At the head of the group was a woman whose mere presence sucked the warmth from the air. She moved with a slow, deliberate grace, her every step measured and calculated, as if the palace itself bent to her will. She wore a long gown of deep crimson, the color so dark it was nearly black in the dim light, shimmering with an unsettling brilliance as it caught the light. The gown was adorned with intricate golden embroidery, but there was something harsh about the patterns, as though the vines and thorns wrapped around her hem were designed to entrap and ensnare. Every inch of her attire exuded power—dark, commanding power—but not the kind that comforted. It was the kind that made you want to look away, yet held you captive, frozen in place.
Her face, partially veiled, hinted at sharp features, though what struck me most were her eyes. Cold. Calculating. They seemed to pierce through anyone who dared glance in her direction, yet they were devoid of any warmth or compassion. It was clear, without a word, that she was not a figure to be admired—she was a figure to be feared.
Behind her, several attendants followed, moving in practiced formation. Their faces were set in stone-like masks of obedience, their heads bowed deeply, eyes never lifting from the floor. They dressed in muted tones, their robes devoid of the grandeur she wore, yet their presence was more than that of mere servants. They moved with purpose, almost as if shielding themselves from the figure they followed, as though proximity to her was both an honor and a curse.
Even without being told, we knew—this was no ordinary figure. There was a suffocating weight that filled the corridor, one that made the air feel thick, as if simply being in her presence was dangerous. The aura she carried was one of dominance, not respect. Fear rippled through the group, an unspoken understanding passing between us that we were in the presence of something far greater and far darker than we had anticipated.
We had been warned, of course, to show deference to those of higher rank. But this was different. This wasn't about respect or status—this was about survival. The silence that blanketed the room wasn't born out of reverence, but out of fear. Raw, palpable fear.
Even the Court Mistress, who had commanded us with such quiet authority mere moments ago, stood frozen. Her usually calm demeanor had shifted into something more rigid, as though even she, with all her years of service and experience, was not immune to the terror that accompanied the woman passing through the corridor. Her back straightened, her lips pressed into a tight line, and her eyes fixed firmly forward, careful not to make any unnecessary movement.
I felt the other stewards around me tense, some instinctively bowing their heads even lower, their bodies stiff with fear. No one dared to breathe too loudly or shuffle their feet, lest they draw the attention of the figure who now glided past us like a shadow.
My heart pounded in my chest, each beat reminding me that I should look away, that I should lower my gaze like everyone else. But I couldn't. Curiosity, mixed with a dread I couldn't shake, held me captive. I chanced a glance at her once more, my eyes drawn to the haunting way she moved—like a ghost drifting through the world, untethered and unreachable, yet very much in control of everything around her.
She didn't acknowledge any of us at first. It was as if we didn't even exist in her world. But that made it all the more terrifying. She could crush us without a second thought, and we all knew it. She was the kind of figure who held life and death in the palm of her hand—and I had no doubt she enjoyed playing with both.
Suddenly, she paused, turning slightly toward the Court Mistress. The motion was subtle, but the tension in the air heightened, sharp as a blade.
"These are the new stewards?" Her voice was smooth but carried a cold edge, a quiet, dangerous calm beneath her words.
The Court Mistress stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Yes, my queen," she responded with a tone of deep respect, though I noticed the slightest quiver in her voice.
*Queen.*
The word echoed in my mind, solidifying the dread that had gripped me since the moment she entered the corridor. This was no ordinary member of the palace court—this was the queen herself. The one rumored to have a hand in the darkness that was slowly consuming the kingdom.
The queen's gaze swept over us like a hunter examining its prey. Her eyes lingered on each of us in turn, as if she were searching for something, some flaw or weakness. I kept my head low, my heart thudding so loudly I was sure she could hear it.
Please, don't ask me anything, I silently prayed. *Don't notice me.*
But my silent prayer wasn't enough. The queen's gaze landed on me, and I felt the weight of it like a physical force pressing down on my chest. I held my breath, terrified that if I moved, she would see through the facade I had so carefully crafted.
"You," she said, her voice like silk over steel. "What is your name?"
My mind raced. *What should I say? What name should I use?* I felt trapped, my heart hammering in my chest as if it would burst out at any moment. I knew I had to tread carefully. One wrong word and everything I had been working toward could unravel. My identity, my purpose—everything was at risk.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to answer, keeping my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my throat. "My name is Mara, Your Majesty."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, as though she were probing for something deeper, something hidden beneath the surface. My skin prickled under her gaze, and I fought the urge to flinch. The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, and I could feel the tension radiating off the others as they waited for her next words.
Before she could speak again, there was a slight disturbance behind her—one of the attendants hurried forward, whispering something urgent into her ear. Whatever it was, it seemed to distract her enough to shift her attention away from me. The pressure in my chest eased, but only slightly.
The queen turned her back on us, her attention now fully focused on the message she had just received. Without another word, she gestured to her attendants, and they quickly moved to follow her, their footsteps barely making a sound as they disappeared down the corridor.
It wasn't until she was completely out of sight that I allowed myself to exhale. The knot of tension that had coiled in my stomach slowly unwound, though my heart was still racing.
The relief that washed over me was so intense that I almost felt lightheaded. I had been lucky—too lucky. If that interruption hadn't come when it did, who knows what else the queen would have asked? And what would I have said then? My entire body was shaking with the aftereffects of fear, and I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead.
The court mistress waited a few moments after the queen's departure before finally speaking again. Her voice was steady, but there was a hint of relief in her tone as well. "Now that the queen has left us, we will proceed. Go to your rooms and change into your uniforms. Be ready for your duties. We will begin shortly."
None of us needed to be told twice. The moment we were dismissed, we moved quickly down the hallway toward the stewards' quarters. The tension hadn't completely lifted—everyone was still too shaken by the queen's sudden appearance—but there was a collective sigh of relief now that she was gone.
As we walked, I couldn't help but replay the entire encounter in my mind. It was only my first day in the palace—*and still only morning*—and already I had drawn too much attention. My heart still pounded as I considered how close I had come to disaster. I let out a silent scream in my head, overwhelmed by how much had already happened.
I couldn't afford any more close calls. Not if I wanted to survive here.