Chapter 1: Here.
Amelia’s POV:
My heels strike marble as I descend the staircase, each step measured, precise. The sound carries through the hall—sharp, unyielding—like a reminder of what is expected of me at all times. Grace. Control. Silence.
My hair trails down my back in a long, black fall, smooth as ink, brushing against my hips when I move. It was once golden. That detail belongs to another lifetime. Now it frames me better this way—darker, heavier, harder to ignore. My skin is pale enough to make courtiers uneasy, a shade too close to porcelain left too long in the cold. Deathly, they whisper when they think I cannot hear.
My eyes are the worst of it. Or the best. Piercing blue, unnaturally bright, glowing faintly even when my magic sleeps. They ruin any illusion of warmth my attire attempts to craft.
Today’s gown is elegant, tailored to perfection, softened deliberately. Midnight fabric, silver-threaded patterns, a neckline meant to suggest innocence rather than threat. Cute, some would say. Regal, others insist.
Both are wrong.
The dress is armor.
And I am very good at wearing it.
I catch my reflection in the tall mirror along the stairs. Pretty, yes—but cold. Unsettling. Like something carved rather than born.
I reach the bottom and turn toward the corridor leading to my study, already anticipating the quiet waiting for me there—
“Your Highness.”
I don’t stop. “If this is about posture, Edmund, I promise I’m standing exactly as intended.”
He falls into step beside me anyway. He always does. Edmund has served my mother longer than I’ve been alive, yet somehow he has survived without becoming like her. Observant without cruelty. Loyal without blindness.
I don’t say it out loud, but I like him. More than I should. Enough that I never use my magic on him—not even to silence him when he’s irritating.
“Nothing so dire,” he says calmly. “Though you are favoring your left heel again.”
“I was stabbed there once,” I reply. “It’s allowed opinions.”
A pause. Then, faint amusement. “Fair enough.”
If anyone else had commented, I would’ve snapped. With Edmund, the annoyance settles instead of spikes. I hate that he knows that.
“My study,” I say sharply as we approach the door, hoping the command will land.
“It will still be there in five minutes.”
I reach for the handle.
“Your mother is hosting a ball.”
My hand freezes.
The air shifts. Subtle. Immediate. The familiar pressure blooms behind my eyes, a low hum crawling beneath my skin as my magic stirs in response to irritation—and something colder.
“A ball,” I echo.
“Yes.”
“For whom?”
His silence stretches just long enough to hurt.
“For you.”
The corridor feels narrower. My fingers tighten around the door handle, and for the briefest moment, my right wrist burns.
Not pain—not really.
Memory.
Rough rope.
Skin pulled too tight.
A voice murmuring hold still like it was kindness.
The sensation fades as quickly as it came, but my pulse does not. I flex my hand once, discreetly, as if shaking off stiffness instead of something far more fragile.
“She didn’t tell me,” I say evenly.
“No,” Edmund agrees. “She did not.”
Of course she didn’t.
I straighten, smoothing my posture, forcing the magic back down where it belongs. The last thing I need is for him to notice the glow in my eyes deepen. Edmund notices everything.
A ball. With other magic-wielding royals. Marriage dressed as diplomacy. Choice framed as duty.
Insult coils hot in my chest.
She still thinks I can’t handle these matters myself. Still believes I need to be managed. Guided. Corrected.
I should confront her.
The thought rises sharp and intoxicating—standing before her, eyes lit, telling her I am not a child to be shaped through pressure and pain. That I survived despite her, not because of her.
My wrist tingles again.
I swallow.
Confrontation is never just words with her. It never has been. There are consequences she excels at delivering quietly, precisely, under the guise of love and preparation.
I hate that part of me still weighs them.
I hate that I still calculate.
“She believes it’s time,” Edmund says gently. “That securing a powerful alliance will—”
“—protect me,” I finish, voice cool as glass. “Or restrain me?”
He doesn’t answer.
That silence hurts more than disagreement. Edmund is careful with me in a way I never asked for—but secretly appreciate.
I look at the study door again. So close. Safety wrapped in books and ink and solitude.
But the palace doesn’t stop moving just because I want it to.
“Your Highness,” Edmund says softly.
I don’t respond.
“Your Highness.”
He snaps his fingers once.
I blink, the pressure easing, the magic settling back into its quiet coil. I hadn’t realized how deeply I’d retreated into myself until he pulled me out.
“Yes?” I say, sharper than intended.
He offers a small, knowing smile—the kind he never shows my mother. “You’ve stopped walking.”
“…I’m aware.”
He inclines his head. “Shall I leave you to your thoughts?”
I adjust my expression into something composed, regal, untouchable. The princess they expect. The one who doesn’t flinch at whispered plans made in her absence.
“No,” I say after a beat. “Tell me everything you know about this ball.”
If my mother insists on playing games—
I’ll just make sure I’m the one holding the rules.
