Laughter echoed softly through the garden. Warm, gentle, familiar. Like a memory made of sunlight — something I wanted to hold onto, even as it slipped through my fingers like golden dust.
I blinked, still half-asleep, and turned my head toward the window. The golden morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, painting everything in my room with a peaceful glow.
Dust motes danced like tiny spirits in the light, swirling lazily as if reluctant to leave the warmth of this quiet hour.
Outside, birds chirped brightly from the tall cherrywood trees, their song a delicate counterpoint to the soft rustling of the leaves.
A faint scent of blooming roses drifted in on a breeze, mingling with the faint, comforting trace of old parchment from the books stacked on my desk.
Father always insisted on fresh roses in every hallway. A royal tradition, he'd say—but I always suspected it was really just for Mother.
The way her eyes would brighten when she caught sight of their delicate petals, like seeing the sun break through a long clouded sky.
Then I heard it again—that laugh. Two, actually.
"Louis, stop it!" my mother's voice rang with teasing warmth, full of affection and the easy joy of shared years.
And then came my father's hearty chuckle, deep and rumbling like a drumroll wrapped in velvet, the kind of sound that made you feel safe even when the world beyond the palace walls felt uncertain.
A smile tugged at the corners of my lips. I pushed the covers off, feeling the cool sheets slide away from my skin, and stretched with a slow, contented breath.
My fingers tingled as I rose, the wood floor cool beneath my bare feet, a grounding sensation. I padded across the sun-warmed floor to the tall window.
The air inside the room still held the faint chill of night, but sunlight promised the warmth of the day to come.
Below, in the royal garden, I saw them—my parents. Queen Liana and King Louis. Dressed in casual morning robes, they sat beneath the pergola draped in white roses, sharing breakfast and smiles.
The white petals framed them like a living crown, fragile yet enduring. My father leaned closer to her, whispered something I couldn't hear, and Mother laughed again, placing a hand gently on his arm.
The way they looked at each other was a language older than words, a quiet conversation of glances and touches.
They looked so… happy. In love. Still. Despite the years, despite the crown.
A perfect moment, frozen in golden morning light. The kind of moment that feels like it should last forever—like the steady beat of a heart you don't want to lose.
Then Mother looked up and spotted me. Her smile widened instantly, warm and open like the sky on festival night, stars scattered in the deep blue.
"My baby!" she called, waving me over.
I groaned softly but smiled, leaning a little farther out the window. The smooth coolness of the window frame pressed against my palm. "Okay, Mother, I'm coming!"
Even at twenty-three, she still called me that—baby. It was a little embarrassing, sure—but I was their only child.
In a world full of politics, danger, and distant allies, I was their light. Their future. They reminded me of that often. Especially Father.
He'd always been like that—loud with his love, like thunder after a long dry spell.
I remember when I turned eighteen, he threw a celebration that practically shook all of Etheria. Dancers in silk and silver twirled across polished crystal floors.
Floating lanterns lit the skies like drifting stars. Fountains glimmered with magic, and music from the eastern provinces filled the palace for three days and nights. It was the kind of celebration legends were made of.
People still talked about it. He said he wanted me to remember it forever.
And I did. Just like I would remember this morning—though I didn't yet realize why.
I dressed quickly, slipping into a flowing ivory gown that shimmered faintly in the sunlight, its fabric soft and cool against my skin, like liquid moonlight.
I fastened a silver pendant around my neck—the one Father gave me when I was thirteen, cool and heavy against my collarbone—and made my way down the marble staircase.
Each step echoed gently, quiet but confident, carrying me from the cocoon of my chamber into the sprawling warmth of the palace.
I passed guards with polished armor that gleamed like captured stars, smiling maids carrying fresh linens perfumed with lavender and lemon, and ancient portraits of monarchs who had shaped Etheria with sword, word, or magic.
Their painted eyes seemed to follow me, full of silent stories and unsaid warnings.
As I stepped through the grand doors into the garden, the warm sun wrapped around me like an old friend.
The air smelled of lavender, honeysuckle, jasmine—summer's breath weaving through the branches and swirling with the faint tang of morning dew on grass.
A gentle wind stirred the trees and carried laughter toward the sky, light and free as feathers caught on a breeze.
The table was already set with platters of fresh fruit, honeyed bread, soft cheese, and warm roasted ham.
A maid appeared beside me and placed a plate before me without a word. The linen cloth felt smooth beneath my fingers, the weight of silver cutlery cold and grounding.
"Thank you," I said softly. She bowed and stepped back, her presence quiet but steady like the palace itself.
I sat beside my mother, who instantly reached over to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. Her fingers were warm and tender, and the touch stirred something deep inside me—a fragile thread of comfort.
"There's our sunshine," she said, beaming.
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help smiling. "Mother, really…"
We ate in peace, the three of us, speaking of dreams, plans, little stories from the staff, and even a few silly riddles.
Nothing important, and yet everything. These were the moments that made life feel full.
I noticed the way the sunlight caught the amber in my father's eyes, how my mother's laughter softened the edges of the morning, and how the gentle hum of bees drifted from the nearby flowerbeds.
"Mother," I said between bites of fresh melon, its juice sweet and dripping cold on my tongue, "can you please stop calling me baby? I'm not a baby anymore."
She laughed, light and musical, and brushed a crumb from my chin. The warmth of her hand lingered longer than necessary, like a silent reassurance.
"Oh, you'll always be my baby. Even when you marry and have little ones of your own, I'll still call you that."
"Mother!" I groaned, cheeks warming, the blush rising like the first flush of dawn.
Father chuckled behind his teacup. "Alright, alright. That's enough teasing for today, my ladies."
He stood, straightening his tunic, already half-turned toward duty. "I must go. Your uncle says it's urgent. Something about the northern border."
I stood too, rising just enough to kiss his cheek. His skin was cool and rough beneath my lips, the faint scent of pine and earth clinging to him. "Take care. I love you."
"And I love you, my shining star," he said, placing a strong hand on my shoulder.
His eyes lingered just a moment too long, soft with something I didn't quite understand at the time—something like worry wrapped in pride.
He turned to Mother and bent to kiss her knuckles like an old-fashioned knight. "I'll return by noon. Save me something sweet."
And just like that, he was gone. Several guards fell into step behind him as he strode confidently down the garden path. Regal. Respected. Loved.
Mother watched him disappear around the rose-covered archway and sighed, the sound barely more than a whisper, fragile as a falling petal.
"They don't make men like that anymore," she murmured.
"You're lucky," I said, smiling, though a shadow flickered behind my words.
"No, we're lucky," she replied. "We have each other."
And she was right. Our kingdom, Etheria, was flourishing. Magic flowed freely through our rivers and fields, weaving through the land like an unseen thread of life.
The people adored Father. There was peace, beauty, and laughter in every corner of the palace.
I had every luxury—tutors, books, gardens, horses, music lessons, ballgowns, enchanted mirrors, and even a secret treehouse Father built for me when I was little.
I could still remember the scent of pine and earth that clung to its wooden walls, the way the sunlight spilled through the leaves like shards of gold.
I had everything a princess could want.
What I didn't know—what none of us knew—was how quickly everything can change.
Later that night
The storm began as a whisper beyond the mountains.
I stood at my window, wrapped in a shawl that smelled faintly of lavender and old smoke, watching the sky churn in the distance.
The clouds were thick and angry, coiling like dark smoke from a fire that refused to die. A strange glow flickered within them—blue, green, then red. Lightning without thunder. Like magic gone wrong, tearing at the fabric of the night.
The wind had turned restless. It tugged at the trees and sent dead leaves skittering across the palace stones like frightened children fleeing unseen danger.
Something felt… off.
A hollow ache bloomed inside my chest, a cold weight that settled over my ribs like a stone. My breath hitched as the shadows lengthened in the room, twisting and reaching across the walls like dark fingers.
"Miss Thea," came a soft voice behind me. It was Lira, my maid since childhood. Her voice trembled with worry, though she tried to keep it steady. "Perhaps you should sleep. The Queen said tomorrow you'd visit the village festival."
"I know," I murmured. But I didn't move. I couldn't. My eyes stayed locked on the horizon, where the storm brewed like a living thing.
There was a strange weight in my chest. Not pain—just pressure. A warning, silent and cold. Like the calm before a shattered glass breaks under unseen strain.
"Lira?" I asked after a moment.
"Yes, Miss?"
"Can I have a cup of warm milk?" My voice was barely above a whisper, brittle and fragile like the silence pressing in on us.
"Of course, Miss. I'll bring it shortly."
The soft click of Lira's heels faded into the stillness. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the weight of thoughts I couldn't voice.
Minutes later, Lira returned, steam curling gently from the porcelain cup. "Do you need anything else, my princess?" she asked, her eyes warm with concern.
I hesitated. My voice faltered again, softer still. "Has my father come home yet?"
There was a pause—too long.
"Not yet, Miss. But I'm sure he will soon. He always keeps his promises."
She meant it kindly. She always did. But her words did nothing to ease the cold creeping into my bones. The silence after her answer stretched out, thick and heavy like a shadow settling over the hearth.
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Thank you."
She left, and I turned back to the storm. The candlelight behind me flickered, casting strange, dancing shadows across the walls. They seemed to crawl, tall and strange, like ancient spirits pacing the edges of my room.
The room felt wrong somehow, like it had been waiting for something to break—like the calm before a glass shatters, or a fragile heart cracks.
I lay in bed, pulling the covers high. The sheets were too cold, and the chill seeped through like a quiet warning. The silence was too loud.
Still, I closed my eyes. Trying to sleep ...
The cracked sky outside was a mirror to the fractures forming deep inside me, shadows whispering promises I was not yet ready to hear.