Pennyroyal Academy Fan Fiction

Enchanted
By Remingtonstan

Summary: "What if Evie was never raised by her dragon family? What if she was rescued and taken to Callahan Manor once again? Fate is a tricky thing, but stories weave and come to a full circle nonetheless.

A Pennyroyal Academy fanfic, because this series deserves so much more."

Silence.

Pure terror on a once beautiful mountain top is what the King's men had found. But the silence was what felt most overpowering as they hesitantly slipped off of their horses.

Not a blade of grass moved.

No bird dared to sing.

The clouds moved sluggishly, huddling against the imposing white peaks of the mountains ahead.

The waterfall in the far distance that cascaded off the cliffside seemed to have stopped its deafening roar.

Or perhaps that's how it felt to them. Because they could only hear silence.

Not a wail. Or a cry for help. Or a cackle from—gods forbid—a witch.

Silence.

The grass, a once rich shade of green covered in daisies, had been reduced to ash. It crackled against their riding boots: Black and red stains mixed with the vegetation. The trees surrounding them were also streaked in horrific scorch marks, smoke rising from their canopies. Small fires were still present, yet to be put out.

These were the marks of a dragon and a man. A clash between the two.

The marks every person feared to encounter in their life.

The men split up, searching for any sign of life, swords drawn. Ready for anything. Any sign of the King and princess. Or...if their luck ran out—a dragon. Their dread grew with each breath of quiet wind.

Apart from the red blood and the burnt picnic blanket, there was no trace of King Callahan or his daughter.

"Over here!" came a voice from the woods.

The rest of the men ran to see what had been found—a dead body, perhaps. There was little hope that any human could have survived such an attack, based on the evidence they'd managed to find.

A cry shot through the air. It sounded faint, but still, they quickened their pace. It did not sound like a man's call, but that of a little girl.

Hope surged through them again.

"I found her!" yelled the voice from earlier.

In a few minutes, they were able to locate the source.

"There! In the clearing!"

"It's the princess!"

Indeed, the little princess, hidden behind some berry bushes, was very much alive. Trembling, eyes staring into nothing, but alive.

The men slowly cornered her, as if she were a wild animal who might lash out at the slightest of movements. By her scratches and bloodied cheeks, she certainly looked the part.

"Princess Malora? Your Highness?"

They shook her, but it was no use. Her eyes were clouded and fogged. She didn't notice them, not in her state. She was stuck in her private horror.

"Malora?"

Finally, she stepped out of her reverie. The little girl blinked at them owlishly, green eyes wide. They weren't stained with fear, as one would expect—only curiosity.

"Who are you?" she asked, quiet and innocent. The tone only children, could ever achieve.

Perhaps the King was out there, somewhere. That seemed to be the only explanation for her behaviour. It estranged the men, how she'd gone from being in a state of shock to a sudden peacefulness.

"We're here to take you home. What has happened? Do you know?"

She shook her head.

"Where is your father, little one?" another said.

Malora tilted her head to the side as though they'd asked a funny question she didn't know the answer to.

Finally, she said, "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

Her eyes flashed, and she suddenly grew pale. "Dragon," she whispered.

They leaned in closer, murmuring gentle encouragements so that she'd open up. No use in traumatizing the child, they supposed.

"Dragon...Took him away."

"Yes, you've survived a dragon attack. And you're quite the lucky girl. Is the King...Did it—did it take your father?"

"She wanted me to follow her," she mumbled, barely coherent.

"What?"

"Where is your father? Was he killed?"

She blinked again. "Who's my father?"

Her lost expression is what haunted them most.



"My darling!" the queen cried, enveloping Malora in her arms. "Oh! I took you for dead!"

The staff crowded around stepmother and child, elated to see that the little princess had survived. But their spirits dimmed when they noticed the grim faces of the guards who had found her. King Callahan was nowhere to be seen.

They whispered amongst themselves.

Could it be?

They didn't dare speak the unspeakable.

Malora—to everyone's surprise except the King's men—showed calm, in contrast to her stepmother's fussing.

She scrutinized her from head to toe, and the young princess let her. Let her and the medics inspect her torn dress and light injuries. They peppered her with questions, but to most of them, Malora shook her head, not knowing the answer.

Hesitantly, Nicolina—Queen Lucilda Hardcastle's daughter—stepped out of the flock of servants, black hair loose and messy across her features. She dragged a small blanket with her, slowly trudging towards her sister. Her steps seemed unsure, like she did not understand the situation, either. She held out her pale arm, reaching for Malora...

Her mother pushed her back. The queen sniffled back tears and smoothed out her dress, standing up once again.

"Marei," she called, voice abruptly firm and laced with authority. "Take the girls to separate rooms. The physicians shall deal with them."

" Yes, ma'am," the housemaid said.

Then, the queen took a deep breath and addressed the King's Royal Guard. "Gentlemen. A word, please."

Her voice, usually smooth as silk, strained with the heartbreak that had already begun to sweep into her heart.

She knew.

They all did.

King Callahan, the ruler of Väterlich, was dead.

The men told her anyway. And they did their best to console the dowager queen. But they could only do so much. A tragic event had occurred, and the entire kingdom had been crippled because of it.

That year was spent in mourning. And with good reason. Callahan had been a noble and righteous King.

But if you asked the people, the staff, the guards—they wouldn't be able to tell you what exactly happened that day. They felt an unusual nothingness at the mention of such a horrendous memory.

And if you interrogated them more on the matter, they'd tell you that King Callahan had gone off on a picnic to celebrate his stepdaughter's birthday, Nicolina. That Malora, Callahan's blood daughter, had been safe inside the manor.

And if you asked about the sisters, they'd mention that Nicolina was a lively young girl with brown hair, dark green eyes, and a wide smile. That she witnessed the King's death but erased it all from memory. She'd had such a terrible case of trauma, in fact, that she'd forgotten nearly everything about herself. It took many years for her memory to return. And then there was the crown princess. Malora, cold and regal, had raven locks and icy grey eyes. A girl of taller height than her sister, more confident and poised. The future queen.

And no one dared question it.

Least of all the young princesses.