The Queen’s Lullaby
680 Words
The palace archives were colder than the stone walls suggested.
Elara sat alone at a long oak table beneath a single lantern flame, stacks of fragile documents surrounding her like silent witnesses. A royal archivist stood several paces away, pretending not to watch too closely.
She had found the ledger with her birth date.
Now she searched for proof.
Hours passed. Ink-stained fingers turned page after page—records of trade, decrees, ceremonies. Then, tucked between sealed correspondence, she found something different.
A nursery inventory log.
Attached to it was a faded scrap of parchment—creased, as if once folded small enough to hide in a sleeve.
Her breath caught.
It was not an official document.
It was handwritten.
Soft. Flowing. Personal.
“My dearest Elara,” it began. “If you ever read this, then fate has done what I prayed it would…”
The lantern flame flickered.
It was signed with the royal seal of the late queen.
Elara’s mother.
The letter spoke of unrest in the court. Of whispers of betrayal. Of a plan to send the infant princess away if danger came too close.
“You were never meant to be raised by marble and servants,” the letter read. “If the crown costs you your freedom or your kindness, then it is too heavy to wear.”
A tear slipped down Elara’s cheek before she realized she was crying.
The queen had not written of power.
She had written of protection.
Of love.
Behind her, a floorboard creaked.
Elara quickly folded the letter and slid it inside her sleeve just as Professor Rowen emerged from the shadows.
“You found something,” he said quietly.
She met his eyes.
“She knew,” Elara whispered. “My mother knew.”
Rowen’s expression softened. “Then the rumors were true. The queen suspected the coup before it happened.”
“Who led it?” Elara asked.
Rowen hesitated.
“The Regent was not king then,” he said carefully. “He was chief advisor to your father. When the attack occurred, he claimed he fought to protect the throne.”
“And no one questioned how he survived when my parents did not?”
“Many did,” Rowen replied. “Few lived long enough to press the matter.”
The weight of it settled heavily between them.
Above, in his private chambers, the Regent stared at a portrait long kept hidden behind velvet drapes—the late queen holding her infant daughter.
The resemblance was no longer deniable.
“Your Majesty,” his advisor said from the doorway, “the nobles are whispering. Word of the girl spreads quickly.”
The Regent’s voice was low and controlled.
“Then we will redirect their attention.”
“How?”
He turned slowly.
“Tomorrow, the Academy will host a public exhibition. Our ‘gifted village scholar’ will present her brilliance before the court.”
The advisor frowned. “And if she wins their favor?”
The Regent’s eyes darkened.
“She will not.”
Back in the archives, Elara carefully tucked the queen’s letter inside her bodice.
“If I reveal this now,” she said, “it becomes politics.”
Rowen nodded.
“And if I wait?”
“It becomes strategy.”
Elara stood, resolve hardening within her.
“I don’t want a throne,” she said quietly. “But I will not allow a lie to rule in my name.”
For the first time, she felt not like a village girl standing in a palace—
—but like a princess choosing her ground.
As she climbed the staircase from the archives, the palace bells began to toll.
An announcement echoed through the halls:
“Tomorrow at midday, by decree of the Regent, a public demonstration of scholarly excellence shall be held in the Grand Court.”
Elara paused at the top of the stairs.
A demonstration.
No.
A test.
And she knew instinctively—
This one would not be about machines.
It would be about survival.
To be continued…
- Writer
