The Queen of Sylvenia

My name is Princess Freya, heir to the throne of Sylvenia. This story begins not with me, but with my father—the man who was never supposed to be king. He started as a royal guard. He wasn’t born into nobility. He didn’t come from a powerful family. He was just a soldier—loyal, disciplined, quiet. But everything changed when he met my mother, the crown princess. Somehow, between palace corridors and royal ceremonies, they fell in love. The court hated it. They said my father was unworthy, a disgrace to the royal bloodline. But my mother didn’t care. She chose him, not because of his name, but because of the kind of man he was. Strong. Honest. Brave. Their love didn’t follow the rules, but it was real. When war broke out across the borders, it wasn’t the noble lords who protected Sylvenia—it was my father. He led the soldiers. He united the people. He made decisions that saved the kingdom. And when the war was over, the people wanted him as king. He didn’t inherit the throne—he earned it. My mother died giving birth to me. I never got to know her, but I’ve seen her face in portraits. Everyone says I look like her. I grew up hearing stories about her kindness, her strength, and the way she changed the kingdom just by standing her ground. After she died, my grandmother—the former queen—took care of me. She never liked my father. In fact, she blamed him for everything. Still, she raised me with discipline and care, not out of love for me, but because I was the only piece of her daughter left. My father was the one who truly raised me. He taught me how to lead, how to fight, how to think before I speak. He was calm, but never weak. He wanted me to be prepared—for anything. And then, one day, everything fell apart. It happened during a hunting trip. Nothing unusual. Just a quiet morning in the woods. My father drank from a flask of water. No one thought much of it at first. But by nightfall, he was sick. By morning, he was gone. They said the whole kingdom mourned, but all I saw were eyes. Hundreds of them. Watching. Pretending to grieve. Some red-rimmed, some dry. Some cold and unreadable. I stood at the edge of the palace courtyard, dressed in black, the sun dim behind a veil of gray clouds. The banners of Sylvenia hung still, not a breeze to move them. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. My father lay in the casket of ashwood and silver. A king not born of royal blood, but made one by strength, wisdom, and a heart that never wavered. He didn’t belong to the nobility. He belonged to the people. And now he was gone. The royal council had been speaking in circles for hours. Whispers of ceremony, succession, and delicate matters none of them dared say aloud. They bowed their heads for him in public. But in private? I had lived long enough in this palace to know how far their smiles could stretch over sharpened teeth. My grandmother—the Queen Mother—broke from the crowd and came toward me. Her gown flowed like mourning smoke, her silver hair pinned with jet-stone combs. She opened her arms and embraced me. Gently. Carefully. Like I was a fragile thing she didn’t quite know how to hold. “My sweet girl,” she whispered. “You don’t have to stand alone.” I didn’t answer her. My eyes were searching the crowd—line by line, face by face. Looking. Waiting. Judging. Somewhere in that sea of veils and noble sigils, someone knew what happened to him. Someone had done this. They all knew my father was never meant to wear the crown. He had been a royal guard, a common man who dared to love a princess. A man who proved them all wrong by ruling better than any of them ever could. That made him dangerous. That made him a target. I knew they didn’t like him. They barely tolerated him. But to plan his death? To actually poison him? The thought chilled me. I tried to clear it, but it kept returning like a wound that wouldn't close. My gaze fell on Uncle Detrio—my mother’s cousin. He stood beside his new wife, head bowed, hands clasped in silent mourning. He and my father had grown up together. Played in the palace gardens. Snuck past guards to chase frogs in the orchard. I remember the way he used to laugh when telling me stories about their childhood. He loved my father. I would not believe he was capable of this. And the Queen Mother… she never approved of my father. She had been vocal about it, once. But even with her cold pride, I know she loved me. I could see it in the way she looked at me now—soft, pained. That wasn’t the look of a woman who had orchestrated a murder. It was the look of a grandmother trying not to lose the only family she had left. No… I didn’t want to believe she could do it either. But I couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. Trust was a fragile thing here, a glass kept too close to the edge. And as I stood over my father’s coffin, heart heavy and throat burning, I made myself a promise: I would find the one who did this. Even if I had to question every smiling face I’ve ever known. Even if the answer shattered everything I believed. Because my father was more than a king. He was my hero. And I would not let his death become another silent secret buried beneath palace stone.