Mira sat composed in her seat at the long, glistening dining table—straight-backed and silent, her fingers curled lightly around the delicate porcelain of her teacup. The grand breakfast hall of the palace was bathed in soft golden light, pouring in through the tall stained-glass windows. Sunbeams danced on the polished floors, the clink of cutlery a gentle rhythm beneath the idle chatter of her mother and sister.
The table was laid out with an unnecessary bounty: golden-brown breads, roasted meats sliced to precision, fruit tarts garnished with mint, and cakes frosted with the colors of dawn. Silver teapots steamed beside carafes of rose milk and warm berry syrups. An entire kingdom could've feasted on what was merely called "breakfast."
Mira raised her cup to her lips and took a sip. The tea was bitter—unsweetened and sharp on her tongue. She drank it without flinching. No sugar. No honey. Just hot, bitter truth. Fitting, really.
Her gaze flickered to the others. Her mother, Queen Alia, was laughing lightly, her hand fluttering like a silk fan as she and Nerina fawned over sketches of wedding gowns that had been laid across the table. They were rolled out like battle maps, the fabrics shimmering in the morning light. Satin, lace, pearls. Mermaid silhouettes. Empire waists.
Mira's jaw clenched.
She didn't even want to be here.
She would've rather been anywhere else—out by the cliffside with her sword, challenging the royal guards to another sparring match. She'd have bruises on her arms and salt in her hair, but she'd feel alive. Or at the edge of the sea, letting her powers dance with the waves, the ocean pulsing in time with her heartbeat. There, she could breathe.
Here, suffocated by gossip and lace and Nerina's giggles, she felt like she was drowning.
"I think the mermaid one is beautiful too," Nerina cooed, holding up a sketch with sparkling eyes. "Oh, I simply cannot wait to wear it." She sighed, resting her chin dreamily on her palm.
Mira grimaced, though she quickly masked it behind another sip of tea.
The wedding wasn't even for years. They were only seventeen. The engagement was merely symbolic—a binding promise until the official marriage when they turned twenty-one. But Nerina acted as if the entire kingdom would gather tomorrow in lavender fields to watch her become queen of hearts.
As if she hadn't just shattered her sister's heart a week ago.
"What do you think, Mira?" Queen Alia asked, turning her head with a soft smile as if Mira's presence had just occurred to her.
Mira blinked once. Ah. So they had noticed her. She hadn't expected that.
She set her cup down gently. "I don't know," she said, voice calm but clipped. "It's going to be her wedding. She should choose for herself."
A pause.
"That is not very nice, Mira," her mother scolded, the smile vanishing like morning mist. "You should be supporting your sister. This is such a special time for her."
Mira's mouth tightened. Her hands folded in her lap to keep them from trembling—not from fear, but from the fury beginning to stir beneath her skin.
"It's not as if it's happening tomorrow," she said, evenly. "For all we know, it could still be cancelled before she reaches twenty-one."
The room froze. Just for a moment. The air shifted.
"Mira," her father said, his voice low and firm—a warning cloaked in royal restraint.
There it was. Again.
That tone. That weight in his voice he only used when she spoke out of turn. When Nerina disrupted court with silly questions or wore her slippers to banquets, it was charming. When Mira breathed wrong, it was disrespectful.
She wanted to scoff. Instead, she smiled thinly and looked down at her plate.
Silence settled over the table like a storm cloud.
Then, with the precision of a blade, King Theron spoke again.
"Speaking of marriage," he said, carefully folding his napkin. "Mira. There is a young prince from the Kingdom of Asaha. He is well-bred, intelligent, and comes from an ancient line. I have arranged a proposal for you. A political match. You will be meeting him before the end of the month."
Mira's breath caught.
Excuse me?
Her head turned sharply, her golden eyes flashing. "I beg your pardon?" she asked.
"I said," the king began again, slower now, as though she hadn't heard him, "I have arranged a—"
"I heard you," Mira said, cutting him off. "What I asked was why. Why would you make such a decision without consulting me?"
There was an audible shift in the room. Even the servants paused.
"I am the King," Theron said coldly, "I do not require permission to act on behalf of my daughters."
Mira let out a single breathless laugh. Not one of amusement—of disbelief. Her head shook slightly, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder.
"After seventeen years of treating me like an afterthought, you now decide it's time to auction me off like some gemstone in the treasury?" Her voice rose, sharpened. "After ignoring me—disregarding me—for my entire life, you suddenly remember that I exist when it's time to sell me?"
"You will hold your tongue!" her father thundered, slamming his hand on the table.
Mira rose.
The room gasped.
"I will do no such thing," she said, her voice a cold blade. "You don't get to silence me anymore."
"Your sister—" the king began.
"I am not my sister!" Mira shouted, her voice cracking across the room like a lightning strike. "Stop comparing me to her! Stop using her name as a measuring stick for everything I do. I am not Nerina. I do not want to be Nerina!"
She turned to her sister then, who looked up with wide, wounded eyes, lips parted in that innocent, airy expression that made Mira's blood boil.
"Does sister not love me?" Nerina asked, her voice trembling just enough to draw sympathy.
"Of course she does," Queen Alia rushed to say, drawing Nerina's hand into her own. "She's just being dramatic. You know how she gets."
"Oh, gods," Mira muttered, exasperated. Her hands were trembling now, not from anger but from frustration. The water in the cups around the table began to ripple—then spike upward, as if responding to her very pulse.
She was losing control.
"You will marry the prince of Asaha," King Theron said, rising slowly from his seat. "And you will never raise your voice to me again, Mira Aestelle."
She stared at him. The man who was supposed to protect her. The man who had, time and time again, failed her.
Her voice dropped, low and venomous.
"I will never. " she said
With that, Mira turned on her heel and swept from the dining hall. Her gown trailed behind her like a wave crashing against marble.
The silence she left in her wake was suffocating.
Servants and maids peered from the corners, whispering behind gloved hands. Not because she had stood up to her father. Not because the sea itself had trembled in her presence.
But because they thought she was cruel. Cold. Unloving. Because poor Nerina had looked so sad.
It would always be about Nerina.
Always.
Mira stormed through the corridors, the air around her vibrating with her suppressed rage. She didn't want to care. She wanted to shut it out. She tried not to care.
But the truth was—gods, the bitter truth was—she cared too much.
And caring had done nothing but break her.
She entered her chamber, shutting the doors behind her. The windows were open, sea wind rushing in. Her eyes burned. A single tear escaped, trailing down her cheek.
But her face was blank. Stone. Still.
She walked to the balcony, the wind catching her hair like a banner. Below, the sea called to her, wild and loyal.
They could take everything. Her future. Her voice. Her worth.
But they could not take the ocean.
And that meant they could never take her.