Chapter Text
“Dad, all I ever wanted was to be like you. I wanted to be a royal guard, and serve my kingdom. I wanted to make you proud. There was a time when I would have done anything, gone to any lengths, to keep from disappointing you.”
- Cassandra to the Captain, Secret of the Sun Drop, S1 Ep21
Dawn broke over the kingdom of Corona, and through its golden haze flew a single owl.
Down through the dusty, sun-baked streets he swooped. Past the mural of the Lost Princess, forever cradled by her parents in painted tiles the way she never could be in reality. Under the portcullis of the palace barracks, and soaring through a window that had been propped open with a rusted dagger.
Inside, all was cool and quiet, except for the gentle clink of metal against metal that the owl had long-since come to associate with these chambers. He fluttered to land on one of the halberds propped in neat rows against the wall. Beside the halberds stood a floor-length mirror, and in front of the mirror stood a woman, not dressed in the palace’s traditional choices of canary-yellow (for its servant girls) or powder-blue (for its ladies-in-waiting), but in pieces of heavy gold armour.
The owl tilted his head to one side. He'd never seen a woman wearing Coronan armour before. The pieces hung awkwardly from her frame, too loose at the waist and too tight at the chest, but the woman was beaming so hard that it might as well have been tailored just for her.
The owl decided both the armour and the smile suited the woman, far better than the tattered servant’s dress and scowl she usually wore. And to show his appreciation, he ruffled up his feathers and gave the woman a low, appreciative hoot.
The woman looked up.
“Well, look who decided to drop by for my big day.”
Cass grinned. Owl was perched high on her halberds, staring imperiously down at her like a proud grandfather. She held up an arm - but he made a beeline for her shoulder instead, and nudged his head against her cheek in greeting. Cass nudged back with a chuckle.
Cutesy animals had never really been her thing, but Owl was different. As a rebellious six-year-old, she’d snuck out most nights to practice archery in the woods, and never paid much mind to the large red screech owl watching her with mild, dignified interest from a nearby branch. She’d affectionately named the spot Owl’s Clearing, then started sneaking him treats from the kitchens, and the rest had been history.
“You know, Old Lady Crowley gave me an earful yesterday, said I should be locking the window to keep out that filthy old bird ...” Owl dug his cool talons into her shoulder as though daring her to try and do just that. “Ha! Don’t worry, I gave her an earful right back. Besides…”
She turned back to the mirror.
“...After today, she’ll have to start showing me some real respect.”
Helmet - check. She'd been up half the night polishing the damn thing, but Dad always said you could judge a decent guard by the state of his uniform, and Cass wasn’t about to take any chances with a rusty helmet, no sir. She tilted her head into the sunlight streaming in through the window, and smirked; the golden rays set the metal on fire.
Breastplate - check. Her fingers traced the familiar ridges of the seven-pointed sun.
Gloves - check. Soft, creamy leather covered her arms up to the elbows (the impracticality of the King’s colour choice still made her grind her teeth).
Spare daggers one, two and three - check, check, and check. (Should she take a fourth, just to be on the safe side? Better not. Didn’t want Dad to think she was paranoid.)
“This is it, Owl,” she whispered. “No more stupid needlework, no more ironing tablecloths, no more - servant nonsense. No more waiting on Old Lady Crowley’s beck and call.”
Cass drew herself up tall, locking her hands behind her back in parade rest. A royal guard, ready for action.
“It’s up to me now,” she breathed. Sun above, just saying it out loud made her heart soar in her chest.
Finally, a reflection she could be proud of.
Finally, a woman in control of her own destiny.
How many times had she stood in front of this mirror as a kid, jutting out her chest and clenching her tiny fists, Dad's helmet wobbling on her head whilst her legs drowned in his Captain’s boots? She’d always known she was meant for glory - it was convincing others that took the legwork. Sixteen long, bitter, backbreaking years of it.
Cass crossed to her bed. There, in a pool of sunshine, lay her gleaming new guard’s shortsword. Stan and Pete had dropped it off last night, and she definitely, absolutely hadn’t fallen asleep grinning at it like an idiot. Cass seized the handle, warm from the sun, and gazed at it a moment, emotion coursing through her - before sliding it lovingly into her scabbard with a familiar shing of metal. No better sound on earth.
Turning for the door, Cass straightened her helmet; a few stray curls were creeping out from under the edges like they resented being tucked away, and Owl poked them back in with his beak. A soft, encouraging hoot tickled her ear.
“Thanks, buddy. Come on. That crown isn’t going to guard itself.”
Funny, how the world seemed a brighter place when you were basking in the glow of a hard-earned victory over sixteen years in the making.
The sun was really rising now, painting the eastern walls gold and warming Cassandra’s cheek as she strutted through the palace, feeling the eyes of the court staring after her. The preparations for the Lantern Festival were in full swing, yet the servants still found time to whisper behind their hands as she passed. A distractingly pretty kitchen girl even stopped dead in her tracks to stare, her eyes wide with awe, and Cass resisted the urge to walk past her a few more times.
So maybe she’d accidentally-on-purpose taken a slight detour through the busy east corridor to reach Dad’s office, but could anyone blame her? She’d earned this. She wanted them all to see how wrong they’d been about her.
No more pitying glances for the Captain’s little tomboy. No more raised eyebrows when she ran about in her guard’s tunic. No more jokes that made her stomach churn about packing her off to a convent to give the girl a proper education and set her back on the straight and narrow -
Cass tossed her head back, fighting a shudder. Other girls’ fathers threatened to ground them or take away their favourite toys when they misbehaved, but Dad only had to mention the word convent, and Cass would trip over herself to obey every order that fell from his lips.
Whatever. That was all in the past now. She'd won. Nothing - not tradition, not the walls of a convent - could stop her now. This was her victory, precious and golden and cupped in her hands at last.
The citizens of Corona had a lady guard at last, and Sun help them, they would have to learn to deal with it.
At eight o’ clock sharp, Cass spoke those four magic words she’d been rehearsing since she was six - “Cassandra, reporting for duty, sir.” - and in return, Dad gave her one of those fierce, scowling half-smiles from beneath his bushy moustache that said I’m proud of you louder than any words ever could. Cass felt as though she might take off and soar for joy.
Now, she was stationed in the crown room with her brand new squadron. Cass gazed fondly up at her halberd, stroking the freshly-sanded wood with her thumb. There was something about brandishing a halberd that just made a person feel good inside.
Not to mention, getting crown room detail for a first assignment was a mark of hallowed esteem.
She cast a routine glance around the room. Funny, she’d lived in the palace since she was four, but barely set foot in this most revered of all rooms with its glittering treasure gathering dust on a white marble podium. It was a bit like a cathedral, Cass thought, from the stained glass windows to the towering eaves that rustled with pigeons. Well, that made sense. The Lost Princess never had received a funeral, had she? Maybe it was fitting that her only relic - this small piece of her that the King and Queen had left - had been laid to rest in a room that felt more like a church than anything else. A beautiful tomb, of sorts.
How else could you bury your daughter, when her body had never been found?
As a kid, Cass had played a silly, secret game with herself. She would become the greatest warrior Corona had ever seen, the hero who starred in all Dad’s bedtime stories - and then one day, she would ride out, and rescue the Lost Princess. She had a lacy, frothy horror of a dress that Dad had never been able to force her to wear, but draped over a chair with a cushion on top, it made for a perfect princess, and she could drag it around her bedroom as needed for various dragon-slaying, wilderness-traversing, pirate-hunting exploits.
The Lost Princess of her games was always enamoured with her rescuer, swooning over her strength and bravery (especially if Cass kissed her awake from a sleeping curse - Dad's stories had been very inspiring). Browsing in the library one day, she’d read about girls marrying girls in Invgarr, and charged back to her room in excitement to end her own game in a similar fashion. More and more, she felt Dad watching her, hawklike, as she played. And then one day, just before her twelfth birthday, the lacy dress had gone missing, replaced by a magnificent ceremonial mace (a late birthday gift, Dad insisted, not meeting her gaze) - and that was the end of her Lost Princess games.
The memory still made her want to sink into the floor with humiliation. It was just one more unspoken thing hanging over her and Dad like a dark cloud.
“Psst. Cassandra.”
Cass jumped, startled out of her reverie by Pete’s familiar nasally voice.
“Hey. Cassandra. Hey.”
Brilliant. Now Stan was joining in. Cass sighed through her teeth, letting her head drop against her halberd. Hadn’t any of these idiots read A Compendium of Corona Law And Procedure?
“Boys. You do realise you've been on duty for exactly four minutes and already broken protocol. That’s got to be some kind of record.”
“We just wanted to say congrats on getting your first assign -”
She silenced them with a glare. They winced in unison, and shut up.
What if Dad walked in and found her men acting like a bunch of gossiping maids? Not to brag, but giving a new recruit like herself command of an entire squadron was pretty much unheard of. It was a mark of how much Dad trusted her. She could feel the responsibility pressing on her shoulders like a physical weight. Nothing she couldn’t handle, obviously, but she wasn’t about to let any rules slide.
The room held in perfect, serene stillness. Dust motes floated through the air, illuminated by the streams of sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows. Cass felt her lips tug up in a smile, unable to stop herself.
I won’t let you down, Dad. Trust me. I’ve got this.
Beside her, Stan let out a sneeze.
“Eugh. Hayfever?” a voice drawled from behind them.
“Yeah.”
Wait a second.
From behind them.
Cass whipped around so fast she nearly decapitated the guards on either side of her with her halberd.
There, balanced on the podium with his legs in the air, was a man. A man whose goatee every guard in Corona had learned to memorise. A man whose very existence had probably taken about ten years off Dad’s lifespan.
Right there in front of her, dangling the crown of the Lost Princess from his little finger, and grinning like a cat with his paw in the cream.
Cassandra yelled.
“THIEF!”
The crown room collapsed into chaos.
Soldiers shouted. Halberds whirled through the air. Rider made a strangled yelping sound and swung (he was on a rope, Cass realised with a dead sinking sensation in her stomach) out across the room, crown held high in his hand and glittering in the sun.
“Uh, guys? Could really use a lift!” he called jovially in the direction of the ceiling, and Cass screamed -
“Don't let him get away!”
The shrill shing of metal split the air, and suddenly the air was full of flying daggers, whistling past her ear as she threw herself up the podium steps. Rider flailed like a fish on a line. Cass threw her head back to the ceiling, her mind racing, a plan forming, her own dagger cool and deadly against her palm -
Gotcha.
A skylight had cut into the ceiling, flanked by two burly redheads that Cass recognised from their wanted posters. She shot them a look of pure venom - and raised her arm.
Her first dagger caught the left Stabbington in the shoulder, sending him reeling backwards with a roar of pain. His brother followed suit a second later. A shower of blood rained down from the ceiling, speckling Cass’s face. She swiped it away, smearing her glove scarlet. A vicious kind of pleasure coursed through her veins.
Two down, one to go.
Above her, Rider let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal of terror. Cass rounded to face him, and lifted her last dagger - just as Rider swung feet-first into the nearest stained glass window.
An almighty crash shook the ground.
“Take cover!” Cass yelled, throwing herself to the floor. Broken glass rained down on her men in a deadly, glittering storm. “Shield your eyes!”
Another crash made her ears ring. Sheets of glass thunked into the steps like meat cleavers, scattering her men in every direction. Tiny, lethal shards whizzed through the air. Glass pinged off her helmet, and Cass dropped her dagger to clap her hands over her eyes, squinting through her fingers.
The room sparkled like the centre of a diamond - mad, blinding, beautiful.
A cold breeze whipped at her hair; Rider had taken out half the windows. Through her fingers, she could see him still swinging, but less wildly now, losing momentum. His hands scrambled at the knot on his waist, and then a second later he was loose, scrambling up the rope -
“- Oh no you DON’T!” Cass snarled, jumping to her feet. She threw herself up the dais and made a wild leap for the rope. Rider yelped as the rope jerked, sending them both careening sideways. The air whistled past Cass's ears. She snatched at Rider's ankle, missing by inches.
“Get back here, thieving bastard -”
“Geez, lady!” Rider chuckled uneasily, shooting a split-second glance over his shoulder as they raced each other to the top of the rope, and for the first time, Cass saw a glint of fear in his eyes. “Anyone would think this was personal!”
She snarled. “You have no idea.”
“Yeesh, o-kay, sorry I asked...” He hauled himself through the skylight and sprawled out on his side, watching her climb with a faintly bemused expression. Her arms were starting to shake. “Someone’s clearly working through some stuff.”
Coward. Filthy coward. Taunting her when she couldn’t reach him. She hissed, too spitting mad to force actual words out of her mouth, and Rider chuckled - a low, genuine chuckle that was somehow worse than mockery would have been.
“That bad, huh? Don’t take it too hard, cobra lady. Just think -” he twirled the crown idly around one finger, a dizzying cartwheel of silver and diamonds - “this little bauble is gonna make sure fine, hardworking criminals such as moi get to live the life we’ve always dreamed of, and who do we have to thank for that?” He yanked the rope for emphasis, and Cass bit back a yell as the room lurched about her. “Uh, you of course!”
His grin was dastardly, perfect white teeth gleaming in the sun, and when he winked, she nearly screamed.
She was going to kill him.
“Get on with it, pretty boy,” growled a voice, out of sight beyond the skylight. “Put that crown in the satchel and let’s get out of here. The Baron’s waiting.”
“Relax, Burnsy, I told you, the Baron and I go way back…”
Sweat was trickling from under her helmet. Rider’s face shimmered before her eyes, giving her a pouting sort of look with wonky eyebrows that she supposed might, possibly, in another dimension, be construed as suave. He snapped her a theatrical salute.
“At ease, cobra lady. Don't worry, you’ll get over me. They always do. Oh, and uh, here’s a little piece of advice for you. If you’d rather a devilishly handsome rogue didn’t keep nicking heavily guarded trinkets from you palace folks...”
The rope screeched against the edge of the skylight as Rider jerked it up, hard, to his chest. Cass gasped, face screwed up in disgust as Rider bent towards her. The scent of sweat and cologne stung in her nose.
I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.
His grin seemed to fill her whole vision.
“Next time? Try doing your job, and actually guarding the dang thing.”
He let go of the rope.
Afterwards, they told her Dad had skidded into the room just in time to watch her fall.
Afterwards, they told her the rope skittered on the edge of the skylight and broke her descent just enough for Stan and Pete to catch her before she hit the floor.
Afterwards, they told her she’d yelled Rider’s name as she plummeted through the air, one hand still outstretched to the skylight, as though hoping to draw herself back up through sheer rage and willpower alone.
But no such luck.
“Cassandra. Cassandra.”
Hands, shaking her shoulders. Light, winking beyond her closed lids.
Cass groaned, scrubbing a hand over her eyes and forcing them open.
“Where is he.” The words croaked out of her mouth before she’d even consciously thought them. “Where’s Rider.”
She blinked. Fierce brown eyes and a bushy mustache swam into view.
“Dad!” she burst out, shoving herself up on her elbows and gazing frantically around them. “What happened? Did we catch h -”
She cut off, horror closing up her throat as she took in the sight of the room.
For one wild moment, Cass thought it had snowed. The floor was carpeted in white, shattered glass covering every tile. Torn banners fluttered forlornly in the breeze. Windows gaped empty of glass. Spatters of blood caught the sunlight. A few confused pigeons hobbled about.
Servants were everywhere, armed with newspaper and gloves. A gentle clink, clink, clink filled the air as they swept the floor. Somewhere in the distance, the intruder alarm was ringing - too little, too late. And peeking through the open doors - Cass felt her heart drop to her stomach - it looked as though half the court had come running to see the damage, a veritable army of servants and courtiers and every station in-between. Old Lady Crowley. The pretty kitchen girl. Each wore identical masks of horror.
Over Dad’s shoulder, her squadron stood a little way back, dishevelled and solemn. A few were picking glass splinters out of their uniforms. Stan nursed a bloodied cheek.
All of them were looking anywhere except at her.
“He escaped.”
Dad’s voice was like stone. Cass blinked.
No. Not that. Anything but that.
Somewhere, deep down in her chest, she could feel her emotions unravelling like a ball of yarn tossed down a staircase. Rage, despair - guilt - rolling over and over, tangling into one horrible, dizzying force. Her hands started to shake beneath their gloves.
Cass drew in a sharp breath.
“I’m going to catch him,” she declared, scrambling to her feet and lurching towards the door - Dad seized her arm, hauling her back. “He had two great redheaded brutes with him, the Stabbington brothers, they’ll have left a blood trail, I can follow -”
“You’ll do no such thing. You’ll remain here in Corona. That’s an order, soldier.”
Her chin snapped up, eyes locking with his. “What?”
He only looked at her. Silent. Cold. His grip was like steel on her arm.
“You’ve done enough, Cassandra.”
Done enough. Done enough. Done enough.
Silence rang in the air between them, louder than the shattering windows.
“...Make way for the King!” called a voice from the door, and Dad’s grip went rigid around her arm. All around them, the scattered servants dropped into hurried curtseys, like blades of grass bending in the wind. Dad snapped his free arm into a salute. Cass moved to copy him, but he grunted sharply.
“Let me handle this.”
“But Dad - I mean, sir -”
And then the towering figure of King Frederic stood framed in the doorway, and Cass forgot all about saluting. A terrible hush swept over the room.
Oh Sun above, what have I done?
The King was resplendent in heavy velvet robes and chain-of-gold, his bearded face its usual mask of cold, dignified composure that always made Cass feel like criminal waiting to be judged. But it was his eyes that made her heart clench - the muted, frozen grief beneath the composure.
Cass had never learned what the King’s reaction had been, the night the Lost Princess was stolen from her crib - Dad refused to talk about it - but she imagined it was something like what she saw in front of her now. Over the years, she’d heard the story of that terrible night so many times it had morphed into an odd kind of almost-memory. Dad had ridden out with a search party - and returned a few days later, ashen-faced and exhausted, with her own tiny, bedraggled four-year-old self wrapped in his cloak instead.
Rumour had it that the Queen had spotted him from her bedroom window as he staggered across the palace courtyard, cradling a bundle to his chest, and had raced out to meet him with tears of joy streaming down her face - joy that turned to despair, to howls of grief, when she realised the little girl he’d brought home wasn’t hers.
No wonder Dad refused to talk about it.
“Is it true?”
The King’s voice was impossibly steady. Somehow, that made it all the worse. Cass wished he would rage and scream. Despite his impressive stature, the robes draping his body seemed suddenly too big for him.
“Is her crown gone?”
Dad was saying something, but Cass only caught bits and pieces. Something about my daughter’s actions and dealt with accordingly and begs your forgiveness, but Cass wasn’t listening. She was watching the King, as he drifted across the room like a ghost and climbed the steps of the dais with deliberate, perfect composure, touching the empty space on the marble top where the crown had stood, gently, tenderly, like a father might touch his sleeping baby -
Cass jerked her gaze away.
“...Cassandra.” Dad dropped his head towards her, lowering his voice for only her to hear. He swallowed, and Cass watched the movement travel down his throat. “I have to treat you as I would any other probationary recruit. I’m sorry, soldier. You’ve had your chance.”
There was a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor at the edge of his lips as he gazed down at her. Then he raised his voice, for the King to hear.
“You are hereby relieved of your duties as a royal guard of Corona with immediate effect.”
“...Sir, I -”
“Give me your armour.”
“But if you’d just let me -”
“Give it to me.”
“Dad, please -”
“Your armour, Cassandra!” he roared, sending the pigeons scattering to the rafters. Cass flinched. Suddenly, it wasn’t Dad in front of her anymore. It was her captain, his face the same shade of scarlet as his uniform, firing her from the Royal Guard.
In front of her entire squadron.
In front of the court.
In front of the King.
All of a sudden, Cass found she couldn’t look at anyone. Shame constricted her throat, choking down all the things she wanted to scream in the Captain's face, in all their faces. With fumbling fingers, she unfastened her armour.
Helmet, covered in scratches - check. Breastplate, smudged with blood - check. Torn gloves - check.
She held out each piece in turn, feeling like a little girl caught playing dress up.
The Captain took them from her without a glance. He had eyes only for the King now, his face wearing the same expressionless mask of composure.
“Go to your chambers, Cassandra. Put on your servant’s dress. Wait for me there.”
Cass turned on her heel and ran.