The princess’s love

The lavender dinner

The Solstice dinner was not a meal; it was a performance.

In the Kingdom of Aethelgard, the Royal Family dined in the Hall of Mirrors, a room designed to reflect every flicker of a candle and every false smile a hundred times over. For Elara, it was the most exhausting hour of her day. It was the time when she was forced to leave the safety of her dusty North Wing and stand in the blinding light of her family’s perfection.

She stood before her mirror, her hands trembling as she smoothed the skirts of the lavender gown. It was a beautiful color, but on her, it felt like a brand. In Aethelgard, lavender was the color of "The Penitent"—worn by those seeking forgiveness for a crime. By making her wear it, her father was telling the world she was still apologizing for the blood in her veins.

"The corset is too tight," Elara whispered to the empty room.

"It is exactly as tight as the King’s expectations," a low voice replied from the doorway.

Silas Vane stood there, his presence as dark and solid as a shadow. He had been standing guard outside her door for six hours, yet he looked as though he had just stepped off a parade ground. His eyes traveled over her, noting the way the silk clung to her frame. There was no lust in his gaze—only a sharp, calculating observation that made her feel more "seen" than she had in years.

"I am not a soldier, Captain. I don't need to be cinched into a uniform," Elara snapped, her nerves frayed.

"You are going into a battlefield, Highness," Silas said, stepping into the room. He reached out, his gloved fingers grazing the laces at the small of her back. He didn't loosen them; he tightened the top knot with a brutal efficiency. "If you can’t breathe, you can’t speak. And if you can’t speak, you can’t get yourself into trouble."

"My family prefers me breathless," she muttered.

"Then disappoint them," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Walk in there like you own the stones beneath your feet. Even if they are cold."

The walk to the Hall of Mirrors was a gauntlet of silent judgment. As they passed the main gallery, the palace staff flattened themselves against the walls, heads bowed—not in respect, but to avoid the "bad luck" of looking at the Outcast Princess. Silas walked two paces behind her, the steady clack-clack of his boots on the marble providing a rhythm to her racing heart.

The doors to the Hall were thrown open, and the scent of roasted venison and heavy lilies hit her like a physical blow. Her family was already seated.

At the head of the table sat King Alaric, a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite and ice. He didn't look up when she entered. To his right and left sat her sisters—the three "True Graces" of Aethelgard.

First was Princess Beatrice, the eldest. She was the image of royal perfection: golden-haired, blue-eyed, and possessed of a smile that never quite reached her calculating eyes. She was the politician of the family, already being groomed to rule a neighboring territory through marriage. She wore crimson, the color of power, and her neck was draped in rubies that looked like drops of blood.

Next was Princess Genevieve, the "Jewel." She was the most beautiful by traditional standards—pouty lips, a perfect snub nose, and a laugh that sounded like silver bells. But Genevieve was bored, and a bored Genevieve was a cruel one. She spent her days breaking hearts and her nights gossiping about the very people she entertained.

Finally, there was Princess Odette, the youngest of the "legitimate" daughters. She was only nineteen, with a soft, rounded face and a deceptive air of innocence. While the others were overtly cold, Odette used a sugar-coated venom, always couching her insults in "concern" for Elara’s health.

"Ah, the Ghost has joined us," Genevieve remarked, not bothering to lower her voice as Elara took the seat at the very end of the long table. "And she’s wearing lavender. How... appropriate. Though I fear the color washes out your skin, darling. You look positively skeletal."

"Perhaps if she spent more time in the sun and less time hiding in that damp wing, she wouldn't look so much like a corpse," Beatrice added, delicately cutting her meat. She looked past Elara, addressing Silas instead. "Captain Vane, I hope my sister hasn't been too much of a burden? She has a tendency to... wander."

Silas stood behind Elara’s chair, his face a mask of stone. "The Princess has been perfectly compliant, Your Highness."

"Compliant," Odette giggled, leaning forward. Her eyes moved over Elara’s face with a predatory sweetness. "Is that what we’re calling it now? I heard a rumor from the laundry maids that you’ve been sneaking into the library again, Elara. Looking for stories about our mother, perhaps? Or just looking for a way out?"

Elara felt the familiar heat rising in her chest. "The library is public to the family, Odette. Even the members you find inconvenient."

The King’s fork clattered against his porcelain plate. The sound was like a gunshot. The table went silent.

"You will not mention that woman at this table," Alaric said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. He finally turned his eyes to Elara. They were the color of a winter sea, devoid of any fatherly warmth. "You are here to be seen, not heard. Tomorrow, the Ambassador from the Southern Isles arrives. He is looking for a bride to solidify our trade routes. I have shown him portraits of Beatrice and Genevieve."

"And what of me?" Elara asked, her voice trembling.

Genevieve let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "You? The Ambassador wants a Queen, Elara, not a scandal in a corset. You’re lucky Father even lets you sit in the same room as the guests. You’re the 'Secret' of Aethelgard. The one we keep in the attic so the neighbors don't talk."

Beatrice leaned in, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Do you know what they call you in the city, Elara? They call you 'The Bastard of Aethelgard.' They bet on whether you’ll be sent to a convent or simply... disappear one day. If I were you, I’d be grateful for the lavender dress. It’s the only thing keeping you from being invisible."

Elara looked down at her plate. The venison looked like ash. She felt the weight of their combined hatred—a heavy, suffocating blanket that she had worn since she was six years old. She felt Silas’s presence behind her, a steady warmth at her back that was the only thing keeping her from shattering.

"I am not invisible," Elara said, her voice rising in pitch. "And I am not a bastard. If I were, Father would have thrown me out with her."

The King stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. He leaned over the table, his face inches from hers. "I kept you because the law required it. But do not mistake my tolerance for love. You are a reminder of the greatest betrayal this kingdom has ever known. You will attend the gala tomorrow. You will stand in the shadows. And if you speak one word to the Ambassador—one word—I will strip you of your title and send you to the Northern Isles to live in a cell of ice. Am I understood?"

Elara couldn't breathe. The room felt like it was spinning. "Yes, Father."

"Good. Dinner is over," the King announced. He swept out of the room, followed by her sisters, who each took turns casting a pitying, triumphant glance at Elara as they passed.

Odette stopped last, leaning down to whisper in Elara’s ear. "I took that book of poetry you liked from your room today. The one with the dried flowers in it. I burned it. We really can't have such... sentimental trash in the palace."

As the sisters vanished, Elara sat alone at the massive table. The silence was louder than the insults. She waited until she was sure they were gone before she let out a jagged, broken sob.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. It wasn't a soft touch; it was firm and steady. Silas moved around the chair and knelt down so he was at eye level with her.

"They are small people, Elara," he said. It was the first time he had used her name without a title. "Small people with big crowns."

"They took everything," she whispered, her tears falling onto the lavender silk. "They took my mother, they took my life, and now... they’re even taking my books."

Silas reached into the pocket of his uniform. He pulled out a small, charred scrap of paper. "The youngest one—Odette—is a poor arsonist. She threw it in the common hearth. I pulled it out before the flames took the middle."

It was a page from her mother’s book. A poem about a bird that learned to sing in the dark.

Elara took the paper, her fingers brushing his. For a moment, the world stopped. The coldness of the Hall of Mirrors vanished, replaced by the heat of his gaze.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked.

Silas stood up, his expression returning to its stoic mask. "Because I don't like bullies, Highness. And because the King made a mistake."

"What mistake?"

Silas looked toward the door, ensuring they were alone. "He thinks you're the victim. He doesn't realize that a girl who has lost everything has nothing left to fear. And a girl with nothing to fear is the most dangerous person in this palace."

He reached out and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. "Come. You need to sleep. Tomorrow, the Ambassador arrives. And I think it’s time we showed him exactly what the 'Secret' of Aethelgard looks like."

As they walked back toward the North Wing, Elara felt a spark of something she hadn't felt in years. It wasn't hope—not yet. It was spite. Pure, beautiful spite.

But as they reached the entrance to her wing, they found her door standing wide open. Her room had been ransacked. The mattress was torn, the drawers emptied, and most importantly... the loose stone in the bookshelf had been moved.

Elara’s breath hitched. Her secret journals—her "Nightshade" writings—were gone.