Morning light filtered softly through the palace halls. Servants moved about their duties, while distant cries of villagers drifted faintly from beyond the walls. The soldiers stood watch, yet none dared approach them—many had already been taken to the dungeon, and the rest lingered at a fearful distance, voices raised in pleas for food.
In the laundry chamber, attendants sorted fine linens into careful stacks. One nudged the other.
"Did you know? Miri has been taken in by Princess Iridessa."
The other exhaled a quiet sigh. "I heard. How fortunate she is… I wish it were me."
"We all wish it were us," another murmured, the longing shared in every small nod around the room.
Among them stood one of Evelyn's own maids. She heard every word, memorizing it, then carried the news straight to her mistress—just as commanded.
EVELYN'S QUARTERS
"She what?" Evelyn snapped, turning sharply.
"Princess Iridessa has taken Miri as her personal maid," the servant answered, voice small but clear. "I heard them speaking of it below." Her hands shook slightly, but she kept her head lowered.
Evelyn scoffed, pacing once before stopping. "So the girl grows bold now? A spine forming at last?"
The servant swallowed nervously. "It appears so, Your Majesty."
Evelyn's lips thinned. "Then I shall remind her whose strength stands unchallenged in this palace."
She rose abruptly and marched toward Iridessa's chamber.
IRIDESSA'S CHAMBER
The doors swung open with force as Evelyn entered, arms folded across her jeweled robe.
"I heard you have taken another maid into service."
Evelyn's voice carried the crisp authority of rank, sharp but controlled.
"Yes," Iridessa replied, chin lifted, tone calm, posture unshaken.
"And who granted you leave to make such a choice?"
Iridessa paused—brief, deliberate. Then, slowly, she smiled.
"I believe no leave is required," she said, her voice quiet but firm.
"By the laws of this palace and crown, the choice of my personal maid is mine alone."
Evelyn bristled. "It is not!" she shot back. "You hold no authority here!"
Iridessa met her eyes fully now. "I do," she answered evenly. "And you do not command my decisions, Evelyn."
The chamber did not echo with shouting. It was not rude—only final.
For a moment, Evelyn blinked, startled. She had never seen Iridessa speak with such steadiness before.
Iridessa offered a soft, unreadable smile, then walked past her, the sweep of her skirts brushing the air like fading whispers. Evelyn remained where she stood—alone, furious, and simmering.
Moments later, Evelyn strode into the strategy chamber, where Magnus and Queen Isadora were bent in discussion with war scribes and record-keepers, the matters of security spread across the table before them.
"She insulted me!" Evelyn cried out, voice fractured with lost composure.
"Your wife—Iridessa—spoke to me as though I were her maid!"
The war scribes vanished at once, bowing hurriedly as they excused themselves.
Isadora, seated and composed, lifted her gaze from her cup, expression unreadable. She inhaled slowly, then spoke.
"Evelyn," she said, calm but edged, "you knew we were in council. Yet you barged in regardless."
"Forgive me, Mother," Evelyn said, breath uneven, eyes burning bright. "But she pushed me too far. I could not hold my tongue when insult met my face."
"Then tell it plainly," Isadora replied. "What was said? How were you wronged?"
Evelyn unraveled the moment—but her retelling curled Iridessa's steady words into something far crueler than spoken.
Isadora watched her the entire time. Not reacting. Not blinking. Just watching.
When Evelyn finished, the Queen lifted a hand—not fast, not angry. Gentle. Final.
"Enough," Isadora said, the temperature of her voice dropping like winter on stone. "You are not a child. And you clearly ignited the spark you now fear. Let your brother deal with his wife."
Magnus rose to his feet, his expression carved from stone. His jaw twitched once—small, sharp, betraying the storm beneath his calm. Without another word, he turned and left the strategy hall, each step deliberate, tense, heavy with restrained fury.
The canvas of the palace blurred past him until he reached Iridessa's chamber. He entered without pause, the door closing behind him with a decisive slam that echoed louder than his voice ever needed to.
"You will never speak to my sister in such a manner again," he said, the words clipped, regal, final.
Iridessa stood near the tall window, sunlight threading gentle gold around her silhouette. She met his voice before his eyes.
"I did not insult her," she answered, her breath carefully measured. Yet beneath the steadiness of her words, a tremor lived. "I only defended what is mine. She questioned my right. I answered her."
Magnus stepped closer, stopping just before the space became too small.
"You are fortunate I still speak with courtesy," he said, lowering his voice—not softer, but sharper. "Do not mistake restraint for permission to overreach, Iridessa."
She held his gaze. Her pulse thundered in her ears. But still—she spoke.
"I am keeping Miri," she said, calm, but carrying a quiet quake. "I care not for your sister's displeasure, nor your mother's designs. I desire one gentle presence here. One face not forged from contempt."
Magnus blinked—not from surprise, but realization. He exhaled once through his nose, the smallest sign of surrender.
"Very well. Keep her," he said, turning toward the door. "But tread with thought, not defiance. You are not sovereign here. This is not your homeland. This palace is not shaped to your voice."
He left then, shutting the door behind him again, this time not to warn her, but to end the battle itself.
The moment the latch clicked, Iridessa folded—not in weakness, but exhaustion. She sank to the floor, knees meeting the cold stone as her body trembled with everything she had swallowed.
Miri rushed to her side instantly, stopping herself from kneeling too dramatically, settling instead beside her.
"My lady… perhaps I should return to the lower chambers and—"
"No," Iridessa cut in, breath uneven now.
"But Your—"
"I said no." Her voice cracked—not loud, but deep.
She rose slowly and moved to the edge of her bed, sitting there as if her legs could no longer hold politics or pain.
Miri placed her hand over hers—no crowns, no formality, no fear. Just warmth. The steady pulse of human comfort.
It was then the tears came—unfiltered, unpolished, unqueenly in the most honest way.
And Miri stayed. Silent. Present. Untouchable in loyalty alone.
The next morning, Evelyn passed her in the hallway, sneering.
"No matter how many maids you collect… you'll never be above me."
Iridessa turned to her slowly. She did not speak neither frown. She only stared—quiet and fierce, like the tip of a hidden blade. And then she walked away.
-
The sun filtered through the leafy boughs of the royal garden, painting gold-streaked shadows across the marble path. The breeze was gentle, carrying the soft scent of jasmine and sun-warmed earth. Iridessa sat quietly on a bench beneath an old tree, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her white sleeves fluttered gently in the breeze.
Miri stood beside her for a moment, hesitating—then slowly sat at her feet.
"Thank you, my lady…" her voice came out small. "I still wake up sometimes, not believing this is real."
Iridessa looked at her. "What is?" she asked softly, offering a small smile.
Miri lifted her eyes, eyes glassy with memory.
"This. Wearing silk. Sleeping under a roof without leaking holes. Eating real food. Having a rug to sleep on… instead of a mat with holes. I was born in this palace, but for most of my life, I was invisible. And now… you see me."
Iridessa's heart ached at the rawness of her words. She reached down and gently touched Miri's shoulder.
"You deserved to be seen, Miri. From the very beginning."
Miri smiled—small, hopeful—but her expression dimmed as she turned her gaze toward the fountain nearby, where the water trickled like the whisper of old wounds.
Iridessa glanced at her, thoughtful.
"I once heard… in court tales," Iridessa began carefully, "that King Real fathered a child with a slave. A girl with white hair like snow. But I have not seen anyone like that here since I arrived."
She did not expect the shift in Miri. Her face darkened. Her lips trembled as her head dropped. Her hands clutched her gown tightly.
"She is gone," she whispered.
Iridessa blinked. "Gone?"
Miri's voice was shaky but steady enough to tell the tale.
"Her name is Aurora. The king's daughter. But no one here dared call her that. She was only ever 'the slave girl.' She was forbidden to sit, to speak, to exist unless summoned. Queen Isadora ensured it was so. Evelyn… she tormented her. Hurt her. Used her as if she were nothing. And His Majesty…" Her voice faltered. "He only watched. Always watched and never once intervened."
Miri wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
"She was so quiet. So beautiful. Her hair was the color of the moonlight. Her eyes—light blue, like something out of the sea. But she never looked anyone in the eye… she was trained not to. Her hands shook when spoken to, but her spirit… her spirit was stronger than anyone I knew."
Iridessa's breath hitched. "Where is she now?"
Miri swallowed. "She was married off. To the King of Velmora. They said it was to seal an alliance… for protection. But those of us in the servant quarters knew the truth. They wanted her gone. They wanted her dead."
Iridessa's fingers clenched around her skirt.
"Velmora," she murmured. "That ruthless kingdom with a king known for blood and ice…"
Miri nodded, her tears falling freely now.
"No one has heard from her since. No letters, no word, no body. Just silence. And I… I still pray she is alive. That someone, somewhere, is being kind to her."
She looked up at Iridessa again, eyes wide with grief and helplessness.
"I long for her, my lady. My heart aches for her absence."
Iridessa's heart was leaden in her chest. She had heard of palace cruelty in stories. But this—this was a girl discarded by her own blood. A girl punished for the sin of being born. Her jaw tightened as she exhaled.
"There is no limit to the cruelty in this palace," she said bitterly. "And those who sit highest are the ones who strike the deepest wounds."
Her eyes moved toward the tower that housed Queen Isadora's chambers. She thought of Evelyn's venom-laced smile, of Magnus's rage-filled hands.
She turned back to Miri and offered a soft but fierce smile.
"We may not be able to face them in the open… not yet," Iridessa said, voice steady though quiet.
"But if I can grant one soul peace within these walls, I shall. Just as Aurora should have been granted… and deserved."
Miri bowed her head, a soft breath leaving her. Then she spoke, gentle but sincere.
"She would have cherished you," she said. "She always told us… if fate ever allowed her to choose her own kin, she would choose kindness above all. Someone with a tender heart. Someone like you."
Iridessa closed her eyes briefly, touched by the weight of those words. Then she rose from the bench and extended her hand to Miri.
"Come. Let us go inside before the sun gets harsher."
Miri took it gently, and together they walked, not just two women bound by fate and fear—but now by something stronger. A quiet vow to stand for those the palace had forgotten.
VELMORA KINGDOM…
Since Aurora quiet move into the wing near the king's chambers, she kept to herself. She dined in her room, never joined the royal banquets, and avoided any possible encounter with Queens Virelda or Selene. It was her silent rule: survival through silence.
She spent most of her days in her garden, a haven filled with white roses and soft grass beneath her bare feet. Her maids had slowly become the only faces that made her feel human—girls who laughed gently, whispered small jokes, and helped her forget for moments at a time that she was a caged dove in a golden palace.
That evening, the garden was warm and breezy. The sunlight fell in pale slants between the trees. Aurora stood barefoot on the grass, in a soft cream dress that fluttered around her like mist. She popped a grape into her mouth as one of her maids whispered a joke. She laughed so hard she nearly choked on the grape.
But someone else heard the laughter too.
King Aldric was strolling through the western wing, flanked only by his right-hand man and a few distant guards. He'd chosen this route randomly… or so he told himself. Perhaps he just needed air. Perhaps he just wanted silence.
But what he found instead was a sound. A soft, melodic laugh carried by the wind—her laugh.
He froze.
From the arched path above the garden, his eyes fell on her.
Aurora. Barefoot, laughing. Alive.
For a moment, time was still. His chest rose… then dropped with an unfamiliar weight. His heart—his cold, battle-hardened heart—skipped a beat.
"Your Majesty?" his right-hand man said, confused at the sudden halt.
Aldric blinked, then straightened, shoving the emotion behind his mask. He resumed his walk, but this time he turned into the garden.
The shift of the soldiers' boots on stone alerted Aurora and her maids. They turned—and when they saw him, everyone fell silent.
The maids bowed swiftly. Aurora followed, bowing low, her silver hair spilling over her shoulder like liquid moonlight.
Aldric stepped into the garden. Each footfall was slow, measured. His soldiers instinctively moved to the edges, allowing him privacy.
He stood in front of Aurora. Said nothing.
She remained bowed.
Then his voice came, low and soft.
"Lift your head."
Aurora hesitated, then slowly raised her chin, though her eyes remained lowered.
"Look at me," he said again.
She lifted her gaze. Blue eyes met grey.
It felt like a pause in the world.
For him, it was like being struck in the chest—not with fear, not with anger—but with something far more dangerous. Something soft.
He stared longer than he should have. Her discomfort was visible—shoulders stiff, breath slow—but she did not flinch. She held his gaze.
And then, without a word, he turned and walked away. His soldiers followed.
The garden returned to silence.
Aurora remained standing long after he left. Her maids crept toward her.
"My lady?" one whispered.
But she said nothing. Her thoughts were tangled. The moment had been brief, but it had shaken her.
Back in his chamber, Aldric stood in front of the fire, his arms crossed, brows drawn low. The flames licked the air with quiet hunger, but his mind was louder.
He could not shake what he felt. He'd seen beauty before. He'd had women at his command. But never—never—had someone's laugh brought his heart to a stop. Never had silence in someone's eyes made him question everything.
"Love will make you weak, son."
His father's voice echoed from memory.
"Do not love. Do not need. Do not yield."
And yet here he was, staring at the golden pendant she'd gifted him—a simple, small token she'd presented during his birthday. He'd mocked himself for cherishing it. And yet… he wore it, tucked beneath his tunic.
Aldric sighed, raking a hand through his dark hair.
"Prepare nothing," he told his right-hand man suddenly. "Only you. Follow me."
-
Aurora's chamber was quiet.
She sat on her bed in a simple linen nightdress, brushing her long hair while one of her maids folded fresh sheets.
Then—a knock.
The youngest maid went to open the door. When she saw who stood there, she gasped and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty…"
Aurora stood immediately, eyes wide. Her brush slipped from her fingers.
The other maids hurried forward, bowing deeply. Aldric stepped inside—alone.
He said nothing. The maids, well-trained and wide-eyed, slipped out, closing the door behind them.
Aurora bowed deeply, her voice uncertain.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I received no word that you were coming here tonight."
Aldric looked at her for a long moment. Then he spoke, calmly.
"I sent no word."
She nodded slowly, heart pounding in her throat.
Silence.
She fidgeted, unsure. Then tried again—
"I only meant… I would appreciate it if, next time, Your Majesty sent word. So I might… prepare."
His gaze shifted, a flicker of amusement in his grey eyes.
"Prepare?" He stepped closer. "Prepare for what?"
Aurora stiffened, lowering her gaze. "I—I didn't mean… not that kind of preparation. I only—"
He was in front of her now. He lowered his head, voice softer.
"You need not fear me, Aurora."
She froze.
"I came only to sleep. Nothing more."
He walked past her, toward the bed. He removed his royal cloak, laid it across the bench, and lay down fully clothed. Then he turned, propping his head up slightly.
"Come," he said gently, gesturing toward the other side of the bed.
Aurora hesitated. Then moved slowly, quietly, and lay beside him—not close, but present.
Within minutes, Aldric's eyes were closed, his breathing even.
Aurora turned slightly, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
She closed her eyes too, unsure of the storm that was building around her.
Whatever Aldric was feeling—he could not deny it anymore.
And neither could she run from it. Even if her heart held no room for love, even if she feared this fragile peace… it had already begun.