Here is my contribution to tumblr's #CophineFluffathon, hosted by the OBFrankenfics group (which I am so happy to be a part of, as always). Hope you enjoy!

Magic, up close, is nothing like I expected it to be.

Up to this point in my life, my experience with it has been limited to the voluminous, dusty texts shelved in the castle's library. For sixteen years, they have been my most frequent, most informative window into the outside world, with all of its peculiarities; its excitement and its dangers.

Magic I've learned about not only through books, but through the leaflets the Templars bring in from the church. For centuries they have decried its use, condemned the beings born with the curse in their blood. Warned against those monsters, and all the dangers they warrant. My own father, the king, has often conscripted the Blood-Borns into the front lines of his army—a sentence worse than death, as the war with the South enters into its twentieth year.

Imagine my surprise when the court alchemist—my father's trusted friend and advisor, Aldous—walked into the great hall with one of the creatures in tow. She was shackled and collared with the binding ring Aldous had crafted to control their magic, her head hung low in apparent shame. She kneeled before us at the alchemist's insistence, forced onto her knees by a rough shove to her shoulder.

When the man stood before our table, my father smiling wryly while my mother looked on with a sense of mild distaste, the alchemist grinned, gesturing towards the mage—the girl, perhaps no more than a year older than me, by the looks of it—and presented her proudly.

"My Lord—as you have requested, the Blood-Born has been bound and branded." With little care, he tore the girl's arm from her side, holding it upward and tearing back the ragged sleeve. Very plainly upon her forearm, pink and blistered in its newness, was the mark of the damned—a crude eye with a cross drawn through the middle. The girl winced when Aldous drew his thumb across it. "Burned not an hour ago, Ser."

"Excellent," my father began, to my own disbelief. He is not a cruel man. In fact, our subjects have often praised him for his mercy and kind nature. Yet he seemed to regard this mage as less than human. They all did, I realized, my eyes furtively scanning our court. "And the collar—did she resist?"

"She was too weak from the poison, yet. Couldn't move—could only watch," he smiled. "Her power was easily dampened. Allow me to show you—" Pulling two rough, topaz stones from his pockets, Aldous pressed their flattened ends together. Immediately, the girl cried and collapsed upon the ground, the sound causing me to flinch. "As usual, the magic has been reduced to its glamor use. If she attempts a more… expansive output, she will be shocked, of course."

When my father nodded, Aldous tapped the girl with the toe of his boot, demanding she rise to her knees once again. With some effort, limbs still shaking, she managed to pull herself up.

"Good, good…" Eyes narrowing, Father turned towards me then, leaning back in his seat. A soft smile played across his lips. "Delphine—what do you see when you look at this Blood-Born?"

The eyes of the court turned to me, and I felt my panic rising. What was I to say? Surely, it was a test—of my faith and obedience.

Clearing my throat, eyes darting between the girl, the alchemist, and my father, I said, "She is young." It was all I could muster.

Curiously, my father laughed. "Perhaps. She looks to match you in years. Yet you, my dear, are an innocent yet. Sweet. This girl—" He pointed to her. "—is a criminal. A thief. My guardsmen found her and her friends hijacking a noble's carriage outside the Woods of Nara. Unfortunately, she was the only scoundrel we were able to catch." He paused, quirking his head to the side. "And what a catch. We don't often find Blood-Borns above ground these days. And they make for such fine workers, once wrested into submission." Regarding the mage, he said, "Fine entertainment, too."

His smile broadened, and he turned to me again. "Would you like to see her perform?"

I didn't want to disappoint him, so I said, "Yes, Father." And at the demand of the king, the rough cajoling of the alchemist, the girl stood.

It was the first I'd seen her with her chin up, face unobstructed by dark, wavy hair. Her face was soft, despite the small cuts and bruises that currently marred it. Her brown eyes were somehow both vulnerable and bold as she met Father's gaze and nodded.

With a wave of her manacled hands, chapped lips moving quickly over near-silent incantations, every sconce in the hall died, the room falling into a darkness broken only by the moonlight streaming in through the windows, pyres burning in the distance.

As a collective gasp and hushed murmur erupted from the court, the girl raised her hands slightly above her head, fingers twirling. Bright, colorful sparks exploded from the ceiling, dying halfway in their descent towards the floor, well above our heads. They popped in vivid patterns, leaving bright spots behind my eyes.

The king whooped and cheered, laughing at the display, my mother soon following, and then the court, as well. Aldous stood back with his arms crossed over his chest, grimacing slightly, though his eyes were still trained on the sight above him. All eyes were.

Except for mine. In spite of the beauty bursting from the ceiling, captivating the court, I found I could not take my eyes from the girl—the agility of her slight hands, the soft movement of her lips, the look of concentration that knitted her brow. She was beautiful.

When her gaze dropped, the court still clapping, our eyes met for but a moment. Though her visage was sad, wreathed in the flickering colors of her magic, something in it set my heart to pounding.

I never expected a monster could look so lovely.

The mage is a near-nightly fixture in the court. After dinner, while the servants prepare our dessert, the guards lead her into the hall, each carrying a pair of the binding stones Aldous created. I am pleased that they have not used them yet while in my presence. I can still hear her anguished cry from the first day, can see her crumpled form in my mind.

She is obedient, never speaking, aside from the customary, "Yes, My Lord," and "No, My Lord." She performs her tricks with a blank face. Sometimes she catches me staring. Then, her eyes narrow, almost in confusion.

Father asks her to perform for me specifically. "Do a trick for the princess," he'll demand. "Make the girl smile." He and mother both agree I've been too solemn. If they let me leave the castle more often, allowed me to interact with someone other than one of their vapid handmaidens, my disposition might change. As it is, this life tires me.

I don't like having to look down on others, to command or control them. The underlings are not inherently worse than me, in any way. They've merely been born into different circumstance.

Just like the mage.

Though she is different, and I feel it whenever she is near. She comes to stand before me at the table, hands no longer bound in manacles, and I stiffen involuntarily. Whenever her gaze meets mine, I can't help the breath catching in my throat, the flutter of my heart.

She's so powerful, I tell myself. So dangerous. And though she dresses in rags, lives in the servants' stables like livestock, she somehow maintains the presence, the bearing of a noble.

Tonight, she does not make her pretty explosions, does not make the chairs move, or turn Mother's wine to ice. Instead, she looks me in the eye, and pulls a white lotus flower from the pocket of her trousers, placing it on the table in front of me.

The flower is crushed, its petals wilted, either from being plucked or stuffed inside of her pocket. I look down at it quietly, my parents regarding the act with curiosity.

"Clutch it in your hand, Milday," she tells me, making a fist. "Like this." Hesitantly, I do as she says, holding the lotus aloft in my fist. Gently, she presses her index finger into the flower's faded yellow center, lips moving wordlessly.

My eyes widen, jaw falling open as the lotus comes to life in my palm, the color returning to it—green to the stem; yellow to its center; a crisper white to its petals, which seem to blossom anew. Rejuvenated, I can feel the life coursing through it. My heart swells with joy, amazement.

Unable to help myself, I whisper, "It's beautiful," and look up at the girl with a genuine smile. For a moment, I forget entirely who she is, what she is capable of.

They say Blood-Borns have the power to burn whole kingdoms to the ground, if left unchecked. Yet this girl, eyes bright and soft, makes flowers bloom.

She smiles. For the first time since she entered our court. She smiles delicately, and I feel my own grin broadening.

Later, as dessert is concluded and the guards are leading her back to her stall, I stare down at the flower, now placed in a cup of water beside to my plate, and pluck up the courage to rise from my seat.

"Wait," I demand, with the regal poise my parents have instilled in me. The guards halt immediately.

"Yes, Milady?"

Keeping my distance, I glance at the girl, head held high, and ask, "What is your name?"

After a beat, her head tilting slightly, she tells me. "Cosima."

All my life, my servants have feared me, at least to some degree. This, my mother and father have taught me, is how it is meant to be. For I am royalty. Someday, I will ascend, and sit upon a throne of my very own. Someday, the fate of a kingdom will rest in my upturned palm. If I deign to make a fist, that is my will and my right. Such power should make the underlings wary.

But not Cosima.

She is to serve me now, in addition to entertaining the court. Father found it to be a fitting punishment—that the thief, the rebel, should wash the feet of the princess. Should braid her hair and feed her sweetcakes in her chamber at night before returning to the stables to sleep like an animal.

She is a criminal, yet the thought of her, cold and damp, swaddled in a bed of straw as I lay my head upon goose-down, warm and safe, makes me shiver. Only marginally less so than her presence, I have found.

Cosima is peculiar, for a Blood-Born. She does not strike me as being particularly malicious; and while Aldous assures me this benign façade is to be expected, as part of some clever ruse, I find her violence eludes me.

Still, she is quiet, if not resentful. In the evenings, she dips her finger into the perfumed waters of my tub to heat them. They scald my pale skin when I step in. At my demand, Cosima dips her finger again, this time sending a shock of ice through the water.

"Cosima," I scold, the firmness of my tone enough to make her relent. When she thinks I am not looking, she shakes with suppressed laughter, and dips her finger a final time, warming the waters to a perfect temperature.

I'm not used to being teased like this—not by servants. I can feel her gaze pinned to my back as she draws a wet cloth slowly across my shoulder blades, and shiver again.

I fear her.

She asks me why my body trembles, and I automatically tell her, "You frighten me." It is the response I have been conditioned to give.

The cloth stills over my back, falling gently into the tub. The teasing edge has left her voice when she quietly asks me, "Why?"

After a pause, I force myself to swallow my shame. I have every right to fear her, her kind. I should feel no guilt for my answer.

"You know why," I say, my voice near a whisper.

"You don't understand me."

I look over my shoulder. Her dark eyes, sparkling in the ocher shade cast from the fireplace, stare into her lap. There is a wrinkle in her brow, a frown upon her lips. She doesn't understand me either. My chest constricts unexpectedly.

"I am not violent," she insists, voice quiet, brittle.

I fold my knees into my chest, holding them tightly. Breath quickening, I explain, "You could be. Your magic… you have the potential to be violent."

"The potential?" She raises her head defiantly, as no servant of mine has ever done before. Her eyes dance with a flame all their own. "I have never hurt another living creature with my magic—that is the truth. And could I? I don't know. That remains to be seen." She pauses, licking her lips. When she continues, her voice is sharper. "Your people, on the other hand, are the ones who tagged and collared me like a hound. They have already proven themselves violent."

I am stiff, unable to formulate a response. She laughs suddenly, sardonically. "A dog, they call me. What a joke. The damn dogs here are better fed than I am." Cosima shakes her head, and meets my eyes. The moment she does, I look away, flushed. "I know what you've been taught. But you must understand—there is a difference between potential and action. I was born with the potential for chaos. I did not ask for it. I did not seek it. It has always been in my blood. Your kind—they have sought it. They have armed themselves with blades and bolts. They wield poisons and strange powders that smoke and explode when set to flame. They are the ones waging wars."

I stare into the cooling waters. Cosima's reflection, warped in the flickering candlelight, rises from her vigil beside the tub. Her shadow overtakes me in this dim corner, looming imperiously over my frame, despite her small stature.

"Princess." I raise my head slowly, glancing over my shoulder again. I stare distractedly at her abdomen, her tunic clearly loose upon her frame. Her hands are balled into fists at her side, though when she speaks, there is more distress in her tone than anger. "You must fear those who create the destruction. Not those who condemn it." After a moment's pause, I tentatively lift my head. Her eyes are soft, broken. Without even realizing it, perhaps, she raises one hand to the collar at her throat. "I would never hurt you."

The words are sincere—impossibly so. I can feel my throat closing around tears. Cosima turns slowly and walks to my chamber door. She halts, hand raised towards the handle. With her back to me, she instructs, "Tell me I am dismissed for the evening."

It dawns on me only later, as I lay awake staring out my window, the stables small and dark on a distant hill, that she has given me an order. In this moment, I feel such regret I can scarcely move.

"Cosima—" I begin, unsure of what I will say; but she stops me.

"Tell me that I may return to my stall."

True to the role that has been forced upon her, she does not take her leave until my word has been given.

She is more timid after our argument, more subservient. Earlier in the day, I'd felt some sort of offense at her defiance. How dare she, I'd thought. I am a princess, and she—is Cosima. And she—the magic coursing through her veins, the dog collar notwithstanding—is unlike anybody I have ever known.

Royalty means very little to her. She may call me Princess, but I have never once thought that she looked at me and saw just that.

So, when she comes to me the next night, taking orders, calling me "Milady" and "Your Worship," I can't help but grow frustrated. The titles alienate me, make me feel separate from Cosima, though she may be a servant. I glance over to the windowsill where her lotus sits in a wooden cup, as fresh and lively as the night she placed it before me in the great hall. Not a single petal has since fallen. It is magic, in motion.

Her servitude is not.

"Enough, Cosima," I say, my voice exasperated, hurt. She glances up at me uncertainly, kneeling before my bed with a proffered wineskin, held aloft for my taking. Her brow furrows in confusion and uncertainty. I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself.

"I apologize," she says quietly, "Princess."

"No," I say, running my hands through my hair. I shake my head. "No, Cosima…"

"What have I—" She stops, lowering the wineskin slowly, cautiously. After a moment, she sighs, her docile tone abandoned. "Last night, I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did. I'm sure any other servant would be taken to the stocks—"

"No," I say sharply, grabbing her by the wrist. I mean only to comfort her; but the moment my fingers close over her skin, I realize my mistake. I have never touched her before, not in this way. She has run a brush through my hair, washed my back, rubbed my feet. The touches have been warm, if not tentative. But I have never touched her.

Heat crawls immediately up my neck, my hand burning. Her wrist is thin, and I can feel the pulse skipping within it. The beat thrums harder than the energy that had coursed through my fist the evening she had brought the lotus to life. How powerful she must be, I think. And though it is foolish, childish—dangerous—I have to wonder: What can she do without that collar?

I release her wrist gently, removing the wineskin from her hand. The pull I take from it is unladylike.

After a moment, she swallows, and asks, "No?"

"I just mean—" I lick the wine from my lips, fearing that I may be nearing some line. Dangerous, I tell myself. Monster. Abomination. Blood-Born. The words of my father, of the alchemist, echo in my mind. But my eyes dart once again to the lotus; to Cosima staring up at me ashamedly, entreatingly, and I can't possibly believe it. "When you spoke to me last night, it was not in the way you would speak to a princess—" Fear darts through her eyes, and I smile. "I think I… I like that. And maybe I didn't at first, but it is nice."

"Really," she asks me, almost disbelieving.

I chuckle, feeling suddenly giddy from this unexpected admission, from this uncharted territory. "Yes," I tell her, nodding. "Being the king's daughter can be very exhausting."

With some hesitation, she cracks a small smile, glancing rather conspicuously at the wine. I raise an eyebrow, handing it to her. Graciously, she accepts it, taking a long drink. She, too, licks her lips, sighing. Her tongue is very pink, I notice.

Handing the wine back, she asks, "So… are you saying I should… argue with you more often?"

I chuckle again. "No. I just think… I like that you treat me like a regular person." Like an equal, I think, my stomach twisting with joy and anxiety.

"Oh, okay. That's reasonable."

"Yes," I nod. "I'd like for you to do that from now on."

"All the time?"

I shrug. "Why not?" She shrugs, too, smiling at the ease of it. "You can start by calling me by my name, instead of some pompous title." Her eyes widen in anticipation. "Delphine," I tell her, smiling.

"Delphine," she says slowly, seeming to sample my name on her tongue.

She must enjoy the taste, because she says it again, and again, each time the timbre of her voice making my stomach twist pleasantly.

Father's laughter echoes through the great hall, the pheasant and wine flying from his mouth in gross flecks. "Again," he shouts, clapping his hands.

"As you wish, My Liege." Cosima smiles brightly. Her confidence has grown vastly in the past month as the court has come to accept her, less as an animal to be feared, to be spat on, and more as a jester—something harmless, sterilized. They still call her "Blood-Born," sometimes "Dog," much to my quiet vehemence, yet they laugh with her, accept her smiles. Sometimes they even offer her scraps off of their plates.

I have to remind myself that she was born into this harsh reception, that it is what she has faced her entire life. That, cold as the nobility may be, we have offered her relative protection; a seat by the fire; three meals a day in exchange for her chores, tricks, and servitude. For the first time in her life, she is able to live without stealing, or, to some degree, hiding.

The highborn in me wants to believe that this is more than enough. That what we have given to Cosima is fair and generous, that she ought to be grateful. But such thinking is objective. It is the way a future queen must view the serfs.

When she comes to my chamber in the evenings, though, she is not washing my feet, or warming the water basin the entire time. That is not what I have come to expect, not what I anticipate with excitement throughout each day, each tiring dinner.

We talk, instead. For hours, sometimes. I tell her of my dreams, of my hopes for the kingdom, of the romantic books that I have been reading. In exchange, Cosima tells me about her life growing up, about the band of thieves she'd called her family. She tells me of the roads she has travelled, the strange lands she has seen. When she is feeling bold (when the wineskin is empty), she tells me of the magic, of the persecution.

She never dwells on the topic very long, evading it at her first opportunity. But in those brief moments, I never fail to notice the way shadows pool around her eyes, the way her hand drifts unconsciously towards the collar, tugging gently.

This is how I know that we have done nothing more for Cosima than trading one hardship for another, more unfamiliar one. This is how I know that we are hurting her—my confidant.

My friend.

I clutch my fork tightly in my hand. "Again," father says, for the second time, his voice overloud with mirth and wine. "Again, Mage!"

I gaze upon him with distaste—my father, my king—desperate to rebuke him, if only under my breath. I stop myself when I feel her eyes upon me, watching.

She must sense my black mood, my rebellious thoughts. Gaze gentle, warm, she smiles at me, the corner of her mouth hitching slightly. Raising her eyebrows, she shakes her head once, subtle enough that only I should pick up on it.

She replenishes Father's cup with wine once more, never once touching the bottle. All it takes is a single wave of her hand, one of her quiet incantations, and the king is laughing again, clapping uproariously.

"Take this, girl," he says, boorishly throwing a piece of meat in Cosima's direction. "You've earned it." Surprised, she very nearly drops the pheasant, fumbling with it while the court carries on, howling.

"All right. That's enough for tonight, Henri," Aldous says, rising from his place at the table. He smiles at my father, sparkling grin never once touching his eyes, which are tight and suspicious. Cosima stiffens when the alchemist places his hand on her shoulder and jests, "We don't want to spoil the livestock." The glass I'd been raising to my lips suspends halfway. Cosima refuses to meet my eyes this time.

Drunk and distractible, my father doesn't protest as Aldous leads Cosima out the doors, flanked by guards. I don't miss the vice grip he has around her forearm, the way he leans in closely to whisper in her ear as they round the corner.

Later that night, when Cosima comes to me for our nightly ritual, she does not speak. Instead, she trembles, flinching the few times I attempt to touch her.

She will not tell me why she shakes, why the darkness crowds around her gaze. But she also does not protest when I ask her to lay atop the sheets in my bed until the guards come for her retrieval.

She is asleep before they arrive. It pains me to wake her.

When my parents admonish me for spending too much time in the library, I boldly suggest that I would have no need to, were they to allow me spend time in my own kingdom.

This has always been a point of contention between us. With tensions from the war looming constantly over our heads, tarnishing the morale of our subjects, the nobility have had no choice but to harbor fears, particularly for the young—to overprotect.

"The streets are no place for a princess," my mother would always tell me. "We can't always trust the underlings to conduct themselves in the proper fashion."

But if I am to be a ruler someday, too, then it is important for me to foster goodwill amongst our subjects, I argue. To nurture their sense of trust and adoration. When I see Father falter on this point, I press my advantage, asserting, "And I'm certain no commoner would dare to come near me if Cosima were my guide. They fear the Blood-Borns even more than we do."

I am surprised when they acquiesce with little fussing. As I wait for the guardsman to retrieve Cosima from her afternoon chores, Father, smiling impishly, whispers to me, "You're more clever than we give you credit for, my dear. You'll make a fine queen, indeed."

I take Cosima's arm in the crook of my own as we stroll the town square. She seems bashful at first, perhaps even a little self-conscious.

Her voice is quiet when she asks me, head bowed, "Do they all know what the collar means?"

"Some of them," I answer honestly. "But…" I struggle to find the most pacifying explanation. "You are not my prisoner here. They can see that."

Cosima nods. When she lifts her head again, it is with a soft smile, the midafternoon sunlight glinting in her eyes. I don't often get to see her in the sun; nor has she been able to enjoy it in the months since her capture, lest it be with a trowel in hand, toiling over the damp earth.

As we walk through the marketplace, she softens, allowing me to lean into her side more, laughing with me as she often does in my chamber each night. When the commoners come near me though, I can feel her stiffen, moving her body in front of mine protectively. She does not look down on them I notice.

I can't help but think of the books I've been reading, of the knights who sweep princesses off their feet, take them away. They are dashing, morally strong, with unflappable kindness in their hearts.

As we near the edge of the marketplace, near the kingdom's gates, Cosima's eyes linger through the bars. I wonder if it is only the freedom she longs for, or her family, too.

When I ask her if she is all right, she tells me, "I miss the forest."

"You do?"

"The Woods of Nara are more beautiful than any I've travelled before," she remarks pensively, smiling in spite of the sadness now edging around her gaze.

"I've never see them."

"What?" She stops us, eyebrows raised.

Feeling embarrassed, I begin to backtrack. "From the castle tower, of course. But, I've never…"

"Have you ever left," she asks me, incredulously.

"This—" I look around at the town square, my subjects, feeling the blush flame across my cheeks. But Cosima is not judging me. Merely inquiring. "This is my kingdom," I tell her, resolutely. "I'm not permitted to leave."

"I understand," she says, brow furrowing; but I'm not certain that she does. "Do you ever want to?"

I shrug, unable to stop thinking of my books, or Cosima's vivid stories of the world outside. I would like to leave, but—"I don't think it is my place. Besides… it can be very dangerous out there." Not even I believe my words. We slow to a stop once again, and Cosima tugs on my sleeve. She cants her head towards the gates, out at the Narian Forest.

"It's not all…" she sighs, shaking her head. "There is danger in here, too—danger everywhere. Trying to hide… it just ends up feeling lonely, I think."

This I know she understands.

A few nights later she comes to my chamber, half anxious, half giddy, and tells me, "Follow my instructions. I promise, it will be nice."

I realize I've long passed the point where I question whether or not I should trust her. For me, it seems impossible not to. Particularly when she speaks to me so sweetly, her smile radiant.

She knows all of the secret passageways, the dark corridors scarcely travelled by guards. She seems to have memorized their watch route, as well. When I ask her how, she smiles slyly and says, "It pays to make friends with the help."

We escape from the palace by a small, hidden gangway out the side of the building. "There are dozens of these around the castle—did you know?"

"I've… heard. Are they escape routes? In the event of a siege?"

"Mhm," she nods. "Makes it easy to get in and out."

"Have you done this before," I ask, as she leads us towards one of Mother's many gardens. In truth, they are planted and tended to by servants—Mother merely admires them. I enjoy strolling them with her, but she has not had much time to do so, as of late. However, I'm quickly finding that I enjoy them more in the moonlight, in Cosima's vibrant company.

"No," she laughs. "The only time I'm allowed any sort of freedom is when I'm with you. I'd never get away with this on my own." She frowns slightly. "I'd hardly enjoy this without you anyway."

There's a flutter in my stomach, a blush crawling up my neck once again. Anxiously, I brush a strand of hair behind my ear, and take Cosima's hand in my own.

"But, uhm," she averts her gaze, as well, clearing her throat, "we don't have the most time. C'mon." She tugs on my hand, drawing me through the maze of Mother's garden—over the bridge that crosses the pond, pale water-lilies bobbing atop the water. As we reach the end, she rushes in front of me, towards the summerhouse. "Okay—hold here a moment, all right?" Biting down on my smile, I nod, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good—just… ten seconds!"

It takes thirty, but I don't dare correct her as she loudly whispers, "Ready!" I want to run into the summerhouse, but force my pace to slow. She is standing at the center, the gazebo enshrouded in darkness. "Come—close," she whispers, waving me nearer. My feet comply of their own accord.

Standing inches from her, I can see Cosima's bright smile take shape in the pitch black night.

"What is it," I ask, my heart suddenly pounding. We are so close. I can smell her—a hint of sweat and fragrant earth; and a third, more floral scent entirely her own.

"This," she says, snapping her fingers.

All around us, cascading from the summerhouse ceiling, a hundred motes of light wink into existence, pulsing softly. I gasp, Cosima's face flickering when her name tumbles from my mouth.

"This is…" The remark trails off as my eyes wander about the ceiling. Looking down, there are an equal amount of vibrant, overlarge flowers blooming from between the floorboards, too. It's a more beautiful sight than I've ever seen before. It's—

"Magic," she says, capturing my attention once again. My mouth goes dry. The lights and flowers are a spectacle, true. But it is hard to pay them any mind when Cosima is gazing at me with such affection, such joy. "Not so scary, is it?"

My beating heart swells. This is so unfair, I think—that Cosima—our servant, our slave—would deign to offer me such a gift, in spite of her captivity. That she can smile with such sincerity, in spite of the collar forced around her neck. That she should care for me, regardless of my kinship with those who have bound her.

I've never felt quite so foolish before. How had I never considered just how unfair this all truly is?

It pains me enough that I must turn away from her.

"Hey… wait," she says, confusion coloring her voice as I fight to bite down on my tears. "Delphine, did I… is this too much? Did I make a mistake?" When I don't respond, she steps forward, her voice more urgent, embarrassed. "It's too extravagant. I shouldn't have assumed—" I spin rapidly on my heel, startling her. She goes immediately still, eyes wide before meeting my own, her brow furrowing. "No, don't cry. Delphine, I'm sorry—"

"You're sorry?"

"I am! I am—" And I can't bear it.

"No," I tell her, rushing forward to cup her cheeks in my hands. They are so warm, so soft. "No, Cosima."

When I look back on this moment later and I attempt to rationalize my behavior, there is only one sound explanation: magic. It is what causes me to surge forward, to swallow the self-deprecation forming on her tongue.

When I look back on this moment later, I will think of what the alchemist had taught me, and what his dusty tomes had so often cautioned Natural-Borns against: the Bloods will possess you. And while I can admit that, yes, that is true, I will sooner admit that I welcomed it.

With Cosima's mouth moving against mine. First with a question, with apprehension; then with absolute fervor and affection—I welcomed it.

A night in my chamber is never the same after that night in the garden.

At first we are tentative, made nervous by our relative innocence. At one time, I had been saving all my kisses, all my ardent touches for a valiant knight. But with Cosima's hand brushing gently through my hair, the fire crackling upon the hearth, I feel that I have found something so much more special than that.

The knight may ride triumphant from battle with the sun at their back, admirers at their feet; but Cosima is the one bringing the light. She seeks no veneration for her candescence.

Together we are explorers. We map the terrain of each other's flesh—the valleys and peaks—with curiosity and abandon. We make maps in the creases of our linens, committed to memorizing every path and passage. Cosima says that we can take our time—that we should. But this tenderness is an adventure, and I fear she has stricken me with a terrible wanderlust.

In the beginning of the summer, our sister kingdom—one of our greatest allies—is the victim of attack. Their army is strong, and their treaty with my father even stronger. They manage to uphold their palace, taking a fair amount of structural damage. However, the arbitrary timing of the attack takes the kingdom by surprise, and there are many casualties. The Southern battalion withdraws well before they can be slain.

No matter which castle falls, the attack is a clear threat towards Nara—a warning. We are coming for you.

Our soldiers are tirelessly exercised, with boys barely old enough to swing swords forced into their ranks. I see less of my father as he spends the majority of his days patrolling the training grounds, holding council in the war-room with his advisors. He sends Naran ambassadors out almost daily now, in an attempt to gather more allies—particularly over the eastern mountains. When he returns to mother and I, on nights such as this, amidst elaborate feasts meant to placate and distract, he is almost always drunk.

The alchemist, surpassing even the confidence of Father's Knight-Commander, sits beside him at our table, flanked by Mother and myself on the other side. Whenever the king's chalice seems to have been emptied of its drink, Aldous is quick to replenish it the moment his back is turned. All evening he whispers secretively into Father's ear, his smile shrewd, each man booming with laughter at whatever words are exchanged.

As is custom, the guardsmen lead Cosima into the great hall before dessert. Father hollers enthusiastically at the sight of her. "There she is," he claps, never tiring of her magic. Aldous, on the other hand, places his chin in his hand and stares out the window in feigned disinterest. It's clear how tightly he winds his spindly frame in her presence, how he grinds his jaw. He refuses to glance at her even once as she performs, despite the ruckus Father is creating beside him.

After she is finished, and dessert has been served, Cosima meanders about the table, refilling cups, answering the court's invasive, condescending questions. We try not to glance at each other, lest we be so obvious in our tenderness, but it is hard to avoid.

Eventually though, Father turns his attention to me.

He asks of my studies, of the books I've been reading. If he ever speaks of the war, it is never directly, so I hold no illusions of his intention when he claps me on the shoulder abruptly and says, "Perhaps soon, my dear, we may even find a capable young man for you to wed. A mountainer, maybe?"

I nearly choke on my wine, while Cosima, who had been refilling the alchemist's goblet, fumbles her own bottle onto the tabletop. The drink spills over Aldous' plate, dribbling quickly into his lap. Furious, he knocks his seat back from the table, rising to grab Cosima by her hair.

"Clumsy pig," he shouts, flecks of spittle flying into her face. She winces against the pain of both his grasp and his venomous tone. "You want the stones again?"

My heart drops into my stomach with both a mixture of anger and fear. Luckily, before I have the chance to open my mouth and cause any more damage, Father stands and places a hand on the alchemist's shoulder.

"Aldous," he says, voice light yet firm. "Calm yourself. The blunder of a child is no cause for embarrassment." Aldous narrows his eyes, his hold on Cosima lessening only marginally. Chuckling, Father taps him on the temple. "You must cool yourself, my friend."

I do not breathe again until, begrudgingly, the alchemist lets her go, passing her a brief, warning glare before doing so. My father, oblivious to this display, can only laugh, throwing an arm around Aldous' shoulder. "That's better. Now—come. Let us have some more wine." He snaps his fingers. "Girl—you must clean up after yourself."

Ashamed, perhaps, or even afraid, Cosima does not meet my gaze for the rest of the evening. In my chamber later, we do not speak. We merely hold each other until the fire dies down, her body once again wracked with unrelenting tremors.

We are solemn the next couple evenings. Despite Father's apparent flippancy when drunk, he is steadfast in his intentions to find me a husband. "By the end of summer," he'd told me, my heart sinking. "A young man from the East—Alpencrest, we were thinking. The mountainers have a formidable army."

I have many reasons to be angry, despite the inevitability of my betrothal. My father would be using me as a pawn, essentially, to secure an alliance with the neutral territories in the east. Clearly, this war is more important than I am.

In spite of all this, though, the only thing I can seem to think of anytime my parents mention marriage is the girl currently lying beside me in bed.

We are face-to-face, quiet. Cosima has been cagey since Father's proclamation in the great hall, since the alchemist laid hands on her. I shudder to think how often it may happen when I am not around. She rarely comes to me with bruises, but I know that a physical blow is not Aldous' only means of punishment.

"You are so quiet," I tell her, tracing her cheek gently with my index finger. The window is open. Distant laughter carries in on the breeze.

"I suppose."

I move my hand down to her hip and she stiffens. "Why don't you tell me what happened this time, Cosima?" She closes her eyes. "Please." I am afraid that she, too, will bring up the betrothal. I can sense that she wants to.

Instead, she opens her eyes, jaw clenched, and simply says, "Leekie."

"The alchemist," I affirm, spitting his title harshly.

"He's…" She fumbles for the words. "I don't understand it. I know that there are many who hate what I am. To be Blood-Born is no better than an abomination. But Leekie—he hates me. Truly." All I can do is inhale deeply, clamping down on my resentment. Cosima continues, more quietly. "He gives me the stones most nights, when we return to the stables. It's not about retribution anymore, I don't think. He just finds some sort of… sick pleasure in it." She scowls, her eyes closing again. "It's… it's horrifying, Delphine. If you've ever thought my magic was terrible—the man presses those stones together, and the collar sends a wave of heat through my body. The blood… it just boils. I feel like I'm being turned inside out."

"Cosima." I hold her to my chest, partially to comfort her, but also partially to hide the tears forming in my eyes.

After a long moment, she whispers, "I can bear it, Delphine—for these hours with you. But, if—" Her voice cracks. "If you are wed—if your father sends you away—I don't know what I will do."

"Cosima," I say again, this time not bothering to hide the tears in my voice. "If there was a way for me to take you from here—to be with only you—"

"I know," she says, holding me tighter. "I would show you the forests, the beaches. The mountains."

I smile, my heart swelling again. "I would like that, my love. Very much."

Against my collarbone, I can feel her smiling in kind, if only lightly. "I would build a home for you, too. Perhaps not a palace… but you would still be my queen." And you, I think—my protector, my hero.

My eyes seek the cup on the windowsill, where Cosima's lotus stands livelier than ever before.

It is easy to pretend, when we are alone in my chamber, that only we exist. That there is no war being fought outside these walls, that there is no impending betrothal, no collar around Cosima's neck. With my frock rucked up about my hips, my hand slipping beneath the band of my lover's trousers, it is easy to imagine our truth. Impossible not to.

Nearly two bottles have been emptied on the table beside the bed, both of us feeling dizzy with the mixture of wine and intimacy. When I touch Cosima, her body wet and wanting, she gasps, eyes tightly closing. From the corner of my eye, I can see the flames jumping in their sconces, the fire momentarily roaring in response to her abandon.

"Delphine," she breathes, my own body throbbing with desire at the sound. I cannot close my eyes—not now. Not when she is so beautiful.

"Look at me," I tell her, and she can't deny me. "My heart," I say, eliciting a moan with curled fingers.

"Delphine—more. Please."

We are careless together. Oblivious, I would later realize. Sweat begins forming on both of our bodies, the temperature in the room climbing rapidly as Cosima returns her pleasure, and we begin rocking together. We can see only each other, or nothing at all.

When we begin to tumble over the edge, the moment pulling us under, there is a pounding on the door.

"Keep going," I hiss, the words muffled in Cosima's shirt. But the pounding does not cease, and soon the heat is overwhelming, and there are cries from the other side of the door. It is not until we come down from our haze that I can focus my dizzied vision.

The curtains have caught fire.

"Shit!" Cosima, a second behind me, scrambles off the bed. "Put it out," I say. I've barely had time to readjust my skirt before the guards are kicking open the door.

There is a flurry of activity—pots of water being thrown, the guards ushering us from the room and into the corridor.

"This is your doing, isn't it?" One guard grabs Cosima by the collar of her shirt. "The bloody flames start jumping off the wall, and all of a sudden, there's smoke coming from beneath the princess' door! Damned magic, it is!"

"Ser," I shout, assuming an authoritative tone. "You release her this instant." He hesitates. But before he has the chance to cede to my demand, Aldous is rounding the corner, lackeys in tow. There is such ferocity in his gait that I have to take a step back.

He barely glances in Cosima's direction before he has her by the neck, slamming her into the wall. When I hear her head smack against it, I cry in protest.

"You," he roars. "You filthy animal! How dare you—"

"Aldous," I snarl, rushing forward to grab his arm, to try and pry him off of her. He throws an elbow, shoving me back. The guards restrain me, much to my aggravation. "Do not touch her!"

Sneering, he trains his gaze on me. "She is a disease! And your fascination with her is perverted."

"Do not—touch her," I repeat slowly, my breath heaving. He sweeps his gaze across my frame, a look of disgust on his face. The hand around Cosima's throat tightens.

"You think that just because you are the king's daughter you hold any power over me?" He shakes his head. "You are a child." He turns his gaze back to Cosima, sneer deepening. "A stupid—" Smack. "—child!" He knees her hard in the abdomen, the breath leaving her in an audible whoosh. I cry as she falls to the ground, struggling against the guards' hold.

Aldous pulls the stones from his pocket then, and Cosima is screaming, overwhelmed with her agony.

"No," I shout. "Please—no!"

After what seems like an eternity of Cosima's anguish, Aldous pulls the stones apart, towering over her prone frame.

"Men," he orders, "you take her straight to the dungeon this time. Do not leave her unshackled. I will tend to her after I've spoken with the king." The guards nod. As they are forcing her off the ground, she is able to lift her head long enough to meet my gaze. There is an apology in her eyes. I can't hold back my tears.

After she has been carried out of sight, Aldous turns around, face hard, and grabs me roughly by the arm. "You will not leave this room," he tells me, forcing me back into my chamber. "They—" He points to the remaining guards. "—will see to it."

The curious thing about time is that, contrary to any apparent evidence, one always presumes they have more of it.

Mother and Father certainly did, during our many extravagant dinners, when, as the heady aura of war was crowding in around us, they would laugh and imbibe and act as though all was safe within the kingdom of Nara. Act as if nothing at all could hurt us.

For them, there was more time for my betrothal. More time to ready the men and secure the women. More time to be a family—together, if not necessarily happy.

I was not so different than them, I suppose. All those nights spent alone in my chamber with Cosima, all those tender touches and bottles of wine shared. We were merely delaying the inevitable. Of course, when I say We, I really mean I.

Cosima knew—in all those nights she held me at arm's length, or refused to speak; the apology in her eyes as Leekie's guards dragged her to the dungeons. She knew how this would end.

Or, she thought she did.

The timing is uncanny, if not horrific. The southern kingdom attacks before dawn the next morning, pressing in from the rear with aid from none other than the mountainers of Alpencrest. This is how I know we've lost before the battle has even begun—my father has been made a fool. They have first taken his dignity, and they will next take his head.

Nara will pay for his misjudgments in blood.

The guards outside of my chamber abandoned their post in the tumult, but the door remains locked from the outside. I pound and holler until my voice is raw, until my fists are stuck with splinters. With the sounds of battle encroaching on all sides, I take to pacing the stone floors in a panic, convinced I will die in my chamber. And Cosima—

Creators help us. My attention is stolen by the lotus sitting upon the windowsill, defiantly lively while, outside the glass, plumes of dark grey smoke rise in the distance, bodies harrying across the landscape in their wake. I shake my head and force a deep inhale, taking the lotus from its perch. Strength, I think. Give me strength. Make me brave, like her.

I'm stuffing the lotus into my pocket when I hear the bolt click. My body goes stiff, half-expecting an invader, but instead it is only one of father's advisors—the scribe.

"We must go. Now," she tells me, tugging insistently on my arm. We dash from the room and down the corridor, the sound of footsteps seeming to echo in every direction around us. Already, I can see servants running to and fro, their need for escape palpable. They stare at me wide-eyed as they pass.

After a moment, the pounding in my heart having not lessened, I muster the courage to ask, "Where is Mother?"

The scribe falters for a moment. "We can't stop," she says, and already, my stomach is dropping.

"Where is she?"

"Captured," she answers, not daring to meet my gaze. I'm finding it harder to breathe.

"And my father?"

"He never made it onto the battlefield."

"Is he—"

"Not dead," she tells me, as we round another corner. I assume we will take the stairs, but instead we stride past them. I wonder if we are heading towards another passageway. "They want you all alive for—"

Before the scribe has a chance to finish that sentence, there is a crossbow bolt poking through her stomach. I scream, unable to help myself. Looking back, I see two guardsmen donning the southern crest—one cocking his crossbow for a second shot, and the other running towards me. I don't think. I can't.

I can only run, the advantage of familiarity on my side. While I may not know every secret passageway built into the castle, I do know every shortcut, every scarcely travelled corridor. Even weighted with armor, however, the guards are fast.

Unfortunately for them, I am still faster. More desperate.

Another crossbow bolt hits the stones besides my feet and ricochets towards the wall—a missed shot. If they can't kill or catch me, they will settle for incapacitation. I push myself a bit faster, legs and lungs already burning with exertion. Mother and Father may have prepared me for much in life, but never this kind of desolation.

Eventually, after rounding several corners, I've thrown off the guards long enough that I'm able to escape through one of ground-level laundry chutes. It is no coincidence—not for me—that I tumble from the shaft directly into the basement where, just several chambers away, behind a thickly bolted door, Cosima is imprisoned.

Though I've never seen the dungeon myself—scarcely been in the basement at all—I've heard enough talk to know exactly where it can be found. As I near it, I see the door has been left wide open.

The room is dark, save for one flickering sconce on the wall, and every small cell is empty—except, of course, for the cage at the very end of the room, wherein Cosima lies curled on the floor.

"Cosima," I call out, in a hissed whisper. "Cosima!" She does not wake, however. With a fresh wave of panic, I shake at the bars, my eyes frantically scanning the room. On the opposite wall there is a row of hooks, with a single key-ring hanging. "Hold on," I mutter, knowing she cannot hear me.

My hands are shaking so badly I have a difficult time getting the keys inside the lock. Once I find the right one, I practically kick the door open. On the floor, Cosima stirs.

"Cosima," I say again, kneeling on the floor beside her. I roll her onto her back, wincing when I see the painful blackness around her left eye, the dried blood beneath her nose and split lip. I shake her shoulders, fearing I may hurt her more. We have no choice. "Cosima, my love—please. You have to wake up. Now, Cosima—" She groans, her face scrunching up. With some difficulty, her right eye flutters open, the left swelled half-closed. "Thank the creators," I say in joy and relief, pulling her into my chest. I feel as though I could hold her for hours. My heart rate begins to drop.

After a moment, as she regains her bearings, her arms close around me, too. "Delphine," she says, voice muffled in my shirt. I pull back, looking her in the eyes. Despite everything, I smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Aren't you happy," I jest, my voice breaking. With a trembling hand, she reaches up to stroke my cheek.

"It's dangerous here—"

"It's dangerous everywhere, Cosima. We are under attack." My mouth goes dry again, panic returning. "And if we do not get out of here now, we may be captured." I omit the fact that they would likely dispose of Cosima entirely.

"What are you talking about," she asks, scrambling to sit up. I can see it pains her.

"The southerners, Cosima. They are outside these walls as we speak." My voice quivers as I finish. "They have Mother and Father."

"Shit." She cups my cheek again, this time pulling me into her embrace. "Shit—Delphine. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I say. "It's okay. But we have to—"

"We have to go," she finishes, releasing me. "Now—you and I. You're going to have to help me up though, because—"

"Here!" We both turn at the unfamiliar voice outside of the door. "Brannan—go alert the chief. We've found her." It's an entirely different set of Alpencrest guards—three this time.

"Of course, Ser." The guard at the back salutes quickly, then runs off towards the stairs. The two remaining smile at us, drawing their blades.

"We don't want to hurt you," The first guard says, the second close behind her. "And we're certainly not going to kill you… yet," she smirks. I stand up cautiously, Cosima grabbing my hand as I do so. She manages to hoist herself up, though her legs wobble terribly beneath her. In spite of this, she moves to stand in front of me, ever the protector.

The second guard quirks an eyebrow at the display, smiling. "Who's this now?"

"You better stay back," Cosima says, her bravado sounding a bit weak, even to me. "I'm Blood-Born."

Glancing at each other, the guards laugh. "Give it up, girl," the first one says. "You think we haven't heard all the stories about those dog collars?"

"Yeah," the man says, "they clamp down on your powers—fry your brain." Cosima's hands ball into fists at her sides as the guards continue to taunt her. The wobbling in her legs, however, seems to firm.

The woman steps forward, shaking her head. "How about you just let us have the girl, yeah? You're going to die either way. We'll make it quick if you step aside."

Hands beginning to glow, Cosima actually laughs. "I don't think so."

The guards advance much quicker now, swords drawn and ready. The aggravation is plain on their faces when Cosima steps forward too, her body writhing gently with energy. As she does so, the collar buzzes once, and she flinches.

"Cosima," I warn her, my worry plain. I've never seen her attempt to break the collar's limits before. We both know what kind of pain awaits her if she does—worse than the stones, perhaps.

"Stand down."

"No," Cosima growls, the glow about her body beginning to intensify. The collar buzzes once more, and again. She flinches.

"Please," I tell her; but we both know—if we have any chance of survival, this is it.

Sighing, the woman says, "Remember, Blood—you asked for this."

It all happens instantaneously. The woman swings her sword, second guard at her heels; I scream; and Cosima throws her hands up in a block, glowing with a strange white-blue energy. The woman's blade bounces off her hands, never once touching her flesh. Cosima screams though, nevertheless, the collar buzzing more persistently.

Shocked, the first guard gapes at her, dropping her focus for just a moment. And in that moment, Cosima's hand pushes forward, sending an unremitting shock of bright energy directly into the woman's chest. It burns clean through her armor.

I can't distinguish between Cosima's shouts of anguish and fury as the woman crumples to the floor, the magic unrelenting. By the time it ceases, Cosima has fallen to her knees, the buzz of the collar unending. The guard has perished.

The second guard stares down at his companion is utter disbelief, the fear plain on his face. A moment later, his gaze turns to Cosima, who reaches out a hand slowly, the energy swirling. Jaw slack, the man drops his sword, raising his hands in surrender. Slowly, he backs away, Cosima's eyes never leaving his, before turning on his heel and breaking into a sprint.

After he is gone, her shoulders slacken.

"Cosima!" I rush forward, concern overruling my shock. She holds out a hand, however, no longer glowing.

"Wait," she says, breathing heavily. "Just… more will come…" Abruptly, the glow returns, brighter than before. My brow furrows in worry.

"What are you—"

"They will return. And they will try to take you from me…" Cosima raises her hands towards the collar. I can't tell if she's trembling from the shocks or from the strength of her magic. Gritting her teeth, she says, "They will try to hurt you—"

Her hands close around the collar.

It is at once the most incredible, most awful thing I have ever seen. Cosima screams in agony as she grasps the collar, inciting every shock with the waves of magic she sends coursing through it. She falls completely to the floor, but does not let go. I fall to my knees, too—helpless.

When her screams finally cease, the glow dying out completely, I scramble towards her, urgently calling her name. As I pull her into my arms, the collar falls to the floor in pieces—useless.

Eyes fluttering, Cosima looks up at me and smiles. Mustering the strength from some deep, unfathomable reserve, she pulls me to her, capturing my lips in a kiss.

She tastes like magic.

She is free.

"I have never hurt another living creature with my magic—that is the truth. And could I? I don't know. That remains to be seen."

Much later on—months later, even—when we are far from Nara, Cosima will wake in the middle of the night sweating. She will describe the face of every guard she killed before we managed to finally escape that wretched battleground. She will feel remorse.

But she will always tell me, "I would do it again, for you. For us—I would kill a thousand men."

And though my heart will break just a little bit for the girl who never wanted to use her magic for anything but good, I will hold her tighter, and feel emboldened by the strength of our love.

As we are escaping the castle, hand in hand, the wind at our backs, we meet our last foe.

Limping, sword in hand, face bloodied, Aldous Leekie takes one look at Cosima's collarless throat and drops his blade.

"How," he asks.

But Cosima can only shake her head. "Just know that you can't hurt us anymore." We are about to turn from him, to continue running. But there is one thing that stops me.

"Have you seen my parents," I ask him. Slowly, Aldous raises his head. It is the first time I have ever seen him look truly regretful.

"The southerners have them. I don't… I don't know where they're taking them…"

Chest tightening, I nod, taking Cosima's hand.

"C'mon," she says lightly, eyeing me with love and concern.

As we are running away, I can hear the alchemist calling to us. "May the creators watch over you both!"

If only he could understand—we have no need for the creators. We have each other.

It is near sundown by the time we finally stop running. When we will make our way out of the Woods of Nara, I have no clue; but Cosima assures me they will provide us with adequate cover for the next few days, until the turmoil of the siege dies out. I try not to think about my parents, about where they may be, or what will happen to them. When Cosima squeezes my hand, my burden eases.

The light below the trees dims, and she illuminates our path with lights like fireflies. They hang over our heads, follow us on our trek.

"Trust me—I know where we're going," she keeps saying, and though I don't entirely believe her, I don't feel unsafe either.

Hours later, in the pitch black of night, we find a clear patch of earth amidst the trees, beside a brook. "Tomorrow, we can follow this. We'll bear the heat better." Brushing an errant curl behind my ear, her voice softens. "For now, you need to rest."

"But what about you—" I begin to protest.

"We'll sleep in shifts, okay? I don't mind staying up a bit later." She glances around the treetops and smiles lightly. "I'm enjoying the view."

Acquiescing, I manage to get comfortable beside the brook, sighing in relief at the cool air rising from it. The smell, too, calms me. Sitting down with her back against a rock, Cosima opens her arm to me. I don't hesitate to nestle into her side.

I can feel the exhaustion of the day quickly overtaking me. As I'm nodding off, however, a sudden thought occurs to me, and I quickly dig into my pocket.

"What's the matter?"

Without answering her, I pull the lotus from my pocket. Unlike the first evening Cosima pulled it from her own, it is not crumpled, or wilted.

As I hold it up to the moonlight breaking through the trees, it glows—pristine.