Her gown whispered around her ankles, layers of silk and satin in shades of royal blue that caught the light like water. Gold embroidery itched along her sleeves. Her jewelry clinked with every step, tiny reminders that even her beauty had weight. And the shoes, those cursed heels, pinched with every movement, each step a lesson in balance and suffering. Whoever created the blasted shoes hated women and believed the world needed more tripping hazards.
Her maid and best friend, Lucy, prattled beside her, cheerful and relentless, like someone who refused to fade into the background no matter how often the palace tried to make her.
Lucy talked like she always did—fast, bright, unfiltered—because silence in the palace had teeth. If she stopped filling the air, she disappeared. So she stayed loud.
Her ponytail swung like a pendulum, keeping time with her quick, light steps, the complete opposite of Esther’s dragging gait. Esther wished she could borrow a sprinkle of her energy.
“Pretend you’re a statue,” Lucy said, nudging Esther’s shoulders straighter. “But with more attitude.”
Esther groaned. “Statues don’t have to smile through magic lessons or wear corsets that make breathing optional.”
She glared at Lucy’s small waist, which held nothing more than an apron tied around it: no corset crushing her organs, just comfortable clothes with pockets. The scent of cinnamon still lingered faintly on Lucy’s sleeves. Warm, sweet, and cruelly tempting.
The guards stood rigid as Esther passed, their armor polished to a mirror shine. They didn’t smile at her anymore. No one inthe palace really did. Ever since rumors of border skirmishes began creeping into council meetings, the entire castle had tightened like a clenched jaw. Servants walked more quietly. Ministers whispered behind stacks of maps. Even the air felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were bracing for bad news.
Valedara demanded perfection from its royals, composure, control, and elegance. A flawless façade for a kingdom beginning to fracture at the edges. Sometimes Esther wondered if the palace was so pristine because everyone inside was afraid to leave a trace, fearful that any imperfection might crack the illusion of stability.
Her eyes drifted back to the nearest portrait, the one she always lingered on without meaning to.
Her mother.
Queen Estella’s likeness glowed softly beneath the chandeliers, painted in warm golds and rose hues. People still spoke of her as if she had been carved from sunlight, radiant, beloved, the kind of queen who could warm even the coldest marble hall. Esther tried to remember her voice, her face, anything real… but all she ever grasped were feelings. Warmth. Safety. A sense of being held.
Some servants still left white blossoms beneath her mother’s portrait. Quiet offerings. Unspoken grief. Queen Estella had been the kind of ruler people told stories about long after the storytellers themselves had died, graceful, empathetic, powerful without ever being cruel. The kingdom flourished under her reign. People said gardens bloomed brighter when she walked through them, that children stopped crying when she bent down to their height.
Esther had no memories sharp enough to confirm any of it.
Just warmth.
And the soft shape of a smile she wasn’t sure she hadn’t invented.
The older nobles still compared Esther to her mother, though never in ways meant to comfort.
“Estella had perfect posture.”
“Estella mastered fire theory by age fourteen.”
“Estella would never set a tutor on fire, dear.”
Esther desperately wanted to resemble her mother, yet every time her magic flared uncontrollably, or panic choked her, she felt further from that ideal, as if she were a rough sketch of a masterpiece she could never replicate.
Sometimes she thought the palace missed her mother more than it lovedher.
“Posture,” Lucy said, tapping her elbow. “Shoulders back. Chin up. Look expensive.” She mimicked the Baroness, throwing her shoulders back, hands on her hips, nose turned up. “You'll be in for one hell of a lecture if Baroness Levon sees you.”
“She's already here?” Esther groaned. She looked out the window at the pink sky. The sun had barely risen, and her etiquette lesson wasn’t until half past noon.
“For a while now. I had the joy of serving her tea in the guest lounge.”
“Why is she so early?” Esther exhaled, already anticipating Lucy’s response. She was surprised the Baroness hadn’t insisted on having a room in the palace, there was plenty to spare after her father cut the number of servants.
“Because she’s a cuckoo bird. Your lessons should’ve ended years ago, but she’s clinging to the hope that your father will notice her one day as long as she sticks around. You’re just a victim of her cause.” Lucy sighed dramatically.
Esther wasn’t sold on Lucy’s theory about the Baroness. She had worked with Esther since she could barely walk and was said to be her mother’s close friend. Yes, Esther was twenty-one and should have finished her lessons years ago. And the Baroness was at the castle every day, all day. But she never went out of herway to be in the king’s presence. It was all very suspicious. Not cuckoo-bird suspicious, just weirdly suspicious.
They stopped at the door to the practice chamber. The wooden surface was carved with glowing runes, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. They had been put there the first time Esther set a tutor on fire. The tutor quit the same day they started. It was hard to get a teacher after that.
Lucy handed her a biscuit wrapped in cloth, its buttery scent instantly grounding her. “Here, I snatched this from the kitchen. Sugar helps your spells behave.”
