The Crowned Captive
Prayers Unanswered

He hated how long this was taking. Sure, he was glad to see Cordan out of his life for good, knowing he would not have to watch for him trying to tempt his princess every other second, but he wished he would hurry along the process. Rowan stalked up and down the hallway of the garden exit, itching to go out there and tell Cordan exactly what he thought of his interruption. The only thing that stopped him was how much it would upset Morana.

He was still pacing the corridor when he heard the scream. It was hers, but it was too far away. Without hesitation, he ordered the guards to find help and erupted into the night.

There was no sign of where she had gone. Knowing that there was nothing else to do, he ran frantically in the direction of her scream, ignoring the branches that whipped at his face and tore at his skin. He screamed her name at the top of his lungs, again and again, so loud he thought his vocal cords may just tear apart. There was no response. He prayed he could catch her scent on the wind, to hear her cry out again, anything. No such sign came.

He stopped his frantic dash as he came to stand in a small clearing, the underbrush trampled from a hasty retreat. A scrap of fabric, chiffon with a single gold leaf attached still clung to a nearby bush. On the ground in front of him sat her glowing tiara, blood smeared across the diamonds. He reached out, his hands shaking, to pick it up from the ground. He knew it had to be her blood, that nothing else made sense, but he could not smell her scent on it.

Without warning, his knees collapsed underneath him, and Rowan was left kneeling in the small clearing. He scented the air desperately, hoping to find any sort of trail, at least a hint of where she had gone. There was nothing. It was as if she had shadow-walked, simply stepped between one place and the next. She had not gone willingly, yet there was no trace. His princess had vanished, and he could think of no way to find her.

So the guards found him there, clutching that tiara and vibrating with a rage so insurmountable he was afraid he may simply burst into an inferno there and then. No sign, none, of his princess had been found. Just like that, from right under his nose, she had been stolen by someone he had once considered closer than family. She had been kidnapped by someone she had loved and trusted nearly as much as him.

“I don’t care what it takes, but she is to be found. Have the forests searched, the word spread, fae hounds brought out, but she will be found,” he spat. Somebody behind him began moving, and that was good enough for him. He stayed there, clutching her tiara, praying that by some miracle she would be found safe.

Rowan knew it did not take a seer to know that the Gods would ignore his prayers that night.

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