⋆˙⟡Warnings: arranged marriage
Wordcount: 4k
⋆˙⟡𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: The day of the escape has come. YN and Tristan are apart, but they can’t stop thinking of each other. YN worries about how to reach him, escape, and reveal the truth—but can she really get away from the life waiting for her?
⋆˙⟡A/N: Hey...here is chapter 4. It did take me a while to write this but I finally finished. Enjoy!
Special Thanks to @lavenhaven @yourfineshytbelieber @whoreforanyone1 @jsjsjehdjdiekwnehdhd
Not the sharp kind of pain, not hunger or sickness, but the slow, twisting ache that comes from knowing something irreversible is about to happen. I was nervous, no, terrified. So terrified that my thoughts kept looping around the same questions again and again, like waves hitting the same shore.
What if the plan didn’t work?
What if they found me inside the crate?
What if they found me before I even reached the boat?
What if I never made it out of the castle at all?
The dark ceiling above my bed felt too close. The walls of my room, usually comforting, suddenly felt like the inside of a cage. I pressed my palms into the sheets and forced myself to breathe slowly, the way Bragnae had taught me when I was younger and couldn’t sleep after storms.
No. I had done this before. Not like this but I had escaped in smaller ways for as long as I could remember. Escaping my father’s long and endlessly boring speeches before the last dance at every spring feast. I always managed to disappear, even if only for a few minutes, before Bragnae caught me hiding in the gardens, or behind a column, or pretending to be part of the guards just to avoid being found.
For years, I had hated her for being so strict. For never letting me run too far, laugh too loudly, stay out too late. She always stood at the edge of my freedom like a closed door. But now, lying in my bed with dawn creeping closer, I wished I could go back in time and tell her not to be so harsh on herself.
Bragnae had had a child long before she came to work for our family. She lost it in an accident, I never knew what kind. I never dared to ask her. All I knew were rumors from the kitchen maids, whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear: a fall, a sickness, a fire, a river. No one ever agreed on the details.
But I knew what mattered.
No matter how cold or distant she seemed, Bragnae had always taken care of me as if I were her own child. She had watched me grow. Corrected my posture. Taught me how to hold a fork, how to speak to nobles, how not to cry in public. She had protected me from embarrassment, from danger, from myself.
For a moment, guilt washed over me so strongly that my chest tightened and I almost sat up in bed, ready to abandon everything. It felt selfish. Cruel. After all she had done for me, after all the years she had given to raising a child that wasn’t even hers.
I swore it to her in my thoughts, even if she would never hear it. I would find the leaf, return to the castle, and then…
…get married to a stranger.
The thought made my stomach twist even more.
Morholt. A name I barely knew, a face I barely remembered. A man chosen for me by politics and treaties and promises made long before I could even understand them.
I would think about that later. I had to. I couldn’t let myself fall apart now.
Sleep, Y/N. Sleep. You need to rest for tomorrow.
No. For today.
The pale light of dawn was already slipping through the thick blue curtains, soft and cold, turning the edges of my room silver. It felt like the world itself was whispering: this is it. This is the day your life stops being what it was.
Her name echoed in my mind like something sacred and forbidden at the same time. The same name that woman had screamed the night before, standing on the shore with the dark ocean behind her.
I wanted to sleep. I needed to sleep. By tomorrow, I was supposed to return to Cornwall. I was supposed to be healed, grateful, loyal, a jnight again, not a wounded stranger hiding in a foreign castle.
But every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was her face.
I wondered if she would come back to say goodbye. I almost hoped she had forgotten something, anything, just so I could see her one last time. Just to hear her voice again, even if only for a moment.
The scar on my side was gone.
And somehow, so was my homesickness.
What was I even thinking?
I couldn’t stay here. Leaving meant duty. Honor. Survival.
Staying meant… her.
Just thinking about it made my chest ache. My plan was to leave in the morning.
But what if something happened to her? What if she didn’t make it onto the boat? What if she came looking for me and didn’t find me?
I was still drowning in these thoughts when the door suddenly opened.
Obviously, I fell asleep ten minutes before the first maids came to wake me up.
In a matter of seconds, five maids invaded my room like a storm.
One carried my red dress. Another pulled the curtains open, letting in a brutal flood of light. A third helped me out of bed while another prepared the water to wash me. The fifth didn’t seem to do anything except give orders, her voice cutting through the others like a knife.
“Princess Y/N, aren’t you excited for the feast?” said the maid with the long chin and the soft, childish smile. “Today your future husband will return from Cornwall. Don’t worry, we will make you look your best so he won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
Yes. I definitely had to leave.
Yes or yes.
I was so tired I felt like a doll being passed from hand to hand. They washed me, brushed my hair, pinned it up, dressed me, perfumed me, tightened the corset until I could barely breathe, and turned me into someone I barely recognized.
A future wife.
A political promise.
A decoration.
And then, finally, they left.
The room felt unreal without them. As if the world had paused just for me.
I went straight to the loose panel behind the shelf and pulled out my leather bag. I opened it again, even though I had checked it a dozen times already.
My book.
My coins.
Herbs.
Maps.
And at the bottom, my favorite light purple dress.
The fabric was soft, simple, worn at the edges. Nothing like the heavy red gown I was wearing now. This dress belonged to roads and wind and rain and places where no one knew my name.
I couldn’t possibly cross the sea in a ball gown. This red dress was meant for Morholt’s eyes. For the maids, I already belonged to him.
If only they knew that the only man I could think about right now was Tristan, a Cornish warrior who had been hiding somewhere in my chamber.
But… was he still there? Or had he already left?
We had talked for so long the night before that I had forgotten to ask when he planned to go.
And if he was there, I would say goodbye. Properly. End this story before it destroyed both of us.
We were not meant to be. An Irish princess and a Cornish knight, what a cruel joke.
Still, my feet were already moving.
I wouldn’t miss this chance.
The old woman’s voice was sharp, impatient.
It was the same woman who had been calling for Y/N the night before. She stood beside the open door, her arms crossed, her eyes cold.
“I don’t know who you are,” she said, “and I don’t care why you are here. But if you are hiding like a rat in this chamber, you can’t be any good.”
I wanted to explain. That Y/N had saved me. That I meant no harm. That I was leaving anyway.
But I didn’t know what the consequences for Y/N might be.
So I stood up slowly and asked, in a low voice, “Is Y/N alright?”
Her face twisted with something like disgust.
“That is none of your business. And I won’t say it again. Leave.”
“Nothing. Y/N is going to get married. She will not be dishonored by a Cornish.”
She was going to be someone else’s wife.
The word hit me like a rock in my chest. My lungs burned, and for a moment the small chamber felt too narrow to contain all the weight of it. She would belong to another.
I lowered my eyes. Of course. Of course she was getting married. I was just a poor Cornish warrior she had saved, a stranger in her world, a shadow in the corners of her life. Her heart belonged to someone else, as it always had. How could I ever have thought she would be interested in me? I, who had nothing to give her but gratitude, loyalty, and the memory of danger shared.
I moved slowly toward the exit, each step echoing against the rough stone. My boots scuffed against the dirt floor, and my hands brushed against the walls to steady myself. I took a last glance at the chamber. It had been a refuge, a place where I had seen her smile without worry, and now I was leaving it behind.
But deep down I knew it was the right thing to do. Y/N was leaving and so was I.
Once outside I pushed the boat into the water and climbed in, my hands moving automatically while my mind stayed behind in the chamber.
The corridor was almost empty.
Morning light filtered through the high windows, turning the stone walls pale gold. The castle felt quieter at this hour, as if it was holding its breath before the noise of the feast.
I moved quickly, keeping my head down, heart racing. Every step brought me closer to Tristan’s chamber. I imagined him still there, maybe already awake, maybe sitting on the bed, maybe wondering if I would come.
Just one minute, I told myself. Just one goodbye.
I had already reached the corridor that led to the gate when a familiar voice cut through the silence.
Bragnae stood at the end of the corridor in front of the huge doors, hands folded in front of her, her posture as straight as ever.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“A morning walk,” I said too quickly.
She looked at me for a moment, then shook her head.
“No. The royal seamstress has arrived early. She is waiting for you.”
“Yes. And the jeweller as well. They are making final adjustments for the feast and for your… future appearances.” She avoided the word marriage, but I heard it anyway.
“I’ll be quick,” I said. “I won’t take long.”
Bragnae’s eyes softened, but her grip on my arm was firm.
“You will,” she said. “And they will not wait.”
“Y/N,” she said quietly. “This is not a day for disappearing.”
She turned and began walking back, already certain I would follow.
The seamstress took hours.
She circled me like a bird of prey, pinning fabric, muttering under her breath, adjusting sleeves I would never wear again. The jeweller argued with her about which necklace matched the red dress better.
While they worked, the castle slowly changed.
Servants flooded the halls carrying baskets of flowers. Lilies, roses, ivy, wild spring blooms that smelled sweet and green and alive. Garland was draped over balconies. Petals were scattered across the floors.
In the great hall, long tables were covered with white cloth and endless dishes:
Roasted meats.
Fresh bread.
Fruit glazed with honey.
Wine and spiced cider and cakes shaped like flowers.
Musicians tuned their instruments. Harps, violins, flutes. Their notes floated through the corridors, mixing with laughter and voices in a dozen languages.
The castle filled with people.
Nobles in bright silks. Soldiers in polished armor. Servants running, sweating, smiling.
Everyone moving toward something.
And somewhere, unknowingly, I was moving away from the one person I wanted to see.
By the time they finally let me go, the sun was already low in the sky.
The feast was about to begin.
And Tristan was probably already gone.
By the time I entered the great hall, the castle no longer felt like my home.
The chandeliers blazed with candlelight, hundreds of flames reflected in gold and crystal until the entire room shimmered. Garlands of ivy and white flowers hung from the balconies, trailing down the stone pillars like something growing wild and alive inside the walls. The air was heavy with perfume, wine, roasted meat, and fresh bread.
Women moved through the hall like living paintings.
Their dresses flowed in layers of silk and velvet, deep blues, emerald greens, soft creams and pale pinks. Some wore their hair braided with pearls, others crowned with delicate circlets of gold. Their laughter sounded light and musical, practiced and effortless.
The men looked no less unreal.
Dark coats embroidered with silver thread. Polished boots. Rings on their fingers. Medals catching the candlelight. They stood in small groups, talking loudly, drinking, watching.
I felt their eyes follow me across the hall like invisible hands.
Not cruel. Not aggressive.
As if I were part of the feast itself.
The musicians began to play, and the first dance formed almost automatically around me. Hands reached for mine, polite and eager. I smiled, bowed, moved as I had been taught since childhood.
Then, during the second round, a young man stepped forward.
He was dark blond, tall, with a face that looked too gentle for politics. His clothes were simple compared to the others, navy velvet, silver buttons, no medals, no crown. When he smiled, it wasn’t sharp or strategic.
“May I?” he asked, offering his hand.
For a second, I hesitated.
Was it wrong? To dance with someone when I was already promised to another? To Morholt, a man I barely knew but was supposed to belong to?
“I’m not sure I should,” I said quietly.
He tilted his head, amused but respectful. “I’m not asking for anything except a dance. Just company.”
The way he said it made me laugh despite myself.
“Alright,” I said. “Just one.”
His hand was warm. Not rough like a soldier’s, not cold like a noble’s.
As we moved into the circle, the music swelled around us, violins and flutes, light and fast, pulling everyone into motion. Skirts spun. Shoes brushed the floor. The hall became a living, breathing thing.
“You look like you’re trying to escape,” he said softly, leaning closer so only I could hear.
I looked at him, surprised. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone doing the same thing,” he replied with a smile.
He was charming. Effortlessly so. He knew exactly when to spin me, when to let go, when to pull me back. He smelled faintly of cedar and wine. His laughter was easy.
Anyone could fall for him, I thought.
Because even as I followed his steps, even as the music carried me, another voice stayed in my head.
Hide in a grain boat.
In a crate.
No one ever looks inside crates.
The words repeated in my mind, completely out of place among violins and laughter.
“You’re very quiet for someone at her own feast,” the young man said.
“I’m thinking,” I replied.
The dance ended with applause.
He bowed to me, still smiling. “It was a pleasure, Princess.”
“It was,” I said honestly.
And then, while everyone was still clapping, still laughing, still turning toward the next song…
I let the young man bow, muttered a polite farewell, and slipped toward the corridor.
Backwards. Slowly. One step, then another.
The music was too loud. The hall too full. The world too busy celebrating to realize I was leaving it.
I slipped into a narrow corridor just beyond the hall, where the echoes of music and laughter softened behind me. The world became quieter, colder, more serious.
At the first shadowed corner, I ducked behind a column. My bag, hidden here, waited.
I slipped out of the red gown, letting the heavy jewelry and corset fall away. Each ribbon untied, each pin removed felt like drawing a full, deep breath for the first time. I pulled the purple travel dress snug around me, tucked my hair under a simple white coif, and wrapped a cloak loosely over my shoulders to blend in with the servants. Finally, I reached for my travel boots, still a little stiff from being unused, slipped one foot in, tugged the laces tight, then the other, careful to make no sound.
I waited, heart pounding, until a pair of maids hurried past, trays in hand, chattering as they went. Once the corridor was empty again, I exhaled slowly and moved on.
The kitchens were alive with heat and chaos. Steam rose from enormous pots. The scent of roasting meat, fresh bread, and herbs was dizzying. Cooks shouted, knives clattered, and trays slid across counters.
I hugged my bag to my chest, keeping low, moving with the rhythm of the servants, pretending to belong. One tray tipped dangerously close to my shoulder, sparks from the spit singed my sleeve. I swallowed a gasp and kept moving.
Two cooks argued over a pot, bumping past me. My pulse thumped in my ears. I rounded the corner, careful to step lightly on the stone floor, weaving past carts loaded with vegetables, sacks of grain, and baskets of bread. Each step felt like a gamble, one misstep and my escape could end here.
At the far end of the kitchens, a spiral stone stairwell led downward. Two guards leaned against the wall, talking quietly, observing the corridor. My pulse jumped.
Step by step, I descended, pressed close to the wall, keeping my head down, pretending I was just another servant moving through the castle. Their eyes flicked toward me. I froze, then adjusted the strap of my bag, and they let me pass.
The lower corridors stretched ahead, twisting and turning like a maze. Shadows hid every corner. My feet were careful, my breath shallow. Every sound could betray me, a footstep, a laugh, a door creaking but each step also carried me closer to the freedom waiting outside.
Finally, the corridors opened onto the castle grounds. The night air hit me with its sharp, salty breath. The sea was there, dark and endless, smelling of wind and freedom.
I didn’t pause. The castle, the music, the perfumes, the gold lights, the dancers, all of it fell behind me.
I remembered Tristan’s words, clear and sharp in my mind:
Hide in a grain boat. In a crate. No one ever looks inside crates.
“Alright” I whispered. And I ran toward the bay, every step a gamble, every shadow a danger, but the horizon open before me.
The water was close now, dark and restless under the moon. My boots sank slightly in the wet sand, and the air smelled of salt and wood. Ahead, two boats were moored side by side, tied loosely to the posts along the shore. I hid behind a rock.
The first was a grain boat, plain, heavy, piled high with sacks. The men moving across its deck looked rough, but not cruel. Calloused hands, tanned skin, steady movements. They laughed quietly, carried their loads without rush, and paid no attention to anything beyond their work. My pulse slowed slightly. These men seemed human. Safe enough.
The second boat was larger, sleek, and painted. Its deck was tidy, ropes coiled perfectly, and its crew wore heavier boots and belts, moving with the kind of authority that made the hair on my arms rise. Their eyes swept constantly. These men would notice everything. No. Too risky.
I crouched low in the shadow of a boulder, clutching my bag. My heart hammered, legs trembling. And then I saw it, far across the water, another boat cutting through the moonlight. Its sail bore a white-and-red flag. Soldiers. Warriors returning from battle.
My stomach dropped. Morholt. My future husband. If he landed here before I was hidden… I could not let him see me. I pressed myself closer to the rocks, trying not to breathe too loudly. Every sound of sand shifting, every snap of rope carried like a trumpet in my ears.
I scanned the grain boat again. Crates were stacked along the edges, some full, some empty, some just large and hollow. One at the side, half-hidden by ropes, looked perfect. My heart leapt. If I could just get inside, curl up, hold still… the men wouldn’t even notice me.
But the path wasn’t clear. A man carried a sack across the deck. Another pulled a rope taut. The wood creaked with every step. My hands trembled. I waited, pressed low, timing my movements with the rhythm of their work.
One sack shifted dangerously near my hiding spot. I froze, barely daring to breathe. The man glanced around, then went back to hauling grain. My pulse slowed just a little. Step by careful step, I edged closer, using the shadows of barrels and crates for cover.
Finally, I reached the crate. It was larger than I expected, wide enough to curl inside. I lowered myself slowly, hands scraping the rough wood. I folded my legs, pressed my chest to my knees, and pulled my arms close. The scent of grain, wood, and salt filled my nose.
Outside, the men continued their work, oblivious. From the corner of my eye, I could see the soldier boat edging closer to the bay, the black-and-gold flag bright in the moonlight. My hands gripped the edges of the crate. My heart pounded, every beat echoing in my chest.
For the first time in hours, I felt a small, flickering spark of hope. I was hidden. Safe. For now.
Slowly, everything grew quiet. The men above had finished their work, and the deck was empty. I dared to lift my head and peek through the slats. The boat was moving. I was on the water. Alone. Safe.
The smell of salt and wet wood filled my nose. The night was calm, and the world seemed to shrink to just me, the boat, and the water stretching ahead.
And then I thought of Tristan. His voice, telling me where to hide, his face, the courage in his eyes. My chest tightened. I had left him behind, and yet his words guided me even now.
I pressed my forehead to my knees and let myself remember him for just a moment. Safe for now, hidden, moving toward freedom. But Tristan… he was still out there, somewhere.
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