The last bite of honeyed bread felt heavy on my tongue, though the plate before me was nearly empty. The servants had already begun clearing away the dishes, their quiet movements filling the silence of the morning. My birthday had been only a week ago, yet it already felt like a distant memory—like the shimmer of candlelight once the flame is snuffed.
It had been a fine celebration by all appearances. The ballroom had glittered, the lords and ladies had smiled, the wine had flowed freely. I had smiled too, danced when asked, accepted every courtesy and well-wish with the practiced grace expected of me. But when the music had ended and the laughter faded, I had returned to my chambers alone. My mother had been too weak to attend, Adrian had charmed the guests in my place, and the faces of those I most longed to see—Kai, Father, Cassian—were absent.
Now, with the sun spilling pale light through the tall windows of the dining chamber, the memory felt more hollow than sweet. Another year older, another year of waiting.
I brushed a hand over the napkin in my lap, folding it neatly before setting it aside. A servant bowed, collecting it, and I rose from my chair, my steps echoing faintly in the vast, polished room. The quiet of the palace pressed in on me, too grand and too empty all at once.
It was a morning like any other, yet I could not shake the feeling that the weight of it all—my mother’s illness, the war, the trials postponed and left unanswered—sat heavier than usual. I paused by the window, watching a pair of sparrows dart across the courtyard below, and drew a breath as if their freedom might settle the restlessness in my chest.
I left the dining hall behind, my slippers whispering across the floors as I made my way through the familiar corridors. The tapestries along the walls seemed duller in the morning light, their bright threads muted with dust, and I found myself trailing a hand along the cool stone as though to steady myself.
It had been a week since Adrian had departed on the errands I quietly arranged for him. I had expected the space to feel like absence, a hollowness at my side. Instead, it felt like breath filling my lungs again, as though I had been holding it too long without realizing. I could walk the palace halls without his shadow close behind, without his charming interruptions, his lingering touch that often pressed heavier than it seemed.
There was a freedom in it, but also a disquiet. I had grown used to him being there, attentive and poised, as though every movement of mine was a note in a song only he could hear. With him gone, the silence felt both peaceful and uncertain. What did it mean that I missed the ease of his company, yet cherished the distance at the same time?
The thought twisted in me as I climbed the staircase toward my mother’s wing of the palace. A week had given me space to breathe, yes—but it had also left me with more questions than answers. Was my unease only fear, some shadow of doubt that would fade with time? Or was it something deeper, a warning I could not yet name?
I pressed a hand lightly against my bodice, as if I could still the restless beat beneath, and forced myself to focus on the task ahead. My mother awaited me, and her health had waned further in the days since the celebration. Whatever turmoil lingered inside me, it could wait. She could not.
The Queen’s wing was hushed, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears, broken only by the faint clink of porcelain or the shuffle of servants moving with deliberate quiet. I paused outside her chamber doors, drawing in a breath before pushing them open.
The room was dimly lit, heavy curtains drawn to soften the sunlight, but not enough to banish it completely. My mother lay propped against her pillows, her once proud posture slouched by weariness, though she still managed to hold her head with a dignity that even sickness couldn’t strip away. When her gaze lifted and found mine, her tired smile made something in my chest ache.
“You’re here,” she said softly, her voice thinner than it had been the week before. She extended a hand, delicate and cold when my fingers closed around it. “Come, sit with me. Tell me of the palace—how it fares.”
I sank into the chair at her bedside, leaning close so she wouldn’t need to strain her voice. For a time, we spoke of small things: the gardens blooming late in the season, the squabbles of nobles over seating charts and court formalities, the upcoming council session. I let her talk when she wished and filled the silences with gentle reassurances, though in truth, it was enough simply to sit beside her.
After a while, she grew quiet, her gaze going distant. Her thumb brushed absently against the back of my hand, and she murmured, almost as though to herself, “When I was a girl, I was very ill. Bedridden for months. My father thought I would never rise again.”
I straightened, surprised—I couldn’t recall her ever speaking of her childhood before. “What happened?” I asked.
She tilted her head, eyes unfocused. “Something… strange. A fever one night, and then… a dream. I woke the next morning as if the sickness had been washed away. The healers could not explain it. Some whispered it was a blessing.”
Her words trailed off, caught on some memory that seemed to carry her away from me. She blinked, then shook her head faintly, as though setting aside a thought too heavy to name. “But that was long ago. Long ago.” Her smile flickered again, fragile but warm. “Now I have you here, and that is what matters.”
I tightened my hold on her hand, unwilling to let her slip into silence again. “You’ll always have me,” I whispered, though inside I wondered what truth she hadn’t spoken, what memory lingered in the pause between her words.
The Queen’s voice grew softer, her lids heavy as though the weight of the memories had drained what little strength she had. Her fingers loosened in mine, and within moments her breathing evened into the slow, shallow rhythm of sleep.
I stayed there for a time, watching the rise and fall of her chest, afraid to move in case she woke again and found herself alone. The dim lamplight caught on the silver threads in her hair, more than I remembered, and my throat tightened. She had always seemed untouchable, like marble carved into a queen’s form, yet now she lay fragile as porcelain—something time and illness were slowly, cruelly wearing down.
At last, I slipped my hand free and stood, the ache in my chest near unbearable. I couldn’t keep this to myself any longer.
In my chambers, I pulled parchment toward me with trembling hands, dipped the quill, and for once wrote not as a princess or council member, but as a daughter.
Father,
I know the war keeps you, but I beg you—please, please come home soon. Mother grows weaker every day. She tries to smile, but her strength is slipping, and I cannot bear it. She needs you. I need you. Kai gone, and Cassian gone too… I feel the halls of this palace emptying around me. I cannot carry it all alone. Please come home, Father. Please.
The words blurred before me. I swiped at my cheeks, but more tears came, falling freely across the page, smudging ink into little storms.
Please come home, Daddy. Don’t let her slip away before you see her again.
The last line trembled out of me in a whisper, spoken aloud though no one was there to hear. My hand shook as I set down the quill. I pressed the parchment to my chest, as though holding it close might make the plea fly faster, might reach him sooner.
For the first time in years, I felt small again, no princess, no council voice—just a daughter crying for her father in the quiet of her chambers.
The tears had barely stopped when I realized the quiet of my chambers felt heavier than before, as if the walls themselves were pressing in, waiting for an answer I could not give. I could still feel the echo of my own sobs, the uneven rhythm of my heartbeat, and the raw ache that had nothing to do with duty or decorum. My fingers lingered on the edge of the parchment, tracing the wet smudges left by my grief, and for a moment, I let myself simply breathe, letting the silence stretch and fold around me like a blanket too thin to ward off the cold.
Then the chamber door shifted, the hinges groaning softly, and a draft of cool air slipped past me, carrying with it the faint scent of herbs and incense. Ariston’s figure appeared in the doorway, tall and unyielding as ever, but there was a weight to his presence that made the air itself seem to bend. He did not announce himself with fanfare, but the subtle tap of his
Blackwood staff against the stone floor was enough.
“Your Highness,” he said, the single phrase carrying a gravity that made me sit straighter even as my chest still throbbed. His bow was precise but brief, a gesture of respect that acknowledged my station without sacrificing urgency. “I come with tidings that cannot wait.”
I motioned for him to sit, though my hand trembled ever so slightly. He lowered himself into the carved chair opposite mine, resting his staff between his hands. The silence that fell afterward was thick, almost tactile, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the candles and the occasional sigh of the stone settling. I found myself observing the lines at the corners of his eyes, the subtle downturn of his mouth, the way his fingers tightened briefly around the staff—a language of worry he did not speak aloud.
“Ariston…” I began, my voice quieter than I intended, almost swallowed by the shadows that crowded the corners of the room. “Whatever news you bring, I can bear it.”
He inclined his head, his gaze unwavering, and for the first time that evening, the quiet between us felt purposeful, deliberate, a bridge between fear and understanding. The weight of my grief lingered, but with him here, it became shared, a burden not so solitary as it had been when the parchment had pressed against my chest moments before.
“It concerns the goddess Maerial—and her bloodline.”
The name struck through me like the toll of a bell. My breath caught. “You’ve found something?”
“Not I,” he admitted, “but allies beyond our borders. The kingdom of Theros holds records of her origin, some of the oldest known, and they are said to be clear where ours are fractured.” He paused, letting the significance sink in. “The High Mage of Theros has agreed to send us volumes—writings untouched for centuries—so that we might better understand her nature, and perhaps why her presence still lingers in this world.”
Theros. The word alone carried weight. Images flickered in my mind: the map of the Four Kingdoms, stretched like a wheel with Valara, Drakenvyre, Solvayne, and Theros each holding a quarter. Theros lay farthest from us, across the eastern seas, a kingdom both ancient and enduring. My mother’s homeland.
Ariston read my silence. “You know its history, Highness, but allow me to remind you. Theros is unlike our own. Its kings and queens have long been born in pairs. Twins are their legacy—one to rule, the other to fade. Yet of late, that curse has softened. For the first time in generations, both heirs live, and the kingdom thrives for it.”
I thought of my mother then, once a delicate princess of Theros, married into Valara to seal an alliance. She had never spoken often of her home, but when she did, her eyes would grow distant, filled with a longing she could not quite voice. “So it is true,” I murmured. “The blood of Theros flows in me.”
“Indeed,” Ariston said, his tone heavy with meaning. “And it is no small thing. Your mother carried that fragile lineage here, and with her came her sister—the High Priestess who now guides Valara’s temple. Both have ties to Maerial’s story. It is said the goddess herself favored Theros, blessing their twin-born rulers with the light of balance. The records may tell us why. And more importantly…” His gaze fixed on me, piercing. “…they may tell us what remains of her power.”
The fire in the hearth crackled, but I barely heard it. My hands tightened in my lap. Maerial. Her name felt like a thread woven through everything—my healing, the secrets hidden in the records. And now Theros, a kingdom across the sea, promising answers.
“When will the volumes arrive?” I asked.
“Within the month, if the winds favor the ships,” he replied. “But you must prepare yourself, Highness. Knowledge such as this does not come freely. Theros is generous, yes, but they will expect something in return.”
I swallowed, the weight of yet another burden settling on my shoulders. “Then I will pay the price.”
Ariston inclined his head, his eyes softening for the first time. “Your resolve is like your mother’s. It may yet save us all.”
The corridors of the palace were unusually still, the echoes of my footsteps the only sound accompanying me as I wandered from one wing to the next. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, cutting sharp beams across the stone floors, illuminating dust motes that danced lazily in the air. Even after all these months, the palace still felt vast and empty, as if its walls were holding their breath, waiting for someone to fill them with laughter or chaos again.
I paused at the Archive room, brushing my fingers across the spines of the ledgers lined neatly on the shelves. Each volume held a fragment of the kingdom’s life—the movements of coins, the orders of supplies, the records of disputes and petitions. It had become part of my rhythm to review them, to ensure that nothing slipped unnoticed under my watch. I felt the responsibility keenly, a tether keeping me grounded while so much of the world seemed to whirl into uncertainty.
From there, I drifted to the servants’ quarters, quietly observing them as they went about their work. I offered what small assistance I could—folding linens, helping carry trays of food—and each smile or nod of acknowledgment reminded me that, even in the absence of my siblings, I was not entirely alone. The palace was my domain now, for better or worse, and slowly I was learning how to navigate it without the constant presence of those who had once guided me.
Eventually, I found myself in the private garden, a sanctuary of blooming aqua and lilac blossoms that caught the sunlight and turned it soft as silk. I sank onto a stone bench, letting the fragrance wash over me, yet even here, the solitude pressed against me. My thoughts wandered to my mother, lying frail in her chamber, the weight of the sickness she hid so stubbornly pressing down on her shoulders—and by extension, on mine. The war still raged, far beyond these walls, and my siblings were spread across battlefields, their absence keen and painful. I could almost hear the clamor of clashing swords and shouted orders in the quiet, a reminder that life carried on beyond the palace gates, indifferent to the worries within.
And yet, one absence weighed heavier than any other: Sylas. I had not received a single letter from him since my birthday, and the silence gnawed at me like a cold wind slipping beneath my skin. I clutched my hands in my lap, tracing the familiar lines of my own fingers as though the motion might anchor me. The letters had been lifelines before, little fragments of warmth and teasing charm from the man whose presence had become entwined with my thoughts. Now, without word or sign, I felt the empty ache of distance pressing deeper, leaving a quiet worry that I could not shake.
I let my gaze drift over the garden one last time, the flowers swaying gently as if breathing with the wind, and admitted to myself the truth I had been holding back: I missed him more than I wished to admit, and the uncertainty of his silence had begun to curl around my heart like shadows at dusk. The solitude of the palace, once comforting, now felt like a mirror, reflecting the widening gulf between the life I managed here and the one I longed to share with him.
A soft sigh escaped me as I leaned back against the bench, closing my eyes for a brief moment. The world outside was vast, dangerous, and far away, but for now, it was just me and the quiet, the blooms, and the gnawing silence that carried Sylas’s absence like a ghost I could neither banish nor embrace.
The day stretched on, slow and measured, and in that stretch, I realized how deeply I had begun to rely on these small routines—the ledgers, the helping hands, the garden—but none of it could fill the space that letters from him once occupied.
I pushed myself off the bench, brushing petals from the folds of my skirt, and made my way back through the sunlit corridors. The stillness of the palace seemed heavier now, as if even the walls were aware of the tasks awaiting me. A council meeting had been scheduled for later in the morning, and despite the quiet that had settled over the castle, I could not afford to let my guard down. Orders needed reviewing, questions anticipated, and a sense of authority projected—even if my confidence wavered behind closed doors.
In my chambers, I began preparing. I spread the reports and ledgers across the polished wooden desk, reading through each one with meticulous care. Supplies from the outer provinces, troop movements along the borders, petitions from the villagers, and the ongoing management of court matters all demanded attention. My fingers traced each line of ink, and I made notes where clarification was needed, anticipating the questions the councilors might ask.
I allowed myself a moment to adjust my attire, smoothing the fabric of my practical but dignified dress. It wasn’t a gown for festivities, but its cut and color commanded a presence that would remind the councilors that I was acting as steward of the palace in the Queen’s absence. My black hair was pinned back neatly, the few loose strands tamed with precision, framing my face in a way that softened some of the sharpness in my eyes without diminishing the weight of responsibility they carried.
I left my chambers, footsteps echoing with a newfound determination. The council room awaited, its polished floor gleaming in the early light, the heavy scent of parchment and ink mingling with the subtle aroma of polished wood and waxed stone. Each door I passed seemed to mark a transition from private reflection to public duty, and with every step, I reminded myself that I had grown, even if the quiet moments alone often felt like fragile scaffolding holding me upright.
By the time I reached the council chamber, I had rehearsed in my mind the points I would address, the reports I would present, and the questions I needed answers to. I took a slow, steadying breath before pushing the door open, prepared to step into the role of authority once more, aware that every eye in the room would gauge my competence—and perhaps my vulnerabilities—before I even spoke.
The council chamber smelled of wax and polished wood, but beneath it lingered tension, thick as fog. As I stepped to the head of the long table, all eyes turned to me—some curious, some skeptical, and a few faintly impatient. I set the ledgers in front of me, smoothing the edges, feeling the weight of responsibility settle heavier than any robe or crown.
“Your Highness,” one of the older lords began, voice edged with concern, “we have received scattered reports from the front, but nothing concrete. Has there been news from the generals? How fares our army?”
I drew in a steadying breath. “The generals have reported that the campaigns are proceeding,” I said carefully, keeping my tone neutral yet firm. “Casualties are being managed, and supplies are arriving in a steady stream. Our soldiers are resilient, though the fighting remains intense.”
A younger councilor leaned forward, frowning. “And what of the Queen, Your Highness? We’ve heard whispers—”
I felt the room shift. A ripple of anxiety passed through them, and for a fraction of a second, I considered leaving the truth unspoken. But eyes pressed upon me, demanding some acknowledgment. “The Queen is unwell,” I admitted softly, carefully measuring each word. “She requires rest and care. I have every expectation that her recovery will be swift. She remains strong in spirit, and her advisors are attending to her needs. There is no cause for alarm.”
Murmurs passed through the room. Some faces betrayed relief, others skepticism. A sharp-eyed councilor asked, “Ill? And for how long, Your Highness? We must know if this will affect the governance of the realm, especially in these times of war.”
I met his gaze directly, voice steady. “Her illness is temporary. She is receiving the best care available, and I am acting in her stead to maintain the stability of the kingdom. I assure you, the Queen’s strength will return, and she will resume her duties as soon as she is able.”
For a moment, the chamber fell silent. I could feel the weight of their scrutiny pressing down, a thousand questions unsaid lingering in the quiet. Yet, in that stillness, I realized something: the truth, even when bent or softened, was a delicate weapon. It could inspire loyalty, but it could also betray vulnerability. I had chosen my words carefully, and now I had to stand by them.
The council shifted topics then, focusing on the war again—troop movements, supply lines, reports of generals’ decisions. I guided the discussion with practiced precision, answering questions and deflecting overly probing ones about the Queen. Every detail I shared was tempered, designed to maintain confidence, even as my chest tightened with the knowledge of her true condition.
As the meeting drew on, I reminded myself that this balance—between truth and reassurance—was the mantle I now bore alone. Each word, each careful nod, reinforced my position as steward and protector, not just of the palace and the council, but of the fragile secret that could unravel everything if it slipped.
The council meeting ended with a flurry of papers and whispered instructions, the chamber slowly emptying as lords and advisors filed out. I lingered for a moment, letting the echo of my own measured words fade into the polished wood and stone, before rising to leave. My steps carried me down the quiet corridors, the hum of distant activity barely reaching me, until I found Fennie near the servant’s wing, sorting through a stack of fresh petitions.
“Fennie,” I said softly, and she looked up immediately, her eyes bright behind a faint layer of exhaustion. “Would you like to step away for a while? Perhaps see the shops in the lower quarter? It’s been a year since the fire, and from what I hear, they’ve rebuilt stronger than ever.”
She blinked, surprise and delight mixing in her expression. “The shops…? Really, Your Highness? You’d like to go with me?”
I gave a small smile, the corners of my lips lifting with genuine warmth. “Yes, but we’ll go quietly. In simple attire. No one needs to know we’re there.” I paused, glancing toward the windows where the sunlight spilled in, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. “It’s been… a long time since I’ve walked among the people without the weight of duties pressing on me. I thought it might do us both good.”
Fennie nodded, setting aside her work with careful hands. “Of course. I’ll prepare something suitable. Something that lets you move freely, blend in… nothing that screams royalty.”
I exhaled, feeling a rare sense of freedom slip over me, light and unexpected. “Thank you, Fennie,” I murmured. “I… think I could use a day like this.”
We left the palace quietly, the guards giving us polite nods but no undue attention, and as we stepped into the streets, I felt the pulse of the city around me—the rebuilt stalls, the laughter of children weaving between merchants, the faint scent of freshly baked bread and spiced teas. For the first time in a long while, the weight of the palace, the council, the Queen’s secret illness, and the war seemed to loosen, if only for a moment.
I glanced at Fennie, who kept a careful watch on our surroundings while moving with practiced ease. “It feels strange,” I admitted softly, “to walk among them like this, unseen, unnoticed… and yet, it feels right.”
Her smile was gentle, encouraging. “You deserve it, my Lady. Even for just a day.”
And with that, we slipped into the bustle of the lower quarter, blending seamlessly into the life of the city, hidden from the eyes that might judge or question our presence, free—if only for a while—to breathe and explore.