The Shameless Princess - Chapters 1-2

A Strong-willed Princess stands up for her love of a common man no matter the cost

The Shameless Princess

Chapter One

King Montan fixed Alexia with a stern look. “Princess Alexia, be reasonable.”

Sitting opposite her, he scratched his unkempt beard, studying her carefully. He had expected a weak, easily manipulated young woman. Instead, the raven-haired princess stared back with unshaken resolve. Her porcelain features were set in grim lines, blue eyes sparkling with anger.

Alexia narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“No?” Montan repeated, aghast. “The man is a criminal. I am prepared to set him free for your sake — if you agree not to see him again and consent to marry my son.” He paused, incredulous. “Have you no shame?”

“Apparently not.” Alexia leaned forward, her gaze locking onto his. “You seek to blackmail me by wrongfully imprisoning someone I care for. I assure you, this will not stand. No matter how much I care for Ransom Jones, I will not barter his freedom for my love — nor would he for me.” Her voice hardened. “We both know neither of us will betray what we feel, no matter the cost.”

King Montan stared at her, speechless. “There is no compromising with this woman,” he muttered. “Even if it means war between our kingdoms?”

“War it will be if you don’t release him,” Alexia replied. “You have until the day after tomorrow. Either show me proof of wrongdoing or release him.” She rose to her feet, unflinching. “Parten Montan, any proof you bring had better be good. I will not tolerate lies or deceit.” She knew that two days would not be sufficient for him to fabricate a story that could withstand investigation. “I wish to see him. Now.”

The lack of title — and the use of his given name — did not go unnoticed. Montan’s face turned blotchy red. “How dare you speak so rudely to me? I am the king here!” he bellowed. He drew a breath, forcing his voice into something calmer. “Princess Alexia, surely you can see the benefits of joining our families.”

Alexia’s cheeks flushed as she stood rigidly. “No. Not through coercion. Not under any circumstances.” She turned sharply, her honour guard wheeling with her. She took several steps before the king’s guards crossed their ceremonial pikes, blocking her path. Tension crackled through the throne room as Alexia’s guards shifted, ready to defend her. Alexia raised a hand and pushed the pikes aside as though they were an inconvenience. Behind her, the king sighed and nodded to his captain. The guards lowered their weapons.

“Escort the princess to the prisoner,” Montan said, waving a hand dismissively.

Alexia did not look back or offer thanks. Only when she was out of sight, walking down the dimly lit hallway flanked by her honour guard, did she allow herself to relax. A shudder ran through her as the tension bled away. They were met by one of the king’s guards, who led them to the dungeons where Ransom Jones was held. The jailer allowed only one person to accompany her. Sandtor Benix — captain of her honour guard, loyal to both Alexia and Ransom — stood a respectful distance behind as she approached the cell.

Alexia’s heart sank. She fought to keep her composure. “How are you holding up? Are they treating you well?” Her voice trembled despite her efforts. She glanced around the dingy cell and grimaced. It was bare, but at least clean and dry. She reached through the bars. Ransom took her hand immediately. He offered a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, Your Highness. Treated well, all things considered.”

Alexia’s eyes narrowed. “Considering what? That you’re falsely accused and held as a bargaining chip? I will not stand for it.”

Ransom tightened his grip gently, meeting her gaze. He knew her temper was close to breaking. “Please, Your Highness, be calm. If you lash out now, you’ll seem childish — and lose credibility in the eyes of this petty king and his people.”

Alexia drew a slow breath, looking away before meeting his eyes again with a guilty expression. “It may already be too late for that,” she admitted with a sheepish smile.

“What have you done now, Alexia?” Ransom asked. His concern for her overrode protocol — something he had never allowed himself in public. A short distance away, Benix flushed and politely pretended not to hear.

“It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. We need to get you out of here.” She paused, thinking. “I should never have sent you to negotiate with this king. We underestimated how cunning he is.” A familiar look crossed her face — one Ransom recognised all too well.

“Don’t do anything reckless, Your Highness. Perhaps it would be easier to agree to his demands, at least for now.” He saw her shoulders tense again and raised a hand to calm her, giving her a lopsided grin.

Alexia exhaled slowly. “You know as well as I do that even if I gave in, he would bleed our homeland dry as he has his own. And his son is no better.” She shook her head. “I can’t. I must not. Even for you, my love. This king will ruin both our countries with his greed and lust for power. For the sake of our people, he must be stopped.”

Ransom nodded. “I know. And I understand your dilemma, Highness. I’ve seen it myself on the road here. Lendoria is on its knees — its people destitute, rebellion everywhere.”

Alexia walked the long corridor back to her guest chambers with her spine rigid and her jaw clenched. Every step echoed with the weight of the confrontation she had just endured. She could feel eyes on her — the king’s spies, the guards stationed too conveniently along the walls, the servants who bowed a little too slowly. Montan was watching her. Waiting for her to break. Benix walked at her side, silent but alert. He had seen the look in her eyes before — the one that meant she was already planning something dangerous. When they reached her chambers, two of Montan’s guards stood outside the door. They bowed stiffly, but their hands hovered near their weapons. Alexia ignored them and swept inside.

Only once the door closed did she allow her shoulders to drop a fraction. “Benix,” she said quietly.
He straightened. “Highness.”

“We are being watched. I need you to send for someone.”

Benix nodded once. “Name them.”

“The Shadow.”

Benix’s brows lifted, but he didn’t question her. He crossed the room, opened the balcony door, and slipped out into the night. He would take the outer ledges, the servants’ walkways, the blind corners — paths only a trained guard captain would know. Within moments, he was gone. Alexia paced the room, forcing her breathing to steady. She could not afford to look frantic. Not now. Not with Montan’s spies listening through every crack in the walls.
Minutes passed. Then a soft knock. A servant entered — head bowed, carrying a tray of wine and fruit. His posture was perfect, his steps silent. To anyone else, he was just another palace attendant. But Alexia knew better. She waited until the door closed behind him. “Drop the act,” she said.
The servant straightened, his entire bearing shifting in an instant. His shoulders rolled back, his eyes sharpened, and the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Your Highness,” he said in his true voice — smooth, confident, amused. “You summoned me.”
Alexia exhaled, tension easing. “I need your help.”

“You usually do when Benix comes crawling through windows,” he replied lightly. “What trouble has the king stirred this time?”

“Ransom Jones is imprisoned,” she said. “Falsely. As leverage against me.”

The sorcerer’s expression darkened. “Then say the word, and I will turn Montan’s throne to ash.”

“No,” Alexia snapped. “Not yet. I need subtlety, not fire.”

He inclined his head. “Then subtlety you shall have.”

Alexia stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I need you to get arrested.”

The sorcerer blinked once. “Ah. One of those plans.”

“You will disguise yourself as a petty criminal. Something believable. You will get thrown into the same dungeon block as Ransom. Once inside, you will use your magic — quietly — to free him. Then you will escape together through the old drainage tunnels beneath the keep.”

He tapped a finger against his chin. “A drunkard? A thief? A loudmouthed fool who insults the king’s mother?”

“Whichever you can perform convincingly,” Alexia said.

He gave her a look. “I can perform anyone convincingly.”

“I know,” she replied. “That’s why I trust you.”

For a moment, the sorcerer’s smirk softened into something almost sincere. “Very well,” he said. “By dawn, I will be in chains. By dusk, Ransom Jones will be free.”
Alexia nodded. “Benix and I will meet you both at the old courtyard gate. The one with the broken gargoyle.”

“Of course,” he said. “I carved that gargoyle myself. Terrible workmanship. I’m amazed it still stands.”

Despite everything, Alexia almost smiled.

The sorcerer bowed deeply — not as a servant, but as the deadly, loyal shadow he truly was.

Then, with a shimmer of magic and a shift of posture, he became someone else entirely — a slouching, scruffy man with a crooked grin and wine-stained clothes. He winked. “Time to cause trouble.” And he slipped out the door, leaving Alexia alone with her racing thoughts and the faint, dangerous hope that her plan might actually work.

Chapter Two

The marketplace of Lendoria bustled with late‑afternoon noise — merchants shouting prices, children weaving between stalls, guards patrolling with bored expressions. attention. He reeked of wine. His clothes were torn. His hair hung in greasy clumps over his face. bored expressions. No one paid attention to the ragged man stumbling through the crowd, muttering curses under his breath. He reeked of wine. His clothes were torn. His hair hung in greasy clumps over his face. The Shadow — though no one would have recognised him — swayed toward a pair of guards standing beside a fruit cart. He bumped into one of them, sloshing cheap ale onto the man’s boots.

“Watch where you’re going, you filthy drunk!” the guard snapped. The ragged man blinked slowly, then grinned a crooked, gap-toothed grin.

“Nice boots,” he slurred. “Shame they’re attached to such an ugly face.”

The guard’s jaw dropped. The Shadow leaned in conspiratorially. “Your king’s uglier.”

That did it. The guard seized him by the collar. “That’s treason!”

“Is it?” the sorcerer hiccupped. “I thought it was common knowledge.” The second guard grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back. The sorcerer didn’t resist — he sagged like a sack of grain, letting them drag him through the streets as he continued to mutter insults about King Montan’s lineage, appearance, and questionable taste in statues. By the time they reached the dungeon gates, the guards were red-faced with fury.

“Throw him in with the other troublemakers,” one growled.

The heavy iron door slammed shut behind him. The sorcerer straightened instantly, the drunken slouch vanishing. Eyes, alert posture, shifting. The disguise melted away like smoke, leaving only a faint shimmer of magic in the air. Himself again. He listened. Two guards sat at a table nearby, playing dice. Another patrolled the corridor. The jailer snored in a chair, keys dangling from his belt. The sorcerer smiled. He whispered a single word — soft as a breath. The torches flickered. The guards blinked, confused. Then one by one, they slumped forward, unconscious, dice scattering across the floor. Another spell, the sorcerer stepped out of his cell, brushing dust from his sleeves. He approached the jailer, plucked the keys from his belt, and moved silently down the corridor. Ransom Jones stood at the bars of his cell, eyes widening as the sorcerer approached.

“You,” Ransom whispered. “Alexia sent you.”

“Of course she did,” the sorcerer replied, unlocking the door with a soft click. “I’m always prepared to do her Highness' bidding.”

Ransom huffed a quiet laugh. “Is she safe?”

“For the moment. Let’s keep it that way.”

He handed Ransom a cloak to hide his identity. Together, they slipped past the unconscious guards and into the lower passageways beneath the keep. The air grew colder as they descended. Water dripped from the stone ceiling. The sorcerer led the way, moving with the confidence of someone who knew every hidden corner of the castle. At last, they reached a rusted grate. The sorcerer whispered another spell. The metal softened, sagging like warm wax. He pushed it aside.

“After you,” he said.

Ransom crawled through the opening into the old drainage tunnel. The sorcerer followed, sealing the grate behind them with a flick of his fingers. They moved quickly through the narrow passage, guided only by faint light filtering through cracks in the stone. At the far end, a loose slab of masonry shifted under the sorcerer’s touch, revealing a hidden exit into the castle’s abandoned courtyard. Moonlight shone across the cobblestones. Alexia stood waiting beneath the shattered gargoyle, cloak drawn tight, Benix at her side. Ransom stepped into the light. Alexia’s breath caught — relief, fear, and fierce determination all tangled together. “You’re safe,” she whispered.

“For now,” the sorcerer said, emerging behind him. “But Montan will discover the escape soon. We should move.”

Alexia nodded, her eyes never leaving Ransom’s. “Then we leave tonight.” And together, they vanished into the shadows of the sleeping city.

The throne room was silent except for the echoing footsteps of a terrified guard sprinting across the marble floor. King Montan sat rigidly on his throne, fingers drumming against the armrest, eyes fixed on the man approaching. The guard dropped to one knee, panting. “Your Majesty… the prisoner… Ransom Jones… he’s gone.”

Montan’s fingers froze. “Gone?” His voice was dangerously calm.

“Yes, sire. The dungeon guards were found unconscious. No sign of struggle. No forced locks. No witnesses.”

Montan rose slowly, the air around him tightening like a drawn bowstring. “Then how,” he said, each word sharp as a blade, “did a man in chains simply walk out of my dungeon?”

The guard swallowed hard. “We… we don’t know, sire.”

Another guard rushed in, bowing quickly. “Your Majesty — there are rumours spreading among the servants.”

Montan’s eyes narrowed. “Rumours?”

“Yes, sire. They say Princess Alexia has… a man. A spy. A sorcerer. Someone who can change his face. They call him…” The guard hesitated. “Say it,” Montan snapped.

“They call him the Shadow, sire.”

A hush fell over the room. Montan’s face darkened, blotches of red rising up his neck. “A master spy? In my castle? Under my nose?”
The guard trembled. “We… we only just learned of him, sire.”

Montan slammed his fist against the throne. “And why,” he roared, “did my own spies not know of this sooner?” No one dared answer. Montan paced, fury simmering beneath every step. “A sorcerer who. Montan paced, fury simmering beneath every step. “A sorcerer who can appear as anyone… a spy who slips through walls… and my men knew nothing?” He stopped abruptly.

“This Shadow made fools of us all.”

The guards remained frozen, heads bowed. Montan’s voice dropped to a low, venomous growl. “Find him. Find the princess. Find Jones. I don’t care what it takes.”
He turned toward his captain of guards. “And if you fail…” His eyes burned with cold promise. “…I will find new men who do not.”

The captain bowed deeply, fear tightening his jaw. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Montan sank back onto his throne, seething. “A spy in my kingdom,” he muttered. “A sorcerer in my walls. And a princess who thinks she can outwit me.” His lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile.

“The city of Lendoria slept under a moonless sky, unaware that its king’s fury was about to ignite a war. Alexia pulled her hood low as she, Ransom, Benix, and the Shadow slipped through the abandoned courtyard gate. The broken gargoyle loomed above them like a silent sentinel. Beyond the walls, the narrow back streets twisted like veins through the city — dark, quiet, and dangerous.

“We must move quickly,” the Shadow murmured. “Montan’s men will discover the escape within the hour.” Benix nodded. “The outer patrols change at midnight. If we reach the river before then, we can avoid the checkpoints.”

Alexia glanced at Ransom. Even in the dim light, she could see the exhaustion in his eyes — the strain of imprisonment, the weight of what lay ahead. But he stood tall, resolute. “Can you keep up?” she whispered.

“For you?” He managed a faint smile. “Always.”

They moved through the shadows, keeping to alleys and servant paths. Twice, they ducked behind crates as patrols passed. Once, the Shadow shifted his appearance to mimic a drunken beggar, distracting a pair of guards long enough for the others to slip by. The city felt different now — hostile, listening, waiting to betray them. At last, they reached the riverbank. A small fishing boat bobbed gently against the pier, its lantern extinguished.

Benix exhaled. “Our way out.”

The Shadow stepped aboard first, scanning the darkness. “No watchers. Good.”

Alexia helped Ransom into the boat, then climbed in after him. Benix untied the rope and pushed them off; the current caught the vessel and pulled it silently downstream. The city lights faded behind them. Only when they were swallowed by darkness did Alexia finally speak.

“We cannot return home openly,” she said. Montan will send riders, spies, and assassins. He will claim we broke a prisoner out. He will twist the truth to justify war.”

Ransom nodded grimly. “And your father’s council will demand proof of Montan’s treachery.”

“We’ll give them proof,” Alexia said. “But first, we must reach the border.”

The Shadow leaned back, folding his arms. “Montan will not wait for diplomacy. He will raise his banners by dawn.”

Alexia stared out across the black water, her voice low and steady.

“Then we must be ready. If war is coming, we will not be caught unprepared.”

The boat drifted into the night, carrying them toward uncertain safety — and the storm that awaited them on the other side.