The bell rang at dawn, not a melodic chime but a hollow clang that trembled through the marble halls like a warning. Princess Elyon opened her eyes to the colorless ceiling above her bed, the sound of steel boots echoing in the corridor below.
Her chamber was beautiful-too beautiful, in fact. White pillars, gold-embroidered curtains, glass chandeliers hung like frozen tears. The kind of beauty that held no warmth, no life. A prison disguised as perfection.
The maidens entered in silence, their faces pale in the early light. They moved like ghosts, trained to speak only when spoken to.
"Good morning, Your Highness," murmured Amara, the youngest of them, as she drew the curtains open. Pale sunlight poured in, washing the room in cold brightness.
Elyon sat up slowly, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders. "Is Father awake yet?" she asked.
"He rose before the bells, Princess," said Amara. "He is already in the throne room. The council convenes soon."
"Of course he is," Elyon muttered. Her voice carried no surprise. King Roland II never slept past dawn. Discipline, he often said, was the blood that fed the veins of order.
Elyon's morning routine followed the same precise rhythm as the bells outside: wash, dress, stand still. The maidens laced her gown so tightly she could barely breathe. Layers of ivory silk, stitched with gold thread, cascaded around her like the petals of a strangled flower.
As Amara fastened the final clasp at her neck, the princess caught sight of herself in the mirror. Pale. Composed. Distant. The perfect daughter of the perfect king.
And yet beneath the still surface, something flickered-small and unseen. The faintest shimmer of light danced in her reflection, like a ripple of heat above stone.
Elyon blinked. The shimmer vanished.
"Did you see that?" she whispered.
Amara looked up, startled. "See what, Princess?"
Elyon hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing. The light, perhaps."
But she knew it wasn't just light. It was the same pulse she'd felt since she was a child, the same tremor that hummed beneath her skin whenever she was frightened or angry. A current. A whisper. Something alive.
A knock sounded at the door-two quick raps. The royal guard's voice followed, clipped and stern.
"Her Highness is expected in the throne hall within the hour."
"Tell my father I will be there," she replied, keeping her tone level.
When the door shut, Elyon turned back to the window. Below, the courtyards were already crawling with soldiers in black armor. The morning drills had begun: rows of men moving in perfect synchrony, blades flashing under the weak sun. The sight made her chest tighten.
Magic was forbidden in Nitchgard, yet her father worshiped the sword like it was a holy relic. Every day he forged his kingdom into steel, hammering it into obedience.
And she-his only daughter-was a spark waiting to ignite it all.
Her fingers drifted to the edge of her vanity table. The silver comb resting there began to tremble faintly, rattling against the polished wood.
Elyon drew her hand back at once, her heart hammering. She looked toward Amara, who was folding linens by the bedside and had noticed nothing.
"Your breakfast, Princess?" Amara asked softly.
"No... not today," Elyon murmured. She rose, steadying her voice. "I think I've lost my appetite."
Outside, the bells rang again-three times this time. The signal for court to begin.
Elyon smoothed her gown, glanced one last time at her reflection, and whispered under her breath, "Please... stay quiet today."
The air around her stilled.
She opened the door and stepped into the corridor where the sound of steel waited.
The corridor outside was long and narrow, flanked by towering portraits of Nitchgard's past rulers. Every face wore the same expression - the grim authority of men who had never learned to bend. As Elyon walked between them, the echo of her slippers mingled with the rhythmic march of the guards escorting her.
Two of them led the way, two followed. Always the same formation, as if the king feared his daughter might vanish into thin air if left unwatched.
When they reached the end of the corridor, the heavy doors of the throne hall swung open with a groan. The scent of incense and iron flooded out.
The hall was vast - stone columns like frozen sentinels, banners of black and crimson hanging from the rafters, and at the far end, upon a raised dais, sat King Roland II. His crown was a circlet of dark metal, sharp-edged like a weapon. His eyes, cold and clear as polished ice, locked onto his daughter the moment she entered.
"Elyon," he said, his voice filling the chamber without effort. "You are late."
She lowered her head slightly. "Forgive me, Father. The bells rang earlier than-"
"The bells ring at the same hour every morning," he cut in. "Punctuality is not a courtesy, it is discipline."
"Yes, Father."
Roland's gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer before turning toward the council table to his right, where ministers and generals stood in strict rows. Elyon moved quietly to her usual seat beside her elder brothers - Prince Edric, stoic and battle-hardened, and Prince Lorian, who wore a smirk that never quite reached his eyes.
"Your presence is fortunate," Lorian murmured without looking at her. "Father is about to make an example of someone."
Elyon frowned. "An example?"
Before he could answer, the heavy side doors opened and a man was dragged in by two soldiers. His clothes were tattered, his face bruised. He looked more frightened than defiant.
The king rose. "You are accused," he declared, "of practicing witchcraft - of summoning unnatural fires in the market square last night. Do you deny it?"
The man trembled. "I- Your Majesty, I was only trying to light a lantern. The wind- the flame- it burned strange, that is all! I swear, I have no magic!"
"Magic?" Roland's tone was venomous. "There is no such thing as harmless magic."
Elyon flinched.
The man fell to his knees. "Please, Your Majesty, I have a wife, a child-"
"Silence!" The king's command cracked like thunder. "Your words will not cleanse you. The law is clear: those who invoke forbidden forces are enemies of the realm."
A murmur rippled through the court - not of dissent, but of fear. No one dared meet Elyon's eyes, though she could feel their silent judgment: the king's daughter, the symbol of purity, seated beside the cruelty that kept them alive.
She wanted to speak. The urge burned in her throat like swallowed fire. He's just a man. He's terrified.
But when she looked at her father - at the immovable authority in his posture, the calm conviction in his voice - her courage withered.
"Father..." she whispered, barely audible.
He didn't hear. Or perhaps he chose not to.
"Take him to the pyre," Roland ordered. "Let his screams remind others that chaos has no place in Nitchgard."
The guards obeyed immediately. The man's pleas turned to sobs as they dragged him away. The great doors closed behind him with a hollow echo.
Elyon's hands trembled under the table. She pressed them together tightly to hide it.
Her father resumed his seat, as if nothing had happened. "Now," he said, turning to his advisors, "about the border negotiations with Ludia-"
Elyon stared at him, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears. The smell of incense felt suffocating now. Every breath tasted of smoke and ash.
Lorian leaned toward her, his voice barely above a whisper. "You should learn not to look so pale, sister. Father doesn't tolerate softness."
She didn't reply. Her eyes stayed fixed on the doors where the accused man had disappeared.
A flicker of light trembled at her fingertips beneath the table - a faint shimmer, like candlelight caught in glass. She clenched her hand into a fist until it vanished.
When the meeting ended, she rose with practiced grace, bowed, and followed the guards out, her face serene though her mind was chaos.
He fears magic because he cannot control it, she thought bitterly. And yet... so do I.