Cradled to her chest, her hand adorned in fine jewelry—
Once again, the Court's jester had dared to defy.
It had drawn from Seraphina the softest of chuckles,
quickly silenced by her father's venom-laced voice.
—"How dare you laugh at your king? Show some respect!"
The princess, unfazed, merely rolled her eyes
at his unnecessary hostility—
a gesture that only fueled his fury further.
King Alaric rose from his throne,
adjusting his deep navy ceremonial robes trimmed in gold.
A man bred to command loyalty,
his presence could still a room—
though he wielded fear where love might've done better.
—"Father," Seraphina began,
but was swiftly interrupted by her elder brother,
Prince Lucien Vaillant.
Five years her senior, molded from duty,
he remained the perfect heir in their father's stern gaze.
—"Dear, fix your posture. A lady does not argue."
Seraphina didn't waste breath.
With graceful precision, she snapped her fan across her mouth,
smiling sweetly from behind it.
—"And a man should be a gentleman, shouldn't he?
Shouting at your own kin may prove rather... counterproductive."
At that, the youngest—Prince Caelum Vaillant—
burst into laughter, his freckled nose crinkling with delight.
To him, it was a comedy.
To Alaric—it was anything but.
The king stood once more, livid.
—"Leave, you insolent child! Do not return!
You'll eat no supper with that tongue."
Seraphina didn't spare him a glance.
With poise unshaken, she offered a warm goodnight to her brothers
and departed down the hall.
Her delicate heels echoed along the marble floor,
and just ahead, she glimpsed the jester disappearing
around the bend toward their shared quarters.
Seraphina exhaled sharply, her chest tight with resentment.
Could her father not see?
How everyone was stretched thin—aching for rest?
She could barely stomach the contrast:
her room constantly refurbished,
while the others' quarters rotted in neglect.
It made her ill.
Her mother—
The soft chime of her heels brushing over etched sheepskin froze her.
A moment suspended in grief.
How many times had she longed for the days
when her mother was still alive?
When light still touched the castle halls?
She didn't know.
And tonight, she had no strength to dwell on it.
The argument alone left her drained,
a headache pulsing at her temples.
With one hand, she pushed open the grand doors to her chambers.
With the other, she waved the guards away—
seeking solitude.
The sound of armored footsteps fading was the last thing she heard
before shutting the door behind her.
Finally alone, she let out a guttural groan,
kicking off her delicate heels with careless abandon
before collapsing onto the velvet-covered bed—
frustrated, and thoroughly exhausted.
The crumbling night fell quickly—
and with it came the gnawing ache of hunger.
Being sent to bed without supper had become routine.
Her sharp tongue never failed to land her in trouble.
Seraphina stirred, forcing herself upright.
Gods—no wonder her back ached;
she had fallen asleep still laced into her dress.
Groggy but determined,
her feet found the floor as her hands moved instinctively
to untie the corset's straps—
a prison of fabric that stifled not only her breath,
but her very sense of self.
The shame of having slept in it clung to her
like a second, suffocating skin.
With a sigh, she slid the constricting garment off,
relief pouring over her like water.
One by one, she peeled away the layers—
silks, linens, and brocades
that had clung to her like expectation.
At last, she stood in her undergarments—
modest by design,
a simple long-sleeved white tunic
that covered her from neck to ankle.
Perhaps it was blasphemous,
but she couldn't help but look.
In the quiet glow of the mirror,
her gaze met her own reflection—
a rare moment of honesty.
There, freed from constraint,
her form was revealed in gentle curves and elegant lines.
Not fragile, but divine.
A silhouette carved with the same grace
as the ancient statues lining the castle's marble corridors.
Still, powerful.
Soft, but defiant.
No crown.
No fan.
No expectation.
Just Seraphina.
Freed from the grip of corsets and expectations,
the princess stepped barefoot into the dim corridor,
slipping quietly through the palace, well past curfew.
She tiptoed through the silent halls,
the cold stone brushing against her soles.
The guards stationed along her path averted their eyes,
choosing willful ignorance over duty—
turning away as their sovereign's daughter
wandered the castle in her most vulnerable state.
But not everyone looked away.
Valeria had been in her quarters,
perched on the ledge of a wide window,
a carving knife in hand,
wood shavings scattered across her lap.
She was deep in the craft of shaping a new mask—
her fingers careful, precise,
lost in the comfort of creation.
Then—
a blur of white.
The fleeing princess passed like a breath of wind,
a flash of pale linen and starlight skin.
It was all Valeria needed.
Her gaze snapped to the fleeting vision,
drawn like a tide to the moon.
Without hesitation, she brushed the shavings from her lap,
letting them fall to the night air beyond the window.
The unfinished mask—etched with a sorrowful, weeping face—
tumbled to the floor.
The knife was tucked swiftly into her boot
as she leapt from the windowsill,
heart pounding, feet already in motion.
The mask's frozen grief stood in sharp contrast
to the wildfire stirring in Valeria's chest—
feral, breathless, and suddenly free.