His Princess (A Royal Romance) by Abigail Graham

night and day. At the door itself a member of the Guard sits at a complicated-looking machine gun with a bunch of barrels, sweeping it back and forth as if he expects an attack at any moment.
    I can mark out the border easily. The mountains are all dark, of course, but on the western side, in Kosztyla, the world is alive with light—lights in buildings, street lamps, cars flowing in orderly procession down the roads. The Solkovian side of the mountain range is dark, except for a few points of light in the distance, in the capital.
    The chopper goes higher and swings around, and the gunner on the door visibly relaxes, even lighting a cigarette that somehow doesn’t go out or snap away from his lips as he puffs on it, casting a harsh red glow on his face and thick gloves.
    I hug myself and rub my arms against the cold as the helicopter cuts swiftly over the lights. I can’t remember the name, but there is a city near the border, then open land. Even there, plenty of light illuminates the roads and small hamlets that pop up here and there among fertile fields.
    Everything here is so small . Even as an East Coaster, growing up in America has left me with a skewed perspective on distance. A half-hour flight into Kosztyla and we’re in the center of the country.
    There is a single mountain that spurs up in the middle of the tiny nation. The gold mines within are said to still be productive, and the capital surrounds it and climbs up its slopes but stops a third of the way up.
    Near the top is an actual, honest-to-God castle. In the dark, lit by bright spotlights, it looks like something out of a fairy tale. Red lights blink slowly on the tops of the towers, glowing angry in the mists that surround them and flow down the mountainside in sheets. Some of the stone is dark gray, some is so black it swallows the light, like pools of ink. It’s bigger than it first appears, big enough that in one of the courtyards is a chopper pad that can easily accommodate the big transport helicopter carrying me in.
    My grip on the seat tightens again during the descent, the vinyl squeaking under my fingernails. I close my eyes but that only makes it worse, and a gust of wind rips across my body and shoves the chopper to the side. It sways violently. When my eyes crack open on their own, I can look almost straight down at the helipad.
    I snap them shut again and try not to scream. The chopper evens out but it doesn’t feel any calmer. There’s a thud and a sudden lurch and I’m sure we’re going to crash, but when my eyes open again I find myself looking out at worn stone walls and the same tall blonde woman undoing my safety harness.
    She helps me to my feet, roughly but steadily, and two of the men lift me down to the concrete pad.
    The castle is even more impressive from the outside. The courtyard is ringed by a curtain wall forty feet high and ten feet thick, topped with sharply pointed battlements that claw defiantly at the sky. The walls meet at sharp angles, giving the entire castle a star shape around an older fortress with lower walls, the heavy blocks of stone worn smooth and melded together by time. In the middle, three towers rise up, the tallest and widest as big as a good-sized skyscraper.
    Flags, hundreds of flags, whip in the wind everywhere they can hang, the phoenix on a yellow field. Their constant snapping and flapping forms a chorus, like being trapped in a flock of angry birds. I gladly take the offered crutch and make my way toward an open door, flanked by two of the crown prince’s soldiers.
    I feel like I’m floating. This isn’t happening. This can’t be real. I’m in some kind of crazy dream. I read The Lord of the Rings before I went to sleep and I’m having a nightmare about being trapped in Mordor.
    I’ll wake up any second now.
    Keep telling yourself that, Penny.
    It’s warmer inside, at least. I expected a castle to be damp and drafty but it’s actually nice in here. It is a castle, though. The stone