The instant my eyes opened, the mansion was already a low hum of activity. From my tall, arched window, the movement below was a choreographed ballet of efficiency. Maids glided across the cobblestones, sweeping paths and arranging the perfect cascade of petunias in porcelain urns. I cracked the window, intending only to breathe the cool morning air, but the soft clink of the latch was apparently enough.
The bustling figures below froze. In a wave of starched linen, they performed a single, synchronized deep bow, then dissolved instantly, melting around the corners of the manor to afford me my privacy.
"Good grief," I muttered, pulling the window fully open. "I just wanted some air, not a dramatic exodus."
The golden sunlight poured in, stretching across the polished floorboards and warming the heavy velvet of the drapes. It was a perfect, silent moment—the kind of carefully managed peace that money bought.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
The gentle rap came right on cue. "Good morning, my lady. It's Sylvia. May I enter?"
"Yes," I replied, turning from the window.
Sylvia entered with her customary grace, a vision of calm professionalism. She placed a steaming, delicate porcelain teacup on my bedside table.
"Good morning," she greeted, a faint, genuine warmth in her tone.
"Good morning," I returned, accepting the tea. The aroma—bergamot and black tea leaves—curled upward like a soft, fragrant spell.
"And how are you feeling today, my lady?"
"I'm well. Thank you for always asking, Sylvia." The tea, as always, was brewed to impossible perfection.
Her demeanor shifted, the warmth giving way to her more familiar, clipped efficiency. She reached into the folder she carried, her movements precise, and offered me a thick, sealed envelope.
"This contains the full personal file on the senator's wife."
My brow lifted. Fast. I took the envelope, the paper crisp and still warm from her hand. I didn't need to look at Sylvia to know she was watching for a reaction, but the sheer weight of the file confirmed she hadn't wasted a second.
"As expected," I said, a faint, approving smirk touching my lips. "You are as fast as you are thorough."
I broke the seal and began to skim, my eyes catching a detail that made my lips curl into something more amused.
"So… she has twins," I whispered, leaning back against the chair's cushion. "Cristoff and Cristin Flavian. Both eighteen. Just like me."
A quiet giggle escaped. "Well, that is interesting."
Sylvia tilted her head slightly, a small spark of curiosity in her otherwise calm eyes. "My lady?"
"Nothing," I dismissed quickly, tucking the documents back into the envelope and waving a hand. My grin, however, was likely a betrayal.
She didn't push. Instead, she straightened her posture and resumed her role. "Shall I go over your agenda for today?"
"Yes, please." I crossed my legs and folded my hands neatly in my lap, attempting a composed façade while my mind was already racing with scenarios involving the Flavian twins.
"Today," Sylvia began, "you have a family dinner scheduled for seven this evening. Lord Renzou and Lord Raiden will also be in attendance."
I perked up. "Oh? That sounds… potentially fun." Or potentially chaotic, depending on how many business deals were currently on fire.
But a more personal thought elbowed its way in. "Do Fin and Zein have any free time before then?" I asked, trying for a tone of mild, passing interest.
Sylvia hesitated, a rare pause in her delivery. "I am not certain, my lady. It would be best to inquire with them directly."
"Right," I trailed off, maintaining a perfectly neutral expression.
Ugh, I really miss bonding with them. I tightened my grip on the teacup, instantly self-conscious. But if I ask them outright, won't I sound desperate? Like a pathetic, clingy little sister who can't survive without her older brothers' attention?
I sighed inwardly, forcing my face to remain placid. Why must being sentimental feel so utterly cringeworthy?
Sylvia gave me a sharp, brief glance—professional enough not to comment on my visible inner turmoil.
"Never mind," I said, offering a polite, distant smile. "Let's just focus on preparing for tonight's dinner."
But beneath my calm exterior, I was already plotting ways to "casually" bump into Fin and Zein later without appearing like a child craving a hug.
The instant my eyes opened, the mansion was already a low hum of activity. From my tall, arched window, the movement below was a choreographed ballet of efficiency. Maids glided across the cobblestones, sweeping paths and arranging the perfect cascade of petunias in porcelain urns. I cracked the window, intending only to breathe the cool morning air, but the soft clink of the latch was apparently enough.
The bustling figures below froze. In a wave of starched linen, they performed a single, synchronized deep bow, then dissolved instantly, melting around the corners of the manor to afford me my privacy.
"Good grief," I muttered, pulling the window fully open. "I just wanted some air, not a dramatic exodus."
The golden sunlight poured in, stretching across the polished floorboards and warming the heavy velvet of the drapes. It was a perfect, silent moment—the kind of carefully managed peace that money bought.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
The gentle rap came right on cue. "Good morning, my lady. It's Sylvia. May I enter?"
"Yes," I replied, turning from the window.
Sylvia entered with her customary grace, a vision of calm professionalism. She was dressed in her usual crisp, tailored uniform, her expression a careful balance of respect and efficiency. She placed a steaming, delicate porcelain teacup on my bedside table.
"Good morning," she greeted, a faint, genuine warmth in her tone.
"Good morning," I returned, accepting the tea. The aroma—bergamot and black tea leaves—curled upward like a soft, fragrant spell.
"And how are you feeling today, my lady?"
"I'm well. Thank you for always asking, Sylvia." The tea, as always, was brewed to impossible perfection.
Her demeanor shifted, the warmth giving way to her more familiar, clipped efficiency. She reached into the folder she carried, her movements precise, and offered me a thick, sealed envelope.
"This contains the full personal file on the senator's wife."
My brow lifted. Fast. I took the envelope, the paper crisp and still warm from her hand. The sheer weight of the file confirmed she hadn't wasted a second.
"As expected," I said, a faint, approving smirk touching my lips. "You are as fast as you are thorough."
I broke the seal and began to skim, my eyes catching a detail that made my lips curl into something more amused.
"So… she has twins," I whispered, leaning back against the chair's cushion. "Cristoff and Cristin Flavian. Both eighteen. Just like me."
A quiet giggle escaped. "Well, that is interesting. They are the same age as the 'secret princess.' How wonderfully convenient."
Sylvia tilted her head slightly, a small spark of curiosity in her otherwise calm eyes. "My lady?"
"Nothing that concerns the agenda," I dismissed quickly, tucking the documents back into the envelope and waving a hand. My grin, however, was likely a betrayal. A pair of distractions, perhaps? Or better yet, a pair of weaknesses. The world was full of twins, but these were the Senator's.
She didn't push. Instead, she straightened her posture and resumed her role. "Shall I go over your agenda for today?"
"Yes, please." I crossed my legs and folded my hands neatly in my lap, attempting a composed façade while my mind was already racing with scenarios involving the Flavian twins.
"Today," Sylvia began, "you have a family dinner scheduled for seven this evening. Lord Renzou and Lord Raiden will also be in attendance."
I perked up. "Oh? That sounds… potentially fun." Family dinners were less about bonding and more about tacitly asserting the Elyndralis power structure, but at least I'd see my brothers.
But a more personal thought elbowed its way in. "Do Fin and Zein have any free time before then?" I asked, trying for a tone of mild, passing interest.
Sylvia hesitated, a rare pause in her delivery. "I am not certain, my lady. Lord Renzou has a meeting with the Minister of Trade until late afternoon. Lord Raiden is currently at the Vesperianth Palace with Prince Kaein. It would be best to inquire with them directly."
"Right," I trailed off, maintaining a perfectly neutral expression.
Ugh, I really miss bonding with them. I tightened my grip on the teacup, instantly self-conscious. But if I ask them outright, won't I sound desperate? Like a pathetic, clingy little sister who can't survive without her older brothers' attention?
I sighed inwardly, forcing my face to remain placid. Why must being sentimental feel so utterly cringeworthy? The cold steel of a dagger felt more comfortable than this knot of yearning in my chest.
Sylvia gave me a sharp, brief glance—professional enough not to comment on my visible inner turmoil. Her eyes simply registered the slight downturn of my lips and the rigid hold on the teacup.
"Never mind," I said, offering a polite, distant smile. "Let's just focus on preparing for tonight's dinner."
But beneath my calm exterior, I was already plotting. I wouldn't send a desperate message. No. I would "casually" encounter them. A sudden need for a shared scroll in the library. A strategic appearance near Fin's fencing practice. A precise, controlled collision that looked like fate.
"I will require a new selection of embroidery threads before noon," I announced, rising from the chair. "The color samples I have are woefully inadequate."
Sylvia blinked, clearly thrown by the sudden, frivolous request, but only for a second. "Of course, my lady. I shall summon the messenger at once."
I smiled inwardly. A trip to the embroidery room, which conveniently shared a corridor with Fin's private study, was the perfect opening move. I wouldn't beg for my brothers' time. I would simply engineer it.
- The Weight of the Crown -
"Sylvia, that's all for today. I would like to study for now until evening. Call me when my brothers arrive. Thank you," I said softly.
"You're welcome, my lady. Just call me if you need anything," Sylvia replied with a gentle bow before leaving the room quietly.
The moment the door clicked shut, silence swallowed the bedroom. The only sound was the faint flutter of curtains swaying with the breeze from the open window. I sank into my chair, a book open in front of me, but my thoughts wandered far from the ink on its pages.
What do I really want to become?
I am a Princess now, yes, but that title is merely a placeholder. Everyone speaks of the future, the ultimate destiny: my twenty-third birthday, the day I will be crowned Queen alongside Prince Ashen. I have five years left to be just Dravina. Five years until my life becomes entirely state property, irrevocably bound to a man and a throne.
The role is a complex series of duties, alliances, and sacrifices, pre-written and non-negotiable. But beyond that title… who am I? Who do I want to be?
My gaze shifted to my own reflection in the polished windowpane. The truth is, I don't have many dreams yet. Since I was a child, my family's plans for me have always been louder, heavier, drowning out my own. Duty is a constant storm, leaving little room for a quiet, personal voice.
But if I'm being honest… There's always been one dream quietly living inside me.
I want to be a writer.
An author of stories so powerful that people will still whisper my name even a hundred years after I'm gone.
Not just remembered as a queen, but as a voice that moved hearts. Someone who inspired others. Someone remembered her words, not just her crown.
The irony was not lost on me. I spent my days mastering the art of political silence and deceptive composure, yet all I truly wanted was to command language, to articulate the truths others were afraid to speak. My talent for investigation—for dissecting whispers and finding the secret motives behind a perfect smile—was the same talent a great storyteller required. A writer is a detective of the human soul.
My fingers absentmindedly traced the spine of the book lying on my desk, a historical account of a failed rebellion. Is this my real dream? Or just a fantasy I cling to when the weight of duty feels too heavy? A fragile lifeline tossed to the girl drowning in royal expectations?
The pursuit of justice for The king and the need for vengeance had consumed the last four years. That purpose was a fire, burning away any frivolous desires. Yet, as the hour of my debut approached, the dream of writing felt less like a childish fantasy and more like the only true legacy I could create for myself—a story that was genuinely mine.
A faint, bittersweet smile touched my lips.
I wonder who I'll be in the future. Am I happy? Do I live freely? Will I ever have the courage to write down the truth of this political world, the darkness I see and fight, or will I be forced to bury that voice completely?
The coronation looms, a beautiful, gilded cage waiting to snap shut. Until then, I have to act—to solve the mystery of the king's death, and perhaps, to find a voice that can survive the silence of the throne. For now, the best way to write my own story is to first master the script others have handed me. A writer must understand their world perfectly before they can reshape it. And the world I must dominate starts tonight.
After thinking about all of those, I fell asleep again. And woke up at 4 pm as Sylvia woke me up by knocking on my door.
"My lady! This is Sylvia. May I enter?" she called softly from behind the door.
"Yes, come in," I murmured, my voice heavy with drowsiness. My eyelids still felt like they were made of stone, and my body ached with an exhaustion I couldn't quite explain. It was strange—I hadn't done anything physically tiring, yet it felt as though my very soul had been weighed down overnight.
Sylvia entered with graceful steps, carrying her usual air of calm efficiency. The scent of her light lavender perfume was a gentle counterpoint to the darkness clinging to me. She immediately went to my bedside, her gentle hands fixing my tangled hair while I remained half-slumped against the pillows, still fighting off the remnants of sleep.
"The lords have arrived, my lady," she informed me softly, her tone respectful yet urgent.
I let out a quiet hum, trying to shake off the haze in my head. "Already?" I muttered, forcing myself to sit upright. My body protested the movement, and I rubbed my temples. Why do I feel so drained… like I've been running in a dream I can't remember? I spent the entire afternoon studying, not physically exerting myself. Yet, a deep, pervasive weariness settled in my bones, as though I had battled shadows until dawn.
Sylvia's sharp eyes caught my fatigue, but she didn't comment. Her expression remained politely neutral, though her hands worked with a speed that suggested concern. She smoothed my hair and straightened my robes, preparing me to face my brothers and the other lords waiting beyond the safety of my room.
"Perhaps you simply need the stimulation of company, my lady," Sylvia offered, the phrase itself a polite dismissal of my strange ailment. She helped me slip my feet into simple house slippers, her touch firm and steady.
As the heavy layers of silk and velvet settled around me, my mind began to clear, forcing out the strange lethargy. The internal detective quickly took over. I recalled the file on the Senator's wife, the Flavian twins, and the impending crown in five years. The weariness was a weakness I couldn't afford.