I thought it was perfect to test my new power. To clean the world, first you had to clean your house.
And I would not let my dignity be defiled by those who never understood the burden of being a princess.
I sat on the chair beside my window. My silver hair lifted gently in the breeze that came through the open window.
From here, I could see the garden clearly. The servants were down there, watering the flowers, laughing with the others. I could even hear them, their filthy words still rolling in my ears.
I lifted my hand and rang the small bell on my desk.
A maid came quickly, her head bowed.
"You," I said, pointing through the window. My voice was calm but cold. "Call that servant. The one by the flowers. Bring him here."
The maid hurried down to the garden to fetch the servant I had named—the one who dared call me a "whore".
The rest I would leave. Let them laugh. Let them smile.
They would remember this day. The day when one of them simply vanished.
Fear would do more than blood. Fear lasts for eternity. It seeps into the veins; it stains the blood itself.
To break someone, to crush their pride — there was nothing sharper than fear.
Their laughs echoed in my head, like they were mocking me, questioning my worth, tearing at my character. For that, fear was the only answer.
A cold smile touched my lips as I waited by the window.
The maid stepped into the garden, her steps quick, her breath uneven. She had run all the way, rushing to call the servant in a hurry.
The servant she pointed to froze, the bucket in his hand tipping water onto the grass. His eyes went wide in bewilderment.
"Why… why is the princess calling me?" He asked the maid, his voice shaky.
The others stopped their work. Their heads turned toward the maid.
Their minds were asking the same question as his.
The princess had never called for them before.
They were only gardeners. Men and women who fed the horses, cut the grass, cleaned the lamps, and swept the paths with their brooms.
The palace garden was big and wide, circling the whole palace.
There were many servants doing the same jobs all over — some in the north garden, some in the south, some in the east, and some in the west.
They had no place inside the main palace.
Yet now the princess had named one of them.
Every face carried the same question. Why him? Why now?
He thought of refusing, but he could not decline the order of a princess.
He had to go, even if he didn't know why the princess had called him.
He dropped the flowers he was watering and hurried toward the palace, his steps uneven.
The garden he worked in was part of the outer palace. A stretch of land filled with trees, flower beds, and wide stone paths. It circled the palace like a belt, reaching from one tower to the next.
The servants lived and worked here, moving from garden to garden. Some to the north, some to the south, east, and west. Each tower overlooked its share of the garden.
From the southern tower, the princess's room stood high above. From there, she could see everything — the lamps, the flowers, even the lowliest worker bending to sweep the path.
His steps slowed as he reached the southern tower.
The stairway felt longer than ever. His palms were sweating, and he wiped them on his dirty tunic, but it did not help.
At last he stood before the princess's door. The wood looked heavier than stone to him.
He raised his hand and knocked, softly at first, then again, harder.
"P-Princess… it's me," he stammered. "The servant you called for."
He bowed his head low, waiting for the permission to enter.
I let the room stay quiet for a moment.
Then I spoke, my voice cold.
"Enter."
The word was simple, but his shoulders twitched on the other side of the door.
Slowly, the handle turned, and the servant stepped inside.
I sat on my chair in front of the open window, both palms resting on my lap.
My cold eyes fixed on him. His head was low, his shoulders shaking in my presence.
Where was the arrogance now?
Where was the mocking laugh that I had heard in the garden?
Did their courage only live in whispers? Were they only brave when speaking behind someone's back but powerless when the eyes of that person were on them?
I stood from my chair and walked slowly toward him. My steps were quiet, but each one made him shrink lower.
I stopped in front of him, my shadow falling over his bowed head.
"Where did your smile go?" My voice was sharp, cutting.
"Lift your head. Say it to my face."
"What was it? Whore? Prostitute? Which name did you choose for your princess?"
The words left my lips like venom, and I saw him tremble, as if each one was a lash across his back.
He stopped moving, his body froze, for a moment his head lifted, and his eyes went wide.
Then he quickly lowered it again, unable to meet my gaze as if the weight of my gaze crushed his head.
Sweat rolled down from his forehead, dripping to his cheek. His throat bobbed as he tried to swallow, but it was dry, too dry.
His lips opened, but no words came out. Only a shaky breath.
His chest rose and fell too fast, each inhale broken, his heart pounding so loud I thought I could hear it from where I stood.
His knees trembled. His hands twitched at his sides, clutching the hem of his tunic like a child holding on to a blanket.
When he finally spoke, his voice cracked like a twig.
"P-Princess… I… I didn't mean… it wasn't—"
The words broke apart in his mouth, nothing but stammering excuses.