hidden behind polished helms.

  Her gown shimmered with every jolt of the wheels. Beneath the silk, her skin prickled with unease. She could feel the weight of eyes on her—the crowd’s awe mixing with curiosity, with something sharper.

  A woman shouted her name, voice breaking. Others took it up: The Shield! The Shield!

  Some wept. Some laughed. Some knelt.

  Elowen tried to see them clearly—the butcher’s boy waving a sword made of wood, the girl perched on her father’s shoulders, the hollow-eyed beggars too tired to cheer. So many faces, so much noise.

  Bread and copper coins rained down from the higher floats ahead—offerings of “plenty.” The people dove for them, arms outstretched.

  “Too close,” she murmured as the press of bodies neared. She could see the guards struggling to keep the line.

  A hand reached up, small, trembling, grazing the hem of her gown. A mother’s voice rose in thanks. Gratitude shimmered there—fragile, genuine—and for a moment, Elowen’s throat tightened.

  Then the cry came.

  “Witch!”

  The word tore through the air, and the drums faltered as a stone struck the palanquin—then another. Horses reared; the world lurched into chaos, a blur of voices and steel, a child screaming, orders lost in the noise.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Elowen clutched the side rail, breath shallow. Her heart thudded in her ears—each beat louder than the drums. The crowd surged. Hands pulled at the silks. She felt the wood beneath her shudder. She covered her ears and took a few steps back.

  “Stop—please—” she whispered, but her voice drowned in the rising storm.

  Dust, petals, sweat, and fear tangled in the air.

  And somewhere beneath it all, beneath the roar of panic and hoofbeats and shattering wood, the wind began to stir.

  It licked against her hair—first a whisper, then a warning.

  At the head of the parade, Roderic felt it before he saw it. A sudden hush in the rhythm of the drums. His stallion tossed its head and let out a shrill, warning snort.

  He turned sharply, scanning the avenue. Smoke and dust churned where the lower floats should have been. Flags whipped, snapping on their poles. The wind rushed forward like a beast unleashed.

  He drove his heels into the horse’s sides, breaking formation. Shouts rose behind him—guards, attendants, the festival marshal—but he didn’t hear them. He heard only the wind and that voice echoing in his head: Eryndor’s folly might yet serve us.

  The “folly” was about to be trampled to death.

  He raced through the narrow path forming as people scattered. Banners tore free and lashed at his face. The air thickened, pressure building like before a thunderclap. Dust spiraled upward, swallowing sunlight.

  When he reached the third float, he saw the wreckage—

  The palanquin overturned, silks shredded, petals scattered.

  And in the center of it, she knelt.

  Elowen’s hair, loose and wild, whipped around her like a halo aflame. The delicate rose gown, streaked with dirt. The wind moved with her—no, because of her—its rhythm matching her trembling breath.

  Roderic reined his horse to a halt, barely. The animal’s nostrils flared, hooves scraping against the cobblestone, terrified. He swung down, cloak snapping around his legs, and pushed into the storm.

  The wind shoved at him, hard enough to drive a lesser man back. It clawed at his cloak, tore at his hair, lifted his breath straight from his lungs. Still, he moved forward.

  “Elowen!”

  His voice didn’t rise above the roar—it cut through it.

  She didn’t seem to hear, but she flinched, as if the sound reached somewhere deeper than her ears. Her arms were wrapped over her head, fingers white from clutching too tight.

  Roderic climbed the wreckage, boots slipping on the slanted wood. His eyes burned, but he didn’t blink. He had seen storms before—on mountains, at sea—but never one that looked back at him.

  “Elowen,” he said again, nearer now. “Look at me.”

  Her head lifted slowly. Her eyes—grey, frantic, rimmed red—found his. For one impossible second, she stilled.

  And the wind faltered.

  He knelt before her, ignoring the splinters tearing through his trousers, and took her hands in his. They were ice-cold, shaking so hard he thought the bones might break.

  “Breathe,” he said quietly. “You’re safe.”

  The storm answered him like an exhale. The banners sagged. The dust dropped. The petals began to fall instead of fly.

  She blinked, as if surfacing from drowning.

  The air went still.

  For a long moment, neither spoke. He felt her pulse thrumming in his palms—fast, wild, alive. Then, slowly, she drew one breath. Then another.

  Roderic’s own chest eased. His grip softened, but he didn’t let go.

  “Come,” he said at last, voice low.

  He rose and pulled her gently to her feet. The delicate silk clung to her legs; her knees buckled. He caught her before she fell, an arm around her waist, and led her toward his horse.

  The people had gone silent. Where moments ago there had been chaos, now there was only awe—fear-slick and reverent.

  When Roderic lifted her onto the saddle, she weighed less than breath. He swung up behind her, his arm wrapped lightly around her waist to keep her upright.

  No one spoke as they passed.

  Petals and torn silk clung to the wheels, the scent of smoke and bread still hanging in the air.

  The noise of the crowd faded until there was only the sound of the horse’s hooves and her quiet, steady breath.