Even the train station in Nordia looks fancy and old. It has tall, gothic palisades and ornately carved arches framing its huge entranceway. I open up my map and try to figure out which train I need to take to reach the castle.

I know it’s cliché to go to Nordia just to see the castle, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to see ever since I was a little girl. Besides, it’s not just the castle I want to see.

I can hear my ex-boyfriend Mark’s voice in my head. “It’s not even where the king lives anymore!”

I’m almost glad that he dumped me a few days before our flight. If he’d dumped me any sooner, I may have cancelled the trip. If he hadn’t dumped me, he’d be complaining so much that he’d ruin the whole trip.

The Nordian royal family is incredibly secretive. It’s rumored that the king has at least one daughter and one son, but no one really knows for sure.

Nordian girls always grow up dreaming that the prince will choose them as his commoner bride. As an American girl, I sometimes dreamed of something equally silly, but everyone is speculating now that the prince―if there even is a prince―will most certainly choose a woman from the Sydian territories, which should relieve a lot of the separatist tension.

My mom didn’t even want me to go to Nordia. It’s too dangerous! she said. It’s a lot less dangerous than many other places in Europe―something bad could happen to me anywhere. I could get mugged in a parking lot a few blocks from my apartment.

I figure out from the map that I need to take the green line, and that I need to get off at the stop called simply “The Castle.”

Easy enough.

I board the train underground, but after a few minutes of travel, the tracks rise to the surface. I see all of the amazing architecture and landscapes of the Nordian capital around me, and it’s like out of a fairytale.

The old Roman Colosseum becomes visible from the right-side windows, and me and all the other tourists crowd around to get a look.

I see native Nordians rolling their eyes at us as we jostle around, and I feel a little bit annoyed that they can pass by such ancient and impressive architecture every day taking it all for granted.

Viktor’s Hill comes into view soon after, and I try to identify as many of the famous buildings as I can. I see the clock tower, the old prison, and behind that, I can make out one of the corner towers of the castle.

Then the train ducks into another tunnel, and we lose sight of everything.

The tourists chatter a bit, but with nothing to see, we all eventually settle back into our seats.

By the time we exit the tunnel, we’re at the very bottom of the hill. All I can see now are the Danish Steps, named for the Vikings who stormed the hill more than a thousand years ago.

“Next stop,” a robotic female voice announces over the intercom. “Viktor’s Hill and Danish Steps.”

The stop after this is “The Castle.” I’m pretty tired from the long flight, and I decide I’ll just take the train up the hill, and then use the Danish Steps to get back down. Usually the touristy thing to do is to climb the steps up the hill, but there are hundreds of steps, and I’m spent.

The train starts to climb the mountain. The castle must be directly in front of us because I can’t see it through the side windows.

When I finally get off the train and exit the station, the castle is right there in front of me. It completely dominates my view. Even though I can see the marble clock tower and gothic prison behind the castle, they just look like little afterthoughts, or tiny decorations, compared to the majesty of the castle.

It has more towering palisades, too numerous to even count, each one made up of thousands of bricks. The southernmost wall meets the side of the cliff, which almost makes it look like the castle was carved out of the side of the mountain rather than built atop it. Even when the Danish stormed the Steps, they were unable to penetrate the castle itself.

“Wow,” I whisper, my jaw dropping open in astonishment.

Thank God Mark isn’t here to ruin this for me. As much as I’m into the history and architecture, a little part of me can’t help but imagine being a princess living in there. All those fantasies I had as a kid are awakened in me when I look up at the castle―a dashing prince sweeping me off my feet and taking me to be his princess.

I laugh those fantasies away. I can see hundreds of other women pouring out of the train station and walking toward the castle. I’m sure each one of them has had similar fantasies. I’m just another drop in the rain next to them. Nothing special.

I wait in a long line to enter the castle, and then I buy my ticket and wait in another line. They only let a few dozen people in at a time so as not to overcrowd the castle. Once the first group has made it through several rooms, only then do they allow another group to go in.

Finally it’s my turn, and they let me pass through across the drawbridge. I look down over the side into the moat, and then up at the portcullis, which is halfway down. I can only assume it is to show it off.

“This is the original portcullis,” the tour guide says, pointing up. Built in the year 1168. It takes several men turning a crank at least a minute or two to shut the door, but one single man can unhook the chain, and the portcullis will drop in seconds.”

“Can it cut someone in two?” a kid asks.

The tour guide laughs. “It could, but you’ll be safe.”

We walk through the huge doorway into a big courtyard. I notice that I jump across the space where the portcullis could fall. I don’t want to risk being cut in half, no matter what the tour guide said.

“This is the ward,” the tour guide says. “You see all those walls up there? Even if you somehow got in across the moat, through the portcullis, and into the ward, there’d be archers lining up along that wall and footmen rushing toward you across the ward. You’d have to fight through all of them with arrows raining down on you to even make it to the next door.”

“If castles are so cool,” the kid asks, “then why don’t they use them anymore?”

“Cannons,” the tour guide says. “A few good cannon shots and you could take the whole wall down. Which is exactly what happened here in 1412. The French cannons tore down the entire north wall, and even after it was repaired, the king no longer felt safe behind these walls.”

I see the tour guide squint and look over my shoulder. “Excuse me? This way please.”

I look back and see two big men standing near the chains and ropes that control the door and portcullis. One has his hands stuffed in his pockets, and the other is tugging at one of the chains.

“Please, don’t touch that!” the guide says, pointing forward. “Stop!”

The man tugs on the chain, and it starts to move, jangling loudly and echoing through the courtyard. The portcullis drops down, the sharp spikes slamming into their recessed holes in the drawbridge.

“Get the door, too,” the man says, pulling a gun from his pocket.

My heart turns to ice for a long breath, and then it pounds nearly up into my throat. I hear people around me screaming, and then the gun goes off.

I half expect the bullet to hit me, for me to die before I even know what’s happened. But then I see the tour guide stumble and fall to the ground. Blood stains his white shirt, and his eyes stare blankly open as he falls over.

The man trains the gun on us. “Everyone move forward, through that door.”

He points with the gun toward the entrance of the inner castle.

No one moves; many people scream. The kid from earlier is crying.

“I said move!” the man shouts, firing off a round into the air.

Everyone, me included, frantically races toward the door. If only to get away from the two men.