The Stumbling Wyvern was not a place where princes belonged. The floors were sticky with spilled ale, the air was thick with laughter and bawdy songs, and the patrons were a mix of rowdy adventurers, weary travelers, and the occasional scoundrel looking to avoid the town guard. Yet, on this particular evening, Prince Caspian of Rivenhold found himself seated in a shadowy corner of the tavern, nursing a tankard of mead and trying to forget his royal burdens.


    Caspian wasn’t dressed like a prince. His usual silk doublet and polished boots had been replaced by a simple tunic and a weathered cloak. His golden hair, normally combed to perfection, hung loose around his face. He’d come here seeking anonymity, a brief escape from the pressures of court and the looming prospect of an arranged marriage to a princess he had never met.


    He hadn’t expected to meet her.


    She was behind the bar when he first noticed her, deftly pouring drinks and cracking jokes with the patrons. She was a goblin, and like most of her kind, she was smaller than the humans around her, but her presence was larger than life. Her skin was a dusky green that caught the warm glow of the tavern’s lanterns, and her amber eyes gleamed with intelligence and mischief.


    Her name was Sylra.


    Caspian watched as she moved with an effortless grace, her long braid swaying behind her as she worked. When a particularly drunk customer tried to grab her arm, she slapped his hand away with a laugh and a sharp remark that sent the entire table into uproarious laughter.


    It wasn’t just her wit that intrigued him—it was the way she carried herself, as though she owned the room despite the odds stacked against her. Goblins were rarely treated kindly in human lands, but Sylra seemed to defy every prejudice with her charm and resilience.


    When she approached his table to refill his tankard, she raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been staring for the last ten minutes. Either you want another drink, or you’re trying to figure out if I bite.”


    Caspian grinned, caught off guard by her boldness. “Do you?”


    “Only if I’m hungry,” she shot back, smirking. “And you don’t look tasty enough to bother with.”


    Her humor was disarming, and for the first time in weeks, Caspian found himself laughing. “Another drink, then,” he said, pushing his tankard toward her.


    Their banter continued each time she came by his table, and as the evening wore on, Caspian felt the weight of his royal duties fade into the background.


    By the time the tavern began to empty, Caspian found himself lingering. Sylra noticed and plopped herself into the chair across from him with a sigh.


    “You’ve got the look of someone who doesn’t belong here,” she said, studying him. “What’s your story, stranger?”


    For a moment, Caspian considered lying. But something about her—perhaps her candor, or the way her amber eyes seemed to pierce through his defenses—made him speak the truth.


    “I’m Prince Caspian,” he admitted, bracing for her reaction.


    To his surprise, she didn’t seem impressed or intimidated. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and let out a low whistle. “A prince in the Stumbling Wyvern. Now I’ve seen everything.”


    “And you?” he asked, eager to shift the focus. “What’s your story?”


    Sylra’s expression softened. “Not much to tell. Grew up in a goblin village near the border. Humans burned it down when I was a kid. I ended up here, working for scraps until I earned enough to buy this place.” She gestured to the tavern with a hint of pride. “It’s not much, but it’s mine.”


    Caspian saw the fire in her, the determination that had carried her through a hard life. It was a fire that called to him, pulling him closer to a world far removed from the gilded halls of the palace.


    One quiet evening in the Stumbling Wyvern, after the patrons had stumbled home and the hearth had dimmed to glowing embers, Prince Caspian and Sylra sat together at a worn wooden table near the bar. The atmosphere was serene, and for the first time, Sylra noticed the weight in Caspian’s posture—the kind of heaviness that came not from exhaustion, but from carrying burdens unseen.


    “Alright, Your Highness,” she teased lightly, resting her chin in her hand. “I’ve told you my story. Time for you to spill yours. What’s it like being a prince?”


    Caspian chuckled, but there was a faint sadness in his eyes. “It’s not as glamorous as you’d think,” he said, swirling the dregs of his ale. “Sure, the feasts are grand, and the halls are filled with music and gold, but behind all that... it’s suffocating.”


    Sylra tilted her head, her sharp amber eyes studying him. “Suffocating how?”


    He leaned back, running a hand through his disheveled golden hair. “Every step I take, every word I speak, it’s all watched, judged, and weighed. My father—the king—expects me to be perfect. To be the warrior, the diplomat, the heir who will someday sit on the throne and ‘secure the legacy of Rivenhold.’” His voice carried a hint of bitterness. “But no one cares what I want.”


    Sylra raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And what do you want?”


    He hesitated, glancing at her before looking away. “I used to think I wanted the crown. That if I could be a better king than my father, I’d bring peace and prosperity to the realm. But the older I get, the more I see that the throne isn’t about helping people—it’s about power, alliances, and keeping the nobility happy. The people—the ones who really matter—get forgotten in all of it.”This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Sylra’s expression softened. “That’s why you come here, isn’t it? To escape all that.”


    Caspian nodded. “Here, I’m not a prince. I’m just... me. And you—” He paused, his gaze meeting hers. “You don’t see me as a title or a duty. You see me as a man. That’s more than anyone else has ever done.”


    Sylra felt a pang in her chest, a mix of admiration and something she couldn’t quite name. “Well,” she said, her voice quieter now, “you’re not the only one trying to escape something. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.”


    Caspian smiled, but it quickly faded. “My father would never approve of you,” he admitted. “He doesn’t even see goblins as people, let alone someone worthy of a prince’s affection.”


    Sylra shrugged, though her jaw tightened. “I’ve been called worse by better people. Let him think what he wants.”


    Sylra’s story was one she rarely told, even when asked. It wasn’t because she was ashamed, but because it was laced with pain and memories she had worked hard to bury. Yet, when she sat with Caspian in the dim quiet of the tavern late one night, his earnest curiosity and the vulnerability he had shared moved her to speak.


    She leaned back in her chair, staring into the firelight as she began.


    “I wasn’t born here, obviously,” she said, her voice steady but tinged with an undertone of sorrow. “I come from a village far to the south, near the borders of the goblin territories. It wasn’t much—just a cluster of huts surrounded by fields and a little forest. But it was home. We lived simply, growing what we could, hunting when we had to. And we kept to ourselves. We didn’t bother the humans, and most of the time, they didn’t bother us.”


    Her amber eyes darkened, her gaze distant. “That changed when the local lord decided our village was sitting on land he wanted. Rich soil, good timber—valuable enough that we didn’t matter anymore. He sent his men to ‘negotiate,’ but what they really brought was an ultimatum: leave or be driven out by force.”


    Caspian’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, letting her continue.


    “My parents tried to reason with them, tried to explain that we had nowhere else to go. But you can’t reason with people who see you as nothing more than vermin. The soldiers came back a week later with torches and swords. They burned our homes, slaughtered anyone who resisted, and left the rest of us to scatter into the woods like animals.”


    She paused, her hands clenching into fists. “I was ten years old. I lost everything that night—my home, my family, my friends. I wandered for weeks, stealing scraps from human villages and hiding from patrols. Eventually, I stumbled into this town and found work wherever I could—cleaning stables, fetching water, anything that kept me alive.”


    Sylra glanced around the tavern, her expression softening. “The Stumbling Wyvern was the first place that felt... safe. The old owner was a grumpy dwarf who didn’t care what I was, as long as I worked hard and stayed out of trouble. I saved every coin I earned, and when he decided to retire, I bought the place. It’s not much, but it’s mine.”


    She turned her gaze back to Caspian, her eyes shimmering with unspoken emotion. “What I’m trying to escape from? It’s not just the past. It’s the way people look at me, like I’m not worth the dirt under their boots. Like I don’t belong anywhere. This tavern, this life I’ve built—it’s my way of proving them wrong. It’s my way of saying, ‘I do belong. I am worth something.’”


    Caspian reached across the table, taking her hand in his. “You are worth more than they’ll ever know,” he said softly.


    Sylra’s lips quirked into a small smile, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You say that now, Prince Charming. Let’s see if you still think so when the rest of the world comes knocking.”


    “I’ll think it every day,” he replied, his voice firm. “And I’ll stand beside you when they do.”


    For a moment, they sat in silence, the crackling fire the only sound between them. It was a silence heavy with understanding, forged from shared wounds and a growing bond that neither of them could deny.


    The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving only a faint orange glow to light the tavern. The last of the patrons had stumbled out into the night hours ago, their laughter and song fading into the quiet streets. The Stumbling Wyvern now stood still, save for the faint creak of wood and the soft murmur of the wind outside.


    Sylra rose from her seat, stretching her arms above her head. The long day of pouring drinks and mediating squabbles had worn on her, but there was a lingering energy she couldn’t quite shake—a restlessness that came from spending these quiet hours with Caspian.


    “Well, Your Highness,” she said, her voice teasing but tired. “Much as I enjoy our late-night talks, some of us have to wake up early tomorrow to keep this place running.”


    Caspian stood as well, brushing nonexistent dust from his tunic. “I’d offer to help, but something tells me I’m better at making messes than cleaning them.”


    Sylra smirked as she grabbed a cloth to wipe down the nearest table. “You’d be right. A prince with calloused hands? I doubt it.”


    He leaned on the bar, watching her move through the room. There was something comforting about the rhythm of her motions, the way she hummed softly to herself as she worked. It was a far cry from the polished, performative life he knew at court.


    “You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “you could leave this place, Sylra.”


    She stopped mid-swipe, turning to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “And go where, exactly? Back to the forest to play hide-and-seek with patrols? Or maybe to some grand palace where everyone pretends to tolerate me because they have to?”


    “That’s not what I meant,” Caspian said quickly, stepping closer. “I mean... you could have a different life. A better one.”


    Sylra’s eyes narrowed, though her voice remained calm. “This is my life, Caspian. I’ve worked hard to build it, and I’m not about to throw it away just because some prince thinks he knows what’s better for me.”


    Caspian flinched at the sharpness of her tone but didn’t back down. “I’m not trying to take anything away from you. I just... I don’t want you to feel trapped here. If you ever wanted more, I’d help you find it.”


    Sylra softened at his words, her shoulders relaxing. “And if I’m happy here? What then?”


    “Then I’ll keep coming back to this bar, drinking terrible mead, and hoping you’ll save me from myself,” he said with a small smile.


    She shook her head, laughing under her breath. “You’re impossible.”


    “Maybe,” he admitted, taking her hand gently. “But you make me want to be better. To do better. I just don’t want to lose you, Sylra.”


    Her heart skipped a beat, but she masked it with a playful grin. “You’re drunk, and you’re not getting rid of me that easily, Your Highness. Now, go. It’s late, and I need to close up.”


    Caspian lingered for a moment before stepping back toward the door. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders, glancing back at her one last time. “Goodnight, Sylra.”


    “Goodnight, Caspian,” she replied, watching as he disappeared into the cool night.


    When the door swung shut, Sylra sighed and leaned against the bar, her gaze fixed on the empty room. She had always been content in her little corner of the world, but Caspian’s words had planted something in her—a seed of possibility, of a life she had never dared to imagine.


    Shaking her head, she pushed the thought aside and blew out the last of the lanterns. Tomorrow was another day, and she had work to do.