---
The echoes of the messenger's hurried footsteps faded as the grand hall fell into an uneasy silence. Nobles whispered among themselves, their carefully crafted smiles faltering. For a moment, the polished glamour of the evening cracked, revealing a raw undercurrent of uncertainty.
Anya's hands clenched in her lap. Across the table, Celia and Margaret exchanged murmured words, their faces tight with concern.
"Do you think it's war?" Margaret's voice, though low, carried an edge of alarm.
"Don't be dramatic," Celia snapped, though her composed facade was strained. "Father wouldn't abandon a banquet over rumors."
"Unless they're not rumors," Margaret countered, her brow furrowing. "What if—"
"Enough." Celia's voice was sharper this time, her gaze darting toward the curious eyes of nearby guests. "Whatever it is, we'll deal with it. Like we always do."
Anya bit her lip. The way her sisters spoke—confident, authoritative—only made her feel more out of place. She wanted to ask questions, to demand answers, but she knew better than to voice her thoughts in front of an audience.
Beside her, Leila leaned back in her chair, her eyes scanning the room. "Your sisters make it look so easy, don't they?" she said under her breath.
"Make what look easy?" Anya asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Pretending to know everything," Leila replied. "But I've got news for you—they don't."
Anya opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Celia stood, her golden gown shimmering in the candlelight.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Celia said, her voice cutting through the whispers. "Please continue to enjoy the evening. The royal family thanks you for your patience and understanding."
Her words were polished, perfect, and utterly meaningless. Anya felt a flicker of irritation—Celia always knew how to command a room, even when she didn't have the answers.
As the orchestra resumed its melody and the chatter slowly returned, Anya leaned toward Leila. "We need to find out what's going on."
Leila raised an eyebrow. "And how do you plan to do that?"
"I'll go to Father's study," Anya said, surprising even herself with her boldness. "If something's wrong, that's where he'll be."
Leila smirked. "Now you're starting to think like a princess."
---
Before Anya could slip away, Margaret approached, her blue gown trailing behind her.
"Where are you going?" Margaret asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.
"Nowhere," Anya lied, hoping her face didn't betray her.
Margaret studied her for a moment, then sighed. "Look, I know you're curious. We all are. But it's not our place to interfere."
"Not our place?" Anya echoed, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Aren't we part of this family? Shouldn't we know what's happening?"
Margaret hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to where Celia was speaking with a group of advisors. "Celia will handle it. She always does."
Anya shook her head. "Maybe that's the problem. We're always waiting for Celia to handle everything."
Margaret frowned, but before she could respond, Celia joined them, her expression unreadable.
"What's going on here?" Celia asked, her voice low but firm.
"Anya wants to play detective," Margaret said, crossing her arms.
Celia's gaze pinned Anya in place. "Don't," she said simply. "Father and Mother don't need us meddling right now."
Anya opened her mouth to argue, but Celia's look silenced her.
---
Anya waited until the banquet began to wind down, the nobles too preoccupied with their desserts and gossip to notice her absence. She slipped out of the hall, her heart racing as she navigated the familiar corridors of the palace.
The east wing was quieter, the heavy silence broken only by the faint sound of her footsteps. She reached the door to her father's study and hesitated. What if she was caught?
Pushing the thought aside, Anya pressed her ear to the door. Voices—low and urgent—filtered through the heavy wood.
"She's growing more bold," her father's voice said, sharp with frustration.
"She knows too much," another voice replied—one Anya didn't recognize. "If the truth comes out—"
"It won't," the King interrupted. "Not if we act quickly."
Anya's stomach churned. Who were they talking about?
Before she could make sense of the conversation, the door creaked open, and she stumbled back, her heart pounding.
"Anya?"
She turned to see her mother standing there, her face pale and lined with worry.
"What are you doing here?" the Queen asked, her voice quiet but firm.
Anya struggled for an answer, but the look in her mother's eyes stopped her. It wasn't anger or disappointment—it was fear.
---
She turned to see her mother standing there, her face pale and lined with worry.
"What are you doing here?" the Queen asked, her voice quiet but firm.
Anya struggled for an answer, but the look in her mother's eyes stopped her. It wasn't anger or disappointment—it was fear.
"I could ask you the same," Anya replied softly, her voice trembling despite her attempt at composure. "You've been avoiding me all evening."
The Queen stepped further into the dimly lit hall, closing the door behind her. The faint glow of the chandeliers in the distance cast long shadows across the room, as if echoing the weight of the moment.
"I thought you would have learned by now that curiosity can be dangerous," the Queen said, her words clipped. Her hands were clasped tightly before her, but Anya could see how her fingers trembled ever so slightly.
"Dangerous for whom?" Anya shot back, her courage building. "For me? Or for you?"
The Queen's expression hardened. "Mind your tone, Anya."
"No," Anya said, stepping closer. Her voice steadied, and she could feel the heat rising in her chest. "I've been quiet long enough. Tonight, I saw the way you and Father reacted to that note. And then you left without a word. What are you so afraid of, Mother?"
Queen Eleanor looked away, her jaw tightening. For a long moment, the silence between them was heavy and oppressive. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost a whisper.
"There are things you don't understand, Anya. Things I hoped you would never have to know."
Anya took another step forward, her gaze locked on her mother's. "Then help me understand. Because whatever this is, it's tearing us apart."
The Queen's shoulders slumped slightly, the regal composure she always wore like armor beginning to crack. She gestured to one of the nearby settees, and they both sat, though the distance between them was palpable.
"Do you remember the story I used to tell you when you were a child?" the Queen asked suddenly.
Anya blinked, caught off guard by the question. "The one about the cursed rose?"
Eleanor nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. "It wasn't just a story. It was a warning. The crown—the very one your father wears—is not a simple thing of gold and jewels. It carries... a shadow. A legacy of mistakes, betrayals, and debts that must be paid."
Anya frowned. "Debts? What kind of debts?"
Her mother hesitated, as though weighing how much to say. "Your father made a choice before you were born. A choice that saved this kingdom but bound our family to something far greater than ourselves. That note tonight—it's a reminder. A warning that the past is catching up to us."
Anya's pulse quickened. "What kind of choice? What did Father do?"
Eleanor's voice softened, tinged with sorrow. "It's not my story to tell. But know this—everything we've done has been to protect you. To protect all of you."
Anya clenched her fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. "You keep saying that. Protect me from what? From the truth? From myself? Don't you see? By hiding these things, you're only making it worse."
The Queen's expression faltered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You think you're ready for the truth, but you're not. Not yet."
Anya stood, her voice rising. "Stop treating me like a child! I deserve to know what's going on!"
Eleanor rose as well, her voice sharp now. "And I am telling you that knowing will only bring you pain, Anya! You think the crown is something to admire, something to covet, but it is a burden. One that has cost me more than you will ever understand."
Their voices echoed in the empty corridor, the weight of the argument hanging between them. Anya's heart pounded in her chest as she searched her mother's face for answers, for some crack in the façade that would give her clarity. But the Queen's mask was back in place, her expression unreadable.
"Fine," Anya said finally, her voice trembling with frustration. "If you won't tell me, I'll find out on my own."
The Queen's eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing as Anya turned and stormed out of the room, her gown swirling behind her.
---