The Crown and the Coin

When a masquerade ball meets a prison break, the royal agenda gets rewritten. This enchanted tale of rebellion and romance was written in one week for a 2,500-word romantasy challenge. Enjoy the magic.

The trumpets sounded again.

"Lord Fenwick of Grimhollow!" the herald announced, as yet another suitor descended the grand staircase.

In her throne beside her father, Princess Aurelia Augustine feigned a sip of her wine and huffed, rolling her eyes. 

"Smile," King Alistair hissed. 

She didn't look at him. “Yes, Father.”

Aurelia’s gold filigree mask edged her vision as she peered around the ballroom. Two hundred masked guests whirled across the marble floor to the elegant accompaniment of a string quartet. A grandiose chandelier reflected flickering candlelight in every direction. Fine silk, rich hues, and perfumed skin all blended together in one breathtaking illusion.

The princess wore a custom-made gown for her twenty-first birthday party; the deep green velvet bodice was fitted and regal, and her ivory tulle skirt puffed around her like a cloud. At her throat lay a simple bronze locket, and atop her head, a delicate gold tiara. She looked more like royalty than ever before, but had never felt less like her mother’s daughter than when she played the part of “doting princess.”

She glanced up at the massive gilded station clock on the wall and swallowed hard—she had exactly four minutes to set her plan in motion.

As Lord Fenwick approached, deep crow’s feet, drooping under-eye bags, and dark age spots along his temples came into focus. Aurelia was certain that if he removed his cap, it would reveal advanced hair loss.

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and stood to greet him, wobbling and sloshing the deep burgundy wine in her goblet. A crimson splash bloomed upon her gown.

“Oh dear.” She placed a hand on her chest in pseudo-disappointment. “My dress…”

Alistair cursed under his breath. "Couldn’t you at least pretend to act like a lady for five minutes?"

“Pardon me,” Aurelia apologized to her elderly suitor. “I must get cleaned up.”

The moment she was out of sight, Aurelia hiked up her skirt and sprinted through the castle. 

The clock chimed once—half past nine and she slammed her chamber door shut behind her, breathless, shaking, alive.

Time was not on her side tonight.

She yanked off her wine-stained tulle overskirt, revealing the lower half of her custom-fitted bodysuit and boots—previously well-hidden by her obnoxiously large pouf. She removed her mask and tiara and sat before her vanity, fingers working quickly to braid her long golden-brown hair to keep it out of her face. 

In her reflection, she saw her mother’s fierceness and fire staring back at her, only strengthening her resolve. She touched the cool bronze locket at her throat, willing it to warm as it once did whenever her mother thought of her—a Northern magic the queen never had the chance to teach her.

There was a light tap at her chamber door and the princess jumped. She cracked the door, a cautious sliver, and exhaled in relief at the sight of her best friend—a cook named Louis. 

He shot a worried glance over his shoulder, then slipped inside. “Guards are either distracted or bribed. Boats are ready. Here.” He handed her a bulky knapsack.

She took the bag and peeked inside. Just as they’d planned, there were cloaks, masks, a heavy iron keyring. And atop it all, loosely wrapped in cloth: a crusty heel of bread. She laughed.

“Couldn’t let you go into danger hungry,” Louis said, managing a shaky half smile.

She pulled him into a tight embrace. “Thank you. Now get back to the kitchen. Act natural.”

“Are you sure about this Aurie?” He hesitated, wringing his hands. “If anything happens to you—”

“Nothing bad will happen,” she said, with more confidence than she felt. “Lou… it’s now or never.”

“Okay,” he grumbled, and they went their separate ways.

Aurelia moved like a shadow, navigating her old childhood routes—down vacant corridors, through servant’s halls, past vanity portraits of long-gone Augustinian monarchs. She had a good chuckle when she reached her father’s painting. The court painter must have been wronged by him in some manner… It was truly, comically horrendous.

As she made her way closer to her destination, she thought back to the first time she and Louis discovered the tiny windows—if you could even call them that—at the base of the castle wall. They were concealed by craggy terrain that most children wouldn’t dare cross… but eleven-year-old Aurelia wasn’t “most children.”

While exploring the far reaches of castle grounds, the duo had heard sorrowful wailing, and the princess was determined to find the source. Despite Louis’s pleas, she’d clambered across the rocky outcropping and whispered a concerned, “Hello?” 

The voice inside had answered, and the rest was history.

She’d spoken to dozens of other prisoners over the past ten years. Petty thieves. Protestors. Tax dodgers. Not monsters—not even close. And their punishments had rarely matched their crimes. 

Her father hadn’t always been cruel, but when her mother passed due to complications with her second pregnancy, it was as if the king’s heart had died along with his wife and their unborn son.

Aurelia tried and failed to appeal to her father about the fate of his prisoners—she was written off as hysterical. So, for years, she kept returning to her rocky hideout along the dungeon wall, listening to the prisoners’ stories, feeling their pain, all to spite her father.

Then last month, Monty came along.

He’d been imprisoned for stealing grain shipments bound for Southern nobles and diverting them to starving Northern villages instead. He was sharp. Witty. Infuriating. He gave her riddles it took her days to solve. He pushed the bounds of her empathy even further, challenging her to find ways to help her poorest, most forgotten subjects. 

The princess found herself drawn to the clever rebel with the gravelly voice, and her visits to the wall became even more frequent.

“I’m a menace, Princess,” he’d joked through the small square cut out of the stone. “You’d better not go falling in love with me.”

Now, she clutched the keys that would set him and the others free. 

She’d devised her plan with a reluctant Louis over the last few weeks, knowing that the masquerade ball would be the perfect cover to accomplish her roguish objective. Now, all she had to do was pray that everything went perfectly. 

Simple.

The princess rounded a corner at the end of a dark hallway, and a drunken partygoer stumbled into her path. 

“Party has more wine?” the woman slurred incoherently, shaking an empty goblet. Her mascara was smudged around her puffy, glossy eyes. She resembled a raccoon—a mask beneath her mask.

Aurelia pulled the bread from her bag and handed it to her. “Here, eat this, milady. The ballroom is just down that corridor and around the corner.”

The guest took her snack and toddled off.

Aurelia kept moving, swift and silent, only to stop short once more at the next clearing, darting behind a nearby pillar for cover. A guard. 

“Damn it,” she swore under her breath. This post was supposed to be unmanned. 

She snatched a mask from her bag and tossed it behind her, praying he’d take the bait. The clatter echoed in the distance, and to her relief, the guard ran right past her, following the noise. 

Aurelia hurried along, only exhaling when she was in the clear once more.

“Mother, watch over me,” she mumbled, pressing her lips to her locket.

As she descended into the dungeon wing, the smell of damp stone and putrid bodily secretions grew stronger. She held her breath and crept toward the cells, trying to remember if Monty’s was the second or third from the end.

“Monty?” she whispered into the shadows.

“I’m here,” came a familiar grumble.

Aurelia audibly gasped as he stepped into the thin, dim beam of moonlight afforded by the inhumanely small cell windows. Behind the iron bars, his face was pale and his dark hair was shaggy and greasy from years without a proper bath, but there was no denying it—Monty was a devastatingly handsome man. And not much older than Aurelia herself.

He smirked and his green eyes glowed. “Not what you were expecting, Princess?” he asked with a raised brow.

She shook herself out of her stupor—she had a job to do. She found the ring of keys in her bag and unlocked his cell, then the shackles at his ankles. Then the others. Half a dozen prisoners, each with the same stunned gratitude in their eyes.

“Quickly now,” she told them, handing out disguises. “And put these on, just in case.”

Just beyond the dungeon entrance was a door that opened onto a narrow parapet leading to the sea-stairs—a dangerous staircase carved into the cliffside, slick with moss and mist. 

A small fleet of boats waited for the prisoners at the bottom, lanterns bobbing like fireflies in the fog. One brave man after another crossed the parapet. Everything was going according to plan. They were almost in the clear. 

Until…

“Hey! What’s going on here?”

A guard emerged from the doorway, sword drawn.

Aurelia tensed. Monty stepped in front of her.

One of the remaining prisoners hurried across the parapet, hellbent on making his escape. The last two joined Monty in protecting the princess.

The guard took another step forward. “Explain yourselves. Now.”

Then, by some confusing miracle, Louis appeared. 

“Thank the gods,” he panted, holding the doorframe. “Marcus—wait. Please.”

The guard was startled. “Louis? What the hell—”

“Lou, what are you doing here?” Aurelia asked.

“I didn’t tell you,” Louis said, looking at the guard, his voice trembling. “Because I knew you’d try to stop us.”

“Do you two… know each other?” Aurelia panicked.

“And I didn’t tell you about Marcus—” he explained, turning to the princess, “—because I knew you’d get spooked, even though I’d never rat you out!”

Louis stepped forward and took Marcus’s hand. He flinched, but Louis held strong.

“She’ll accept us,” he said softly, reassuringly. “She’s not like her father.”

A long pause.

Then the guard cursed and sheathed his blade.

“Go,” he muttered. “Before I change my mind.”

Louis turned back to Aurelia. “You have to get back. Now.”

She turned to Monty, giving him one last look before retreating inside.

“Thank you,” he mouthed.

She nodded, then ran.

When Aurelia re-entered the ballroom, she was breathless again, but fulfilled. Her mission was a success.

Her backup dress clung to her like a second skin. It was dark as midnight with a deep plunge neckline, open back, and shimmering gold accents that matched her mask and tiara. 

King Alistair was slouched at his throne, glassy-eyed, crown sagging on one side—too drunk to even notice her reappearance, let alone her absence.

To blend back into the festivities, Aurelia let herself be swept onto the dance floor by the geriatric Lord Fenwick. She yawned as he pivoted her around stiffly, droning on about his hunting dogs.

“Mind if I cut in?”

She spun so fast, she practically gave herself whiplash.

The masked man who took her hand was positively breathtaking—his long hair neatly combed, his skin freshly scrubbed, his attire simple yet sharp. 

But the voice. And those eyes. Wild. Deep green. Unmistakable.

“Monty?” she whispered. “How?”

“Well, your friend insisted I look the part.”

He pulled her close, and the bare skin of her low back turned red hot at his rough touch. They danced, and the room blurred.

“You do clean up nicely,” the princess said, still awestruck.

“He wasn’t wrong,” he murmured. “But I really shouldn’t be here…”

“Then why are you?”

“For you,” he said matter-of-factly, and her pulse throbbed in her ears. “You put yourself through all of that for us—for me, and I felt our goodbye was… rushed.”

He glided and guided her across the ballroom floor effortlessly. 

She narrowed her amber eyes at him. “Who are you?”

He hesitated, exhaled heavily, then whispered, “Prince Danrick Lamont of the Northern Kingdom, Your Highness.” He dipped his head, took her hand, and pressed it to his lips, never breaking eye contact.

Aurelia’s cheeks flushed at the contact, while her eyes widened at the revelation. A prince?

“I came here to negotiate grain relief for my people,” he said. “Your benevolent father labeled it treason.”

Her lips curved into a wicked smile as he twirled her again.

“Something funny, Princess?” he growled.

Aurelia shook her head. “Follow me,” she whispered.

She grabbed his hand and led him outside to the veranda. Music spilled from the ballroom behind them, but out here, they were alone. 

They resumed their dance, but this time, they held each other closer, tighter… every movement charged with the understanding of what it meant when they let go.

So they swayed in silence—her head pressed to his chest—pretending this night could last forever.

Monty reached into his pocket and pressed something into her palm, a medallion of some sort.

“I will find my way back to you again, Princess.”

His deep emerald stare reached past her eyes, diving straight into the depths of her soul. They were more than just a princess and a prisoner—or even a princess and a prince—and they both knew it.

He leaned in close, and for a moment, they just shared breath. One of his hands was at the base of her neck, fingers threaded in her hair, holding her steady—daring her to close the last inch of space between them. And Aurelia Augustine had never been one to back down from a challenge.

She raised up on her tiptoes, meeting his lips in an achingly tender kiss—soft, cautious… until she parted his mouth with her tongue, hungry for more. 

The prince traced the deep slit of the princess’s dress with his finger, higher, higher, higher… He pulled her lower body tight against his—a delicious, unbearable friction building between them. 

“I have to go,” he whispered into her ear, his voice rough and pained.

“I know,” she breathed, equally piqued.

“Nothing will stop me from finding my way back to you,” he declared, giving her a gentle kiss on her forehead, then her lips. “Nothing.”

She watched him melt into the shadows and kept staring long after he was gone, until his cedar and pine scent had been carried away on the cool night breeze.

When she finally turned back toward the castle, she opened her palm to reveal the prince’s parting gift—a Northern copper piece. 

Just then, it pulsed with unexpected heat. 

Her breath caught. She knew this magic… the same enchantment once woven into her mother’s locket now radiated within a coin from a rebel prince.

The warmth in her palm told her what she already knew—this wasn’t goodbye. It was just the beginning of something worth waiting for.