Sir Alvin The Reluctant

By Robbie Cole

In a kingdom where legends are born, and knights are prone to getting crisped by 
dragons' fire, one unlikely hero holds the realm's fate in his fumbling hands.

 

Alvin is a peasant renowned for spinning epic tales of battling beasts over frothing 
mugs at the local tavern. When a royal decree names Alvin the champion who 
must rescue Princess Brittany from the clutches of a fearsome dragon, he 
reluctantly accepts the dangerous quest. While avoiding becoming dragon chow, 
the boisterous braggart must struggle to live up to Brittany's and the kingdom's 
expectations if he is to become the hero he has only pretended to be. Only together 
can Alvin and the headstrong princess unravel sinister plots that threaten not only 
their lives but also the future of the realm.

 

Magical revelations and humor will keep you turning pages as this underdog 
knight battles forces beyond his wildest stories.

 

Sir Alvin, The Reluctant, will delight fantasy fans who love charming heroes who 
overcome inner demons to embrace their full potential against all odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robbie Cole
• Release date: Apr 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224232888

Robbie Cole

Before writing his first novel, The Book of Jack, Robbie worked as a musician, golf professional, and a manager for Walmart, Petsmart, and Motorola. When he is not lost in a fictional world, Robbie enjoys camping, fishing, and playing with his granddaughters. The most important thing to know about him is that he grew up a social outcast where he had a backseat advantage in witnessing the absurdities life offered, which shaped his warped worldview into the self-proclaimed comedic super genius, laugh influencer, and emotional roller coaster engineer he is today. So, if you were to seek him as a mentor or just want to hang, you might find him sleeping in the corner of a social event, family gathering, or lounging somewhere on a riverbank, seeking total relaxation, with The Dolly Momma, his faithful German shepherd Dachshund (the 5th reincarnation of the Doggie Lama).

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Lord Heathcliff knew that plotting a coup was never easy. But as he stood in a hidden room concealed so deep within Castle Guffaw’s winding passages that even the mice needed maps, his confidence grew by the moment. Maybe because he wore his velvet robe that exemplified greatness. Maybe not. Perhaps the flickering light of the chamber’s new candles samba dancing upon his face had put a spring in his step. Perhaps not. Whatever the reason, he had spent hours searching for answers with no success. He had searched so long that the bookshelves lining the walls begged for mercy under the weight of enchanted artifacts from distant lands. After frustrating hours of scouring, his secrets were still that:  secrets .

Curses, where did I put my plans for the attack on the castle’s western flank? I could have sworn they were right next to my wine stain shaped like a rabbit.

He turned and took three steps to one of the shelves, the one leaning so far right it was hard to say it was standing. His fingers, as long and pale as the roots of a Subterranean tree, caressed the edge of a scroll as if to coax the secrets from the ink. He unrolled it and laid it across a table that had seen better centuries. With each trace of the arcane symbols and scribbles on the parchment sprawled across, he knew he was closer to finding what he needed.

The sudden groan of ancient hinges shattered the silence. The heavy wooden door swung inward with a reluctance born of centuries of never being oiled.

Sir Simon, the muscle to Heathcliff’s scheming mind, emerged from the shadowed corridor beyond, his figure framed within the stone archway. Not framed as in blaming him for a crime, but framed as in he looked like a living portrait. His armor, bearing scuffs and dents, clinked with each confident step echoing off the somber walls. His dark hair had become tousled from hours of wearing his helmet, with a few stubborn locks falling across his forehead. Upon his arrival, the room came alive, as if his energy, not his boot steps, stirred the dust motes in the light-challenged gloom. His deep bow was a tad graceless but acceptable for wearing stiff armor. His blue eyes swept the room with a curiosity broom while his nose cringed at the musty odor.

You sent for me, my lord?

Sir Simon! Yes yes, please come in. Mind the loose floorboard. It’s a doozy. Heathcliff hopped on one foot as his other leg plunged through said floorboard up to the knee. Over the centuries, the floor had been as ill-maintained as the tired door hinges. With as much dignity as he could muster, hopping around on one leg, Lord Heathcliff said, Our scheme to overthrow King Dave has begun. I have set the stage. You must now play your part. Heathcliff freed himself from the floor’s grasp and rolled up the scroll while Simon moved aside.

Simon straightened up, a hesitant frown creasing his brow like a clown whose party balloons failed to inflate. My lord, the stage... is that to say.... He trailed off, the gears of conspiracy turning like a rusty hamster wheel.

Heathcliff sighed, his newly found confidence waning despite the chic velvet robe he planned to wear to his portrait painting for the cover of Wizard’s Digest. It is not a literal stage, you oaf. It means our plan to unseat King Dave has begun. You must set forth and ensure our pieces get moved into place.

Simon nodded, though the quiver in his gut was not from the chill of the chamber or the Monday Meat Surprise served at the evening meal. Of course, my lord. But the plan... it feels as delicate as a soufflé in a catapult. Are we certain it is ready to launch?

The illusion of certainty is a luxury afforded to those who sit upon thrones, not those who seek to usurp them. Simon scratched his head as if that could clear his confusion, so Heathcliff added, "Doubt is a luxury we cannot afford, Sir Simon. Remember, it is not just about the throne. It is about... love."

At this, Sir Simon’s armor grew heavier, the weight of farce and fantasy romance pressing upon him as surely as the steel upon his shoulders. "Love, my lord?"

"Yes, love! The throne is but a seat; the heart is the true prize. Heathcliff’s eyes sparkled with a passion that could set a damp log aflame. Besides overthrowing the king, I aim to claim the affections of the kingdom’s most elusive heart." 

The romantic revelation did little to ease Simon’s concerns. And if we are caught, my lord, will it not be our hearts we lose, but our heads?

A smirk played upon Heathcliff’s lips, the smirk of a man who had dealt with far trickier things than heads and hearts. Fear not, for our plan is as cunning as a coyote who has just been appointed guardian of a flock of sheep."

Are you certain everything is ready? I know how cautious you are about preparations after the Great Birthday Disaster of ’92.

Heathcliff shuddered. Do not remind me of that horror. No pinatas shaped like dragons at this coup. Regaining his composure, he added, Failure is not an option. The time for doubt is past.

Simon hesitated to comment. Having never known the enemy of success, he knew failure was possible and saw the truth in his lord’s words. "You are right. And I am with you. But if we fail, I will blame you... and that bunny wine stain."

Heathcliff clasped Simon’s shoulder. Yes, yes, it will all be my fault. Now begone and wreak havoc!

With a reluctant sigh, Sir Simon spun and departed to carry out his role.

Lord Heathcliff continued sifting through the mountain of documents. Then his eyes widened. And with an ear-to-ear grin, he exclaimed, Aha! Found the battle plans!

He unfurled the scroll, only to reveal a crude drawing of a bunny, a souvenir from the Great Birthday Disaster blocking his reading the map. Heathcliff crumpled it up in frustration. We will just have to wing it then!

BEYOND THE CONFINES of the secret chamber, Sir Simon began his solemn march through the secluded passageway, his thoughts waging a war as fierce as any clash of steel and sinew. To render oneself a blind vassal to Lord Heathcliff was a move fraught with peril, for the currency of loyalty, should it be ill-invested, might purchase a fate most dire — a fate something like a date with the Ax-Man. And there was the lingering question, would Lord Heathcliff remain true to his word that Simon should emerge not only unscathed but in the radiant regard of Princess Brittany, later to get crowned king?

The very notion of courting Princess Brittany struck a chord within him. A C minor chord with more trepidation than the herald of a tournament’s charge. Yet as he navigated the corridor, listening to the rhythmic echo of his armor with every step, a flame of audacity flickered to life within his breast. Perhaps it was the exhilaration of the covert that set his heart ablaze. Perhaps not. Maybe it was the nascent yearning to be lauded not solely as a champion of the lance but as a conqueror of hearts. Maybe not. Whatever the reason, with each purposeful stride, Sir Simon’s determination crystallized. Design a foil to ensnare King Dave’s gaze, then set upon the delicate endeavor of enchanting Princess Brittany, he whispered unto the stones of the hall. Easy enough, I suppose.

BEHIND THE SEALED DOOR, Heathcliff relished the intimate sanctuary of his secret chamber. His quill, a raven-feathered instrument, breakdanced across the parchment with the elegance of a flamingo at a masquerade ball. The black ink drew the lines of borders and the delicate swirls of topography upon the map that sprawled before him.

With a flourish of his hand, he beckoned the ink to vanish from the parchment. The dark fluid obeyed, receding from sight. Yet, with a counter motion, a reverse incantation, he summoned the ink to re-emerge. So it flowed slowly backward, like a ghost returning to physical form, reconstituting the network of lines and script that charted a future quest. As he did so, the hint of a smile grew to a triumphant smirk seen only on the cleverest of villains.

All was well.

All was going according to plan.

Here, in this suffocating embrace of stone and shadow, as he stood where past plotters had sewn the seeds of treacheries, there pulsed a hidden warmth within Heathcliff. He had planted his seeds, some inside people frowned upon by royals, and now they were ready to sprout forth and entangle the kingdom in their unyielding vines.

He would not fail.

He could not fail.

Even the chamber knew this and responded to his whims. Exampling claustrophobia, the room felt like it was shrinking. The heavy tapestries rippled as though brushed by an unfelt gale, their embroidered scenes of tumultuous chaos quivering like a child about to be spanked. The stone walls, ancient and watchful, whispered hushed tones that could be mocking him or comparing his plan to conspiracies past.

Sir Simon, whose mind was ever strategic, remained oblivious to the clandestine currents of emotion underpinning his lord’s ambitions. Unlike Simon, the actual quarry of Heathcliff’s yearning was neither the stoic nor the sterile sovereignty of the throne but the incandescent blaze of Queen Elana’s spirit.

Amidst the fortress of his calculating mind, Heathcliff cultivated a mystical garden of verse and rhapsody that could have rivaled Shakespeare, but he was to be born about 500 years later. Here, Heathcliff was not the puppeteer of politics. Like most men of his time, he was a wannabe poet — a bard, perhaps. However, his audience was the echo of his longing. But he aimed to change that. With quill in hand, he would trace sonnets and soliloquies upon the air; words imbued with a passion as raw and intense as a storm threatening the peaceful dawn, yet as ludicrous and fanciful as a jester’s tale. Each word was a vow. Each phrase was a pledge. All steeped in the heady brew of desire and absurdity.

O fairest Elana, thy spirit’s light, Doth outshine the stars at night.

In thine eyes, the heavens’ grace, In thy smile, the sun’s heavens embrace.

Thy laughter, a chalice of the purest mirth, Bestows life anew upon this ancient earth.

Wherefore art thou, my heart’s sweet bower, In every petal, in every flower.

In the realm where Heathcliff’s heart dared to tread, love itself was the labyrinth, the riddle wrapped in the mystery of Queen Elana’s unattainable affection. The enigma, though troublesome, ignited his desire to write its epilogue — a messed-up, hand-sawed puzzle that enticed him with the allure of its unraveling. Here, within the confines of his desires, love became the ultimate prize, eclipsing the allure of dominion and power. In this silent theater of his soul, he was both the tragic and the hopeful protagonist, awaiting the curtain call of reciprocated affection — a love so delighted it could soar on the wings of doves.

Heathcliff raised his glass of dark wine in a quiet toast to gods of passion and folly, to the tangled paths of desire, and to the knight who had become just a clumsy chess piece in his clever plan. The candle flickered, sending playful shadows holubka dancing across his face. As he sipped his wine, he was at the heart of a delicate, masterminded game of control and love — or playing the fool, for in this tricky game of power and yearning, everyone is at risk of a wrong step, with every heart a beat away from breaking.

As the candle burned low, the story of Lord Heathcliff and Sir Simon started to unfold. At this, the lord let out an evil laugh, a perfect Mwu ha ha ha ha ha ha.

AMIDST THE SOFT LUMINESCENCE of the Crooked Crow, a tavern known for its weak brew and motley patrons, Alvin, the wide-eyed dreamer stood sovereign, his voice booming, each syllable intertwining in his captivating tales.

"Gather ’round, ye souls brave and true,

To hear a tale of a fearsome view.

There I stood, in Brindlewood, so stark,

Facing a beast feared in tales harked!"

His fingers pranced across the lute strings, plucking out a catchy rhythm that echoed the heartbeat of adventure. His voice swelled with the pride of a hero born not of flesh and blood, but of song:

"Eye to eye with scales of night,

The Basilisk glared with dread might.

Its eyes, two embers of hellfire’s glow,

And I, mere man, before it low."

Beside him, Theodore’s presence brought a contrast as stark as his worn-out leather footwear. Eye to eye? As I recall, the creature fancied the view of your fleeing backside more agreeably.

As Alvin’s gaze at Theodore could make a troll nervous, a fresh round of laughter cascaded through the crowd like spectators doing ‘the wave’ in the stands while cheering a jousting tournament. Theodore, my dear cynic, why must you smear my moment of triumph with the soiled boots of veracity?

Because, Alvin, Theodore said, with a devilish smirk, your ‘moment of triumph’ holds as much authenticity as the ‘dragon steak’ listed on the bill of fare.

Alvin’s grin bore the mark of guile, his eyes Irish dancing with mischief. Ah, but what is life without a touch of embellishment? Laughter thundered from the crowd. Mugs clinked in a symphony of delight. Alvin, basking in the glow of his tale, bowed low, his posture reminiscent of a proud rooster in a henhouse of ill repute.

"But hold your gasps and still your fears,

For the beast’s breath, foul as a toad’s leers,

Could not sway the heart of a bard so keen,

Whose song could charm a creature mean."

He mimicked a shiver, then a triumphant pose, as the lute’s tempo quickened, inviting foot taps and tankard clinks in rhythm:

"With naught but wit and strings to strum,

I faced the beast, its will to succumb.

A lullaby sweet, through danger’s veil,

Guided it to slumber, ending the tale!"

As Alvin lowered his lute to the audience’s applause, the tavern’s entrance slammed open, hushing the crowd. And into the dimness stepped Sir Simon, his survey of the room as keen as a raptor on the hunt.

Alvin, the brave, Sir Simon said. I have been told your tales stretch higher than the tower of Babel.

Alvin’s pulse skipped like a stone over tranquil waters, yet his grin did not waver, but strongly considered it. Sir Simon, to what do I owe the displeasure?

Muffled snickers filled the space, the air taut with the tension strung between Alvin and Simon, who edged closer, removing his gloves, and preparing to drink. "Tell me, how does one vanquish a basilisk armed with naught but wit and a wooden spoon? Or has it morphed into a fork by now?"

Alvin’s face glowed like a forge’s heart, but his response was cool as molasses on a cold Sunday morning. The instrument is of little consequence, Sir Simon. It is the bearer that is key.

Theodore’s brows furrowed. Alvin, perhaps—

A toast! Alvin said, his tankard thrust skyward. To Sir Simon, whose gleaming helmet outshines the blazing sun!

Laughter erupted.

Simon’s smile was as sharp as his blade. "Witty words, Alvin, but words are as ungenuine as the ever-changing wind," Simon said. He turned and went to the exit, his laughter trailing him like hounds on a scent.

Victory swelled within Alvin. Or was it defeat?

Theodore leaned close. Alvin, tread carefully. Knights and their quests have a way of becoming epics or tragedies... and I would not have your tale end as the latter.

Alvin nodded, the jester’s mask slipping for a breath before it was hoisted again. Fear not, Theodore. I am but a humble spinner of tales; what harm could my stories possibly bring?

The question carried the weight of a prophecy yet to unfold, for in the realm of stories and shadows, in the dance of courtship and conquest, every word spoken is a stone cast upon the waters of fate, rippling to shores distant and unseen to human eyes unless they were fishing or walking by or perhaps drinking. In the darkness beyond the tavern’s" warmth, where the echoes of laughter faded to whispers, the plot woven by Lord Heathcliff awaited — its threads beckoning, ready to ensnare.

CHAPTER 2

Lost in the elegance of her bedchamber, Princess Brittany felt the anticipation of change as she paced before Queen Elana, who reclined with regal poise upon a wardrobe chest. Mother, I am drowning in the open air.

With the wisdom of one who had navigated many political gales, Elana regarded her daughter with eyes like tranquil seas. Brittany, my treasure, for those of royal lineage, the world out there is a whirlwind of desperation and rebellion. Your father wishes to shield you from its troubles.

Brittany’s resolve surged like the tide, enveloping her in the regal grandeur of her frustration. Shield me? Mother, a sparrow is safe in its cage, yet it yearns for the sky. I will not be perched by a window for eternity in this enclosure. Father might as well lock me in a tower.

A gentle smile graced the queen’s lips, though her gaze remained unyielding as fresh-forged iron. Soar, you may, my darling daughter... but within the realm our lineage has forged for you.

"I do not yearn for conquests or voyages to far-flung corners. I crave the village, the pulse of the people we govern. How am I to one day reign over them with wisdom if I am estranged from their world?"

The world, as presented by your tutors and advisors, is well-informed.

That world they example is an illusion. A mere shadow. I seek its truths.

Elana stood. Your safety lies in our fortress, where you are untouchable.

Brittany’s spirit deflated like pressed bellows, the burden of her birthright pressing upon her. Then I am to be a princess of woven tales, a monarch of experiences unattained.

In a tender embrace, Elana offered solace. You are greater than these fleeting shadows of frustration. Patience, my child. Your moment will come.

After the queen withdrew, the finality of the door’s closing echoed in Brittany’s soul. Adventure called to her free spirit. And soon, she would answer. That call, also known as opportunity, would allow her to elude her father’s confines with her fiery red locks unfurling behind her like the trailing blaze of a sunset captured in silken threads. With a resolve born of royal fire and spirit untempered, Brittany assembled her meager provisions — a loaf of bread, a waterskin, and a cloak for concealment. Her hands traced the cool stones of the hearth, searching for the clandestine gateway whispered in secret by her past handmaidens.

A sudden knock at her door sent her heart into panic.

Your Highness, I have brought your tea.

Brittany spun, fearing the maid would enter and discover her packed sack. Please leave it outside the door.

When the maid’s footsteps faded, Brittany turned back to the hearth, her pulse racing with anticipation and no small amount of fear. What secrets might these stones hold? she wondered. Would they yield the answers she sought?

She knelt before the fireplace, running her hands over the cool stone, feeling for any subtle shifts or changes in texture. Her fingers were far more used to the soft silks of her dresses than rough materials, so she lingered in certain spots, checking each indentation for an opening. She leaned in closer, examining each stone. Centuries wore some smooth, offering no clues. Others showed faint markings that could conceal an opening or marks of the mason’s tools. On the third stone from the left edge, she detected the faintest line where none should be. Holding her breath, she pressed gently. To her delight, with a soft grinding sound, the stone yielded ever so slightly inward. Her discovery was thrilling, but if she dared pull too hard, she would risk discovery before learning the full secret.

Brittany continued exploring the hearthstone with her sensitive fingertips. Line by imperceptible line, a hidden door revealed itself. Though the danger of exposure still loomed, the princess allowed herself a smile, savoring this first small victory in her quest for freedom.

As the castle prepared to sleep, her excitement for adventure grew.

So did her longing for love.

Mother, she had confided earlier, I seek not only the stone-laden streets and boundless skies but also a heart whose rhythm matches my own.

Queen Elana had smiled, acknowledging the dreams that waltzed in her daughter’s gaze. Love is not a treasure to be hunted, my dear. It comes upon you unexpectedly.

Yet Brittany’s desire was not solely for love, but for a bond that shattered the chains of royalty. She longed for a love that raged with an intensity that defied tradition. How will love find me here, where suitors court my crown before they see me?

Now, as night draped its comforting shroud around her, Brittany’s spirit blazed with more than the prospect of freedom. It burned with the hope of encountering a love unbounded as the horizons she longed to discover. Ensconced in her royal bed, she lay a soul untamed, dreaming of faces and pathways of the village below, and of a wild and unrestrained love that awaited her. Alone in her chamber, she waited, for tomorrow promised not just the thrill of the unexplored but the enchantment of a love story yet to unfold.

IN THE CAVERNOUS EXPANSE of the throne room, the air bristled with enough tension to make the angular chandeliers sway in silent alarm. King Dave was perched on his throne with the dignity of a cat lounging on a sun-beamed windowsill. His fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the armrest, something reminiscent of the William Tell Overture. Tell me, Heathcliff, King Dave said, is this threat as dire as my soothsayer suggests? Or is this yet another farcical miscalculation like the Great Turnip Uprising of last spring?

Lord Heathcliff leaned forward, his eyes glinting with hidden mischief. Sire, while the Turnip Uprising proved to be overestimated, this rumor carries the weight of a leaden goose. It flies not, yet it demands our consideration.

The king stroked his beard, crumbs cascading like a miniature rockslide. A leaden goose? I have heard of golden ones, but never leaden.

A metaphor, Your Majesty.

Dave nodded, as though leaden geese were the cornerstone of sound governance. Very well, then. Proceed.

Well, sire, Heathcliff said, circling the room with the grace of a shark navigating a coral reef, our spies whisper of a rival king, one whose brain is as over-stuffed with greed as his belly is with mead.

The king’s eyebrow arched. A pudgy plotter, eh? And his plan?

Heathcliff came to a halt, his hands clasped behind his back. He intends to infiltrate our next masquerade ball.

A snort escaped Dave. A masquerade ball? What’s next, an assault with tickling feathers and jesters juggling firebrands?

Sire, that was Plan B, Heathcliff deadpanned, a sly smile playing hopscotch across his lips.

Plan B? The king’s laughter boomed, bouncing off the stone walls. Heathcliff, your wit remains unmatched. But let us turn to the essence of the matter. How shall we greet our rotund rival?

Heathcliff’s gaze flicked to the ornate decor. I suggest we do have a masquerade ball, sire. Let us open our doors wide and our eyes wider.

The king clapped his hands together, the sound like a thunderclap in the echoing chamber. Never! I despise those silly gatherings. I would rather have my nipples twisted than encounter all those creepy masks.

Heathcliff inclined his head. Precisely, Sire. And if there is no ball, our enemy must craft another form of attack.

Dave rose from his throne, his garments rustling. "Then it is settled. We shall not hold a ball, and our would-be conqueror shall not be the guest of honor. But should he step out of turn, we shall cut in with the swift feet of justice. We do have tap-dancing knights, do we not?"

But what, if I may ask, do you wish to do about the threat?

Hmmm... what about a birthday ball?

An elegant solution, Your Majesty. Your wisdom shines as brightly as the jewels in your crown. But we tried that back in '92 with disastrous results.

The king beamed. Then we shall think upon this and devise a plan that cannot fail. But do send invites posthaste to every noble, knight, and knave who shall attend the tap dancing team tryouts. That shall prepare us for any attempts at overthrowing our kingdom.

Heathcliff nodded, his mind spinning with the threads of one thousand contingencies. A debacle most entertaining indeed, sire. Then he bowed. Fear not, Your Majesty. Our invitations shall be as enticing as the siren’s call, and twice as alluring.

King Dave settled back into his throne. Then we set the stage for a folly most grand. Let us pray our cunning cuts deeper than our gayness.

And with a conspiratorial grin shared between monarch and mastermind, the fate of a kingdom was gambled not on a masquerade, or any plan of action at all. Yet, with the seeds of a possible war planted in Dave's mind, Heathcliff's plan was underway.

PRINCESS BRITTANY STOOD in the middle of her bedchamber, the room enhanced by the soft glow of moonlight through the drapes. Her hands jived over the packed bag at her feet, a symphony of nerves and excitement playing the strings of her heart to the yet-to-be-written tune Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

Her gaze darted towards the portrait of Great Aunt Gertrude, whose stern eyes seemed to follow her every move, silently judging her scheme. "Oh, do not look at me that way. You would have done the same."

As she thought about her escape through the secret passageway, Brittany’s thoughts turned to her mother. She imagined Queen Elana’s delicate hands, always so steady when embracing her. She thought of the way her eyes seemed to hide stories that only Brittany could read. They had often shared whispered confidences in the dead of night, where her mother taught that leadership was not just about power, but about compassion and the courage to do what was right, even when it was hard. In the grand fabric of Brittany’s life at the castle, the thread of her relationship with her mother was woven through every part and pattern. With her quiet strength and sharp intellect, Elana had always been full of wisdom. A warmth within the cold, calculating environment of the court. In the privacy of the queen’s sunroom, Brittany had learned more than just the intricacies of statecraft; she had found refuge in her mother’s embrace and in the stories of the strong women from whom she descended. Of course, she could have learned more if she cared to listen to everything her mother taught. But she was an impish child with little patience for grown-ups telling her what to do.

The conflict within Brittany was a foul tempest. She could almost feel her mother’s fingers brushing her hair back and could hear the soft timber of her voice offering guidance. Now she was torn between the pull of freedom and the guilt of leaving her mother to face the court’s politics alone. She knew her sudden disappearance would be a blow. Not just a missing piece in the political puzzle, but a missing piece of her mother’s heart. Brittany could imagine the worry lines that would form on her mother’s brow, the sleepless night spent waiting for a daughter who would not return by dawn — or perhaps at all. Yet, for all the love and duty that bound her to her mother, Brittany knew she could not stay. This was a path she had to walk alone, a destiny she had to find beyond the castle walls.

The thought of her mother standing alone, perhaps gazing out of a tower window into the vast, unknowable distance, hoping for a glimpse of her wayward child, was almost enough to halt her escape. For each step carried not just her dreams, but also the silent wishes of her mother — the unspoken desire to see her daughter as a queen, and a woman fulfilled. So, with a heart heavy with love and conflict, she continued, the image of her mother’s gentle, resigned smile etched into the recesses of her mind as she moved towards the uncertain embrace of the world beyond.

With a breath that could have inflated the sails of an entire fleet, Brittany gripped the bag’s straps and edged closer to the portrait, whispering, Tonight, I chart my own course.

The portrait swung open with a long creak. She glanced toward the door, ensuring it remained shut, then she descended