A Prayer
The sun rose softly over the golden towers of Elaris Palace, bathing the marble walls in a gentle, sacred light. Servants scurried through the courtyards, their footsteps echoing faintly beneath the sound of trickling fountains. Birds sang in the royal gardens, where flowers bloomed as if competing for the King’s attention. Yet, among all that splendor, one figure moved quietly and unnoticed — the young maid named Mira.
She was unlike the others. While most whispered and hurried, Mira worked in silence, her thoughts lifted toward Heaven. She hummed hymns softly as she tended to the roses, her voice barely above the wind, but pure enough to catch even the ear of the divine.
That morning, she was kneeling by the lilies when she heard footsteps — heavy, deliberate, and unfamiliar. She looked up and froze. Standing at the edge of the garden was King Arion himself, dressed in a deep blue robe lined with gold. His crown gleamed faintly in the sunlight, but his eyes — sharp, searching — looked far heavier than the metal upon his head.
“You may rise,” he said, his tone calm but curious.
Mira stood, brushing soil from her hands. “Your Majesty,” she whispered, bowing slightly.
The King studied her. “What is your name?”
“Mira, Your Majesty.”
He nodded, stepping closer. “I’ve walked through this garden many times, yet I’ve never heard a song like the one you were singing. It sounded… peaceful.”
Mira hesitated, then answered softly, “It’s not a song, my King. It’s a prayer.”
Arion’s brows furrowed slightly. “A prayer?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice gaining quiet confidence. “When I work, I pray. It keeps my heart still in a world that never stops moving.”
The King was silent for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. He had heard the priests speak of peace, but never felt it. He had worn gold and commanded armies, yet something in her simple words unsettled him — in a good way.
“And what,” he finally asked, “do you pray for?”
Mira smiled faintly, looking up toward the sky. “For strength to do my duties well, and for mercy for those who forget that crowns are heavy too.”
Her words pierced something deep in him. He looked at her, not as a servant, but as a mirror — one reflecting what he had lost.
The King turned slightly toward the fountain, speaking almost to himself. “You are bold for a maid.”
“I speak only truth, Your Majesty.”
A pause. The wind stirred the roses. Then, he said quietly, “Perhaps that is what this palace needs.”
For the first time in months, the King smiled — not a political smile, not the kind worn at feasts or public gatherings, but one that felt human. He looked at Mira again before walking away, his cloak brushing the path behind him.
As he disappeared into the distance, Mira knelt once more, whispering her prayer beneath the hum of the morning breeze.
She didn’t know that her quiet devotion had stirred a King’s heart — and that her name would soon be spoken in every corner of the palace.
