Crown of Thorns

Princess Alia’s POV “No. Don’t you dare!” My father’s voice echoed through the heavy walls of his chambers, rough and broken, followed by a deep, painful cough that tore through his chest. I stood just outside the door, frozen in one place, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my gown. I had been on my way to check on him before the midday meal, but his words stopped me. “This news must not leave the walls of this chamber.” My heart skipped. News? I leaned closer without meaning to, my breath grew shallow. I knew it was wrong to listen, yet my feet refused to move. Ever since Mother’s death, fear had lived quietly in my chest, growing stronger each day. Fear of loss. Fear of silence. Fear of hearing something I was not ready to hear. I heard the calm but weary voice of the royal physician, Harwin. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. Then he paused, as if the words weighed too much. “But I must advise you to choose a successor now… just in case. Anything can happen.” My hands began to shake. Successor? A sharp sound followed, as if my father had tried to sit up too quickly. I imagined him clutching his chest the way I had seen him do before, when he thought no one was watching. I had noticed the signs. The tired eyes. The slower steps. The coughs he tried to hide behind authority and silence. But I had forced myself to believe it was grief. Only grief. Grief of his wife, the late Queen Masha. “I had hidden this illness for far too long.” His words pierced me. Illness. I pressed my hand over my mouth, my chest tightening as memories of Mother’s final days rushed back to me. The sleepless nights. The quiet crying. The way the palace had slowly filled with sorrow. “Is it that bad?” my father asked weakly. There was silence. I hated that silence more than anything. “Your expression says it all, Your Majesty.” My legs felt weak. I stepped back before I could be noticed, my heart pounding so loudly I feared the guards might hear it. I moved down the corridor slowly, each step heavy. The palace felt too large to be too quiet. The walls that once made me feel safe now seemed to close in on me. Who would be the successor? Harwin’s words echoed in my mind like a cruel question meant for me. I did not know how long I walked before the High Steward’s voice reached me from behind my father’s chamber door. “Your Majesty… the royal midday meal is ready. The royal family awaits you in the dining hall.” “I shall be there shortly.” I straightened at once, wiping my face. I could not let anyone see the fear written on me. Not now. Not ever. Soon, my father emerged into the corridor. He looked every bit like the king, tall, proud, commanding, but I saw what others did not. His steps were slower. His shoulders were stiff, as if carrying an invisible weight. The guards bowed. He acknowledged them with a wave. I watched him carefully as we made our way to the dining hall. His breathing seemed strained, though his face remained calm. I wanted to run to him, to hold his arm, to ask him if he was truly alright. But I didn’t. I couldn't. Because he was the king. And I was his daughter. Stand like a king. Walk like a king. Be strong. Those words seemed automatic. But the truth was that every strong king has a weakness, and I could see my fatger’s very vividly. The tall doors of the dining hall opened, and the noise inside faded into silence. We all took our seats around the long dining table. Aunt Amara sat beside me, calm and steady as always. Across from us sat my grandmother, Queen Mother Jessa, composed and unreadable. Uncle Darius looked impatient, already glancing at the covered dishes. My eyes drifted to the empty chair beside Father. Mother’s chair. No one ever dared to sit there. It felt wrong to look at it, yet impossible not to. My chest tightened, and I lowered my gaze before the ache could spill into my expression. Father sat down slowly, hiding his shaking hands beneath his sleeves. “Let us begin,” he said. Servants stepped forward with silver platters, their heads bowed. I barely noticed the food. My attention remained on Father, on the way his eyes lingered on me, like my heir. The word struck me like thunder. I shifted uncomfortably. “Father?” I asked softly. “Is something the matter?” “Mmm? No,” he said, forcing a small smile. “I was just thinking of your mother.” The world seemed to pause. I lowered my gaze at once, grief overwhelmed me without permission. No matter how much time passed, the pain never truly faded. That night. Mother’s final night, had changed everything. “I see,” I murmured. Aunt Amara placed her hand on my shoulder, warm and reassuring. “It’s alright,” she said gently. “We all loved and will always love her.” I responded with a warm faint smile, that was obviously fake. She had been my strength since Mother’s death. My quiet support when the palace felt too cold. “Let us respect the table, shall we?” Queen Mother Jessa said firmly. “Mother…” Father began. She silenced him with a wave of her hand. “Rules are rules, Your Majesty. We cannot let emotion govern us every time we dine.” “Yes, Queen Mother,” we all replied. “Phew. I can finally eat after waiting so long,” Uncle Darius muttered. I did not look at him. My eyes returned to Father instead. Something in his expression had changed. He looked at me not just as his daughter, but as something more. Something heavier. “Alia,” he called. Every head turned toward me. “Yes, Your Majesty?” I replied, bowing my head. “When you are free, come to my chambers.” My heart skipped. “Yes, Father,” I said quietly. And deep inside me, fear whispered a truth I was not ready to face. Everything was about to change.