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Chapter Text

Stealing a yearling warhorse was not easy for an eight-year-old, but eight-year-old Cassandra knew that duty superseded difficulty.

All she needed was the dull dagger her father had reluctantly deemed appropriate for a training gift, and the stamina to clumsily saddle Fidella. Even as a yearling, Fidella towered, a massive shadow in the flickering gaslight of the Royal Stables. Today’s mission objective was simple, yet vital: succeed where Dad’s dozens of seasoned guards had failed.

Find the lost princess.

Cassandra scaled a stack of hay bales to gain height, grunting as she hauled herself over the bulky military saddle. (Sun above, she wished she was tall.) Fidella whickered—a low, inquiring rumble that demanded direction.

Cassandra adjusted the saddle, settling her small frame against the stiff leather. "North, girl," she whispered fiercely, leaning down to pat Fidella's massive, warm neck. "We are going north. And stay quiet. This is a stealth operation."

Fidella lowered her head obediently, though she still gave a low, rumbling sigh that vibrated straight through Cassandra’s boots. Subtlety was difficult, because Fidella was not built for it. She was built for formation charges and looking impressive during parades.

Cassandra gathered the reins, the Captain’s dull dagger tapping against her hip—a surprisingly reassuring weight. The blade was useless for defense, but it was excellent for cutting a straight line in the dirt, and tonight, it represented the authority her father refused to grant her officially.

The stable exit was guarded by a massive wooden door, bolted shut from the inside—a detail Dad seemed to forget every night. Cassandra slid down from Fidella’s back, her feet scuffing the straw. The bolts were thick iron, cold under her fingers, and situated at chest height for a grown man. For Cassandra, this involved standing on her tiptoes, straining until the muscles in her legs shook with the effort of leverage.

Clunk.

The sound of the top bolt scraping against the frame seemed to ricochet across the stone courtyard. Cassandra froze, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She listened intently. Only the rhythmic, oblivious snores of the stable hands answered her.

Tactical threat ignored.

She managed the bottom bolt. The door, heavy as a small cottage, swung inward an inch with a groan that sounded loud enough to wake the entire outer guard barracks.

"Now," she muttered, scrambling back onto the saddle. She nudged Fidella forward gently. The huge yearling slipped under the frame of the door and onto the moon-drenched cobblestone courtyard.

The air was sharp and cold. High above the ramparts, the torches cast dancing orange light, but down low, near the stables, it was all deep shadow and hushed silence.

"Mission objective met," she reported to the silent horse, giving Fidella an encouraging kick. "Egress successful. Now, we find the lost princess."

And with a smooth, silent gait that betrayed her massive size, Fidella trotted out of the kingdom’s immediate shadow, carrying her tiny, determined rider toward the unknown wilderness.

Two Hours Later...

The night had surrendered to a hazy, unforgiving morning. The sunrise had burned away the exciting shadows, leaving only scrubland and aching exhaustion.

Cassandra was slumped forward in the saddle, the sun beating down on her neck, making this entire endeavor feel like a very bad idea. She was hot, hungry, and covered in dust. Dad would be furious. He would pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh his disappointment before grounding her for a month.

And worse, she had nothing to show for it. Wherever that little blonde four-year-old and her kidnapper hid was obviously a damn good hiding place. Cassandra stared at the empty path ahead, the thrilling righteousness of her escape hollowed out by the vast, silent wilderness.

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The sun, now fully risen, felt like a judgment.

Cassandra pulled the reins lightly, guiding Fidella toward a cluster of sun-bleached rocks that promised the marginal shade of a scraggly, low-growing oak. The silence of the woods was only broken by the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the yearling beneath her.

“We need water, girl,” Cassandra muttered, her throat dry and scratchy. She slid her dull dagger into the loop at her hip, adjusting the stiff leather of the saddle. It was monumental effort just to keep her spine straight.

As they neared the oak, a frantic rustling sound erupted from behind the rocks.

Before Cassandra could react, two boys—or rather, two figures trying very hard to look like dangerous men—stumbled out, blocking the narrow path. They were skinny, dressed in ill-fitting, patched clothes, and wielding sticks that had been loosely whittled into sad approximations of swords.

The shorter one, maybe twelve years old, had slicked-down brown hair, too-wide brown eyes, and was clearly trying to project an air of sophisticated menace. The taller one looked nervous and clutched his stick like it might run away.

The short boy puffed out his chest and pointed his stick dramatically toward Fidella. The massive filly blinked slowly, entirely unimpressed.

“Halt!” the boy commanded, his voice cracking slightly on the t. “You have stepped into the domain of the greatest thieves the Seven Kingdoms have ever known! Prepare to surrender your belongings.”

Cassandra yawned, trying to cover it with a hand. “You do realize you’re blocking a path that no one uses?”

The boy scowled. “I am Flynn Rider! And I am deadly!”

Cassandra tilted her head, her exhaustion briefly forgotten, replaced by keen, professional curiosity.

“Flynn Rider? Like the books? What’s your name? Lance Strongbow?” she asked, glancing at the nervous, taller boy.

Lance (apparently)  flinched, apparently startled that she knew the name. “How did you—”

Flynn elbowed Lance hard. “Shut up, Lance! We are bandits! She’s trying to distract us with semantics!” He looked back at Cassandra, trying to regain control. “We are seasoned criminals! We are going to relieve you of your horse and any valuables you possess.”

Cassandra surveyed their shabby clothes, the dull edges of their whittled sticks, and the nervous sweat on their brows. She looked down at her own attire: the perfect trousers, clean, pressed shirt, the practical dull dagger tucked securely away, and the massive, in training guard horse  beneath her.

A slow smile spread across her face, thin and merciless.

“You two have to be the biggest idiots I've ever seen!” she declared, her voice ringing clear despite her fatigue. “Your strategy is poor, your weapons are inefficient, and your morale is visibly low. You need to practice your intimidation routines, because this is pitiful.”

Flynn flushed crimson. He took that personally. “That’s it! Enough talk!” He dropped his stick and lunged toward Fidella’s bridle.

“Just give us your horse!”

“No." Cassandra stated flatly.

Fidella lowered her head, snorting a plume of hot air directly into Lance's face, which caused him to leap back dramatically.

“Lance, grab the other side! We’re taking it by force!”

Lance, looking terrified of the horse’s immense teeth, cautiously approached Fidella’s flank.

“Flynn, maybe we should just leave her-” the alone never made it out.

As Lance reached up to grab the edge of the saddle blanket, Cassandra didn’t bother with the dagger. She didn't even yell. She simply shifted her weight, brought her right knee up sharply, and pushed the bottom of her  boot forward in a swift, practiced movement she had learned from Dad on how to disarm a foot soldier.

The kick connected solidly with Lance’s shin.

“Ow!” Lance yelped, hopping back on one foot, clutching the injured limb.

“Lance!” Flynn spun around, abandoning the attempt to subdue Fidella’s head.

“She kicked me!” Lance whined, hopping in circles.

“She’s just a kid!" Flynn slapped a hand to his face. 

"It hurt!"

“That’s leverage utilization against a larger opponent,” Cassandra muttered coolly. “And I’m eight, not ‘just a kid.’ Now, stand down. Assaulting a Royal Asset is a capital offense.”

Flynn stared at her, then down at Lance, who was still rubbing his shin and grimacing. They looked less like bandits and more like disappointed boys who had missed the ice cream cart.

Flynn straightened his jacket. “We were merely testing your mettle,” he said, struggling desperately to reclaim some dignity. “You passed. We will allow you to continue your journey.”

“Right...” Cassandra said, skeptical. “Thanks for the permission.” She nudged Fidella forward.

As they passed the boys, Cassandra couldn’t resist. She pulled the dull dagger from her belt, pressed the tip into the dry dirt, and drew a thick, unwavering line right across the path.

“Rule number one of ambushes, idiots,” she stated, looking down her nose at the two boys. “Don’t rob the people who have better training than you do. Also, if you’re going to be a criminal, learn how to draw a map. You’re currently in the middle of nowhere.”

She put the dagger away and urged Fidella into a trot, leaving the two aspiring bandits standing in the dust, staring at the perfectly straight line drawn in the dirt, their ambitious mugging having failed entirely thanks to a girl and some dumb horse.

Cassandra rode on, feeling marginally better. At least that encounter had wasted ten minutes.

Now, back to the mission objective. The lost princess.

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Three arduous hours later, the sun beat down with even greater vengeance, the air thick and heavy. Cassandra’s perfect trousers were now dusted with trail grime, her clean shirt clinging uncomfortably to her back. Her throat still felt like sandpaper, and the constant ache in her muscles was a familiar, unwelcome companion. Fidella, too, seemed to flag, her strong strides shortening.

“Just a little further, girl,” Cassandra murmured, patting the filly’s neck. “We have to find some water soon. And this ‘lost princess’ isn’t going to just waltz out of the woods and introduce herself.” She sighed, rubbing her temples. The mission, to find the vanished princess, felt increasingly impossible with every mile.

They were deep within a part of the forest Cassandra didn’t recognize, the trees growing denser, their branches forming a dappled canopy that offered little respite from the heat. The ground was uneven, roots snaking across their path, forcing Cassandra to guide Fidella more carefully.

Suddenly, Fidella froze. Her ears swiveled, her nostrils flared, and a low, guttural whicker rumbled in her chest. Cassandra tensed, her hand instinctively going to her dagger, though she knew it wouldn’t be much use against a wild animal spooked out of its mind.

Before she could fully register the danger, a flash of white caught her eye. Slithering out from beneath a moss-covered log was a snake, unlike any she had ever seen. It was stark white, almost translucent, with one eye a startling yellow and the other a deep, vivid purple. A single, curved fang glinted menacingly from its mouth. It wasn’t large, but its presence was unnerving.

Fidella let out a piercing shriek, a sound of pure terror, and reared violently. Cassandra, already exhausted and caught off guard, clung desperately for a moment, but the filly’s powerful lunge threw her from the saddle. She hit the ground hard, a sickening crunch echoing in the sudden silence as her right arm twisted beneath her. A searing pain shot up her arm, a white-hot agony that stole her breath.

She lay there, gasping, her vision blurring, as Fidella, still screaming in panic, bolted through the trees, her hooves pounding a frantic retreat. The white snake, as if equally terrified by the commotion, rapidly vanished back into the undergrowth, a silent, fleeting shadow.

Cassandra tried to push herself up, but her right hand was useless, her wrist a throbbing mess. She could feel the unnatural angle, the sharp, relentless pain. Tears stung her eyes, not from fear, but from frustration and the sheer, overwhelming agony. She was alone, injured, and her ride was gone.

Dad would be thrilled.

“Great,” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper. “Just great.”

Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself onto her left side, then painstakingly crawled, dragging her broken wrist, toward the nearby cliff face cloaked in thick, ancient ivy. It was the only cover she could see, the dense greenery promising a small pocket of shade. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain through her, but she pushed onward, driven by a primal need for shelter.

She finally reached the cool, damp stone beneath the ivy, collapsing against it, her head lolling back. The world was tilting, darkening at the edges. Disappointment, pain, and exhaustion washed over her. She had failed. She was just a kid, just like Flynn Rider had said.

Then, faint and ethereal, a sound reached her ears, weaving through the haze of pain. A melody. Sweet, clear, and hauntingly beautiful. It sounded like singing, a girl’s voice, impossibly pure, carrying on the still air.

Too tired… can’t… she thought, her eyelids fluttering. The singing seemed to pull her deeper into the darkness, a lullaby inviting her to surrender. She took one last, trembling breath, the music fading as the world dissolved into black.

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Her slumber was fractured with pain, a dream of falling and a phantom scream that was Fidella’s. A cold droplet on her cheek shocked her back to a consciousness she desperately didn’t want. Then another. A low rumble of thunder echoed through the forest, and the gentle spatter of rain on the broad ivy leaves above her became a steady drumming.

The storm had rolled in, and it was the only thing that could have roused her. The rain plastered her hair to her forehead, washing some of the dust and tears from her face. It cooled her burning skin but sent a deep, aching chill into her bones. Her right arm was a universe of pure, concentrated agony, cradled uselessly against her chest.

"You have to move, Cassandra," Dad's training screamed. "You can't stay here."

Gritting her teeth against a sob, Cassandra used her left arm to push herself up, leaning heavily against the wet cliff face. The world swam, but she swallowed the nausea. She had to find Fidella. She had to get home.

Stumbling, half-crawling, she made her way back toward the trail, her good hand skimming the ground for support. The rain had turned the path to mud, and every root seemed to try to reach up to trip her. She called out, her voice a hoarse croak swallowed by the downpour. “Fidella? Girl? Come on…”

She didn’t know how long she wandered, shivering uncontrollably, her vision blurring with pain and rain. Then, a soft, familiar whicker cut through the storm’s noise. Behind a thicket of hawthorn, standing hunched and miserable, was Fidella. The filly’s reins were tangled in the branches, and she was shaking, her eyes wide with residual fear, but she was there.

A relief so profound it brought fresh tears to Cassandra’s eyes washed over her. “Hey,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she approached slowly, her left hand outstretched. “Hey, girl. It’s okay. I’m not mad. It’s okay.”

Fidella nudged her hand, a soft apology in her warm breath. With numb, fumbling fingers, Cassandra worked at the sodden reins, finally freeing them. Getting into the saddle with one working arm was a fresh nightmare of pain and awkwardness, but the fear of being left behind was a powerful motivator. She finally managed to haul herself up, lying across the saddle for a moment before righting herself, gripping the pommel with her left hand for balance.

“Home, Fidella,” she murmured, nudging the filly with her heel. “Take us home.”

The ride back to Corona was a blur of gray rain and searing pain. She focused only on staying upright, on the rhythm of Fidella’s gait, on the distant, glowing lights of the kingdom that grew gradually larger. The rain masked her tears and the fact that she was soaked to the skin and covered in mud. It was a cloak, and she was grateful for it.

She guided Fidella through the quieter, service-oriented streets behind the main square, her head down. She was doing well. Almost there. The royal stables were just through the servants’ entrance in the outer wall. She slid from Fidella’s back, her legs buckling as she hit the ground. She clung to the saddle for a moment, then, taking the reins in her left hand, she began to lead the tired horse toward the narrow archway.

She just had to get inside. She could hide in the hayloft, figure out what to do about her arm, and no one would ever have to know she’d failed. Dad wouldn’t have to be disappointed. He wouldn’t have to know his trust was misplaced.

She was steps from the dark archway, the shadow offering sanctuary, when a voice, gentle yet clear, cut through the patter of the rain.

“Cassandra?”

She froze, her heart plummeting. Slowly, she turned.

Under the covered walkway that led to the gardens stood Queen Arianna, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a look of deep concern on her face. Her eyes, kind and perceptive, took in the scene in an instant: the mud-caked child, the exhausted horse, the way Cassandra held one arm protectively and utterly still against her body, the sleeve of her shirt torn and caked with something darker than mud.

The Queen stepped out into the rain, not seeming to care about her silk slippers on the wet stones. She knelt before Cassandra, her gaze soft but unwavering.

“Oh, my dear child,” she said, her voice filled with a warmth that made Cassandra’s chin tremble. “What in the world happened to you?”

Chapter Text

Cassandra flinched, a fresh wave of shame washing over her, colder and sharper than the rain. The words caught in her throat, a jumble of mud, a fall, a lost princess she hadn't found. She tried to step back, to pull away, to hide her torn sleeve and the sickening throb in her arm, but her legs were too weak, and the Queen’s gentle gaze held her captive.

“What happened?” Arianna repeated, her voice a soft murmur that somehow cut through the roaring in Cassandra’s ears. Her eyes, filled with an unsettling mixture of sorrow and understanding, moved from Cassandra’s face to her arm, then to the exhausted Fidella. Without another word, Arianna rose, took the reins from Cassandra’s numb fingers, and then, with infinite gentleness, placed a hand on Cassandra’s uninjured shoulder. “Come. Let’s get you inside, out of this rain.”

Cassandra wanted to protest, to say she was fine, to insist she could go to the stables herself and disappear. But the Queen's touch was surprisingly firm, guiding her forward without pressure, and the warmth of her hand was a stark contrast to the biting cold that had seeped into Cassandra’s bones. Every step was a fresh jolt of agony, and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, tasting blood, to keep the whimpers trapped within. She kept her head down, fixated on the Queen's silk slippers splashing through puddles, feeling the contrast between their clean, pristine elegance and her own mud-caked boots.

You found Fidella, a small, defiant voice whispered in her mind. You didn’t lose the horse. But the other voice, louder, crueler, cut in: Not the princess though. The Queen’s daughter. You failed. The thought twisted in her gut, making the nausea return. She couldn’t look at Arianna for long, the kindness in her eyes feeling like a judgment, a silent accusation of her failure.

The Queen led her through a less-frequented door, into a warm, brightly lit corridor. Servants, startled by the sight of their Queen walking beside the mud-streaked child of the captain , quickly averted their eyes, though not before looks of shock and pity registered on their faces. Cassandra shrank further into herself, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

Arianna didn't release her until they reached the infirmary. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and antiseptic. A kindly nurse, her face creased with concern, immediately hurried forward, but Arianna gently intervened. “Please, prepare a warm bath and fresh clothes. And send word for the Captain of the Guard to meet us here, immediately.”

She then guided Cassandra to a padded bench, her movements fluid and efficient. “Sit, dear. We’ll get that wrist looked at.”

Cassandra sank onto the bench, every muscle screaming in protest. She kept her arm clutched against her chest, her knuckles white. The nurse quickly returned with a basin of warm water and a soft cloth, beginning to gently clean some of the mud from Cassandra’s face. Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the world. She could feel the Queen sitting beside her, a steady, comforting presence radiating warmth.

Silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the soft lapping of the cloth and the distant drumming of rain. Cassandra could feel Arianna’s gaze on her, not demanding, just… observing. The unspoken question of the princess hung heavy in the air, a dagger poised over her head. She knew the Queen wouldn't ask now, not with her like this, but the knowledge that she had failed in her primary task, that she had let down the Queen’s trust, burned hotter than any pain in her arm. A small, involuntary whimper escaped, quickly stifled by another fierce bite to her lip. She waited, dread pooling in her stomach, for her father to arrive and see just how spectacularly she had failed.