Hope
The morning light filters through the lace curtains, painting the marble floor in pale gold. The palace always feels too bright in the mornings—too polished, too perfect.
Even the silence seems rehearsed, like everything here is waiting for someone to perform the role they’ve been assigned.
I take another bite of my toast, though the jam tastes like nothing. The servants move quietly around me, collecting dishes and refilling tea, and I can feel the weight of eyes that never stop watching.
Lina is folding the linens at the foot of my bed, her motions neat and efficient. She’s young—maybe a few years older than me—and her brown hair is pulled into a tight braid that sways against her back when she moves.
She’s always polite, soft-spoken, careful. Too careful. I remember the for
