The morning sun had not yet climbed over the palace walls when Christin slipped into the gardens. Mist clung to the air like a sigh that refused to fade, and the soft hum of waking birds filled the dawn. The palace behind her was still asleep — still cruelly silent — and she wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.
Here, among the flowers, she could pretend she was free.
Her bare fingers brushed over the damp petals of white lilies, her mother's favorite. Dewdrops clung to them like pearls, trembling in the breeze.
She knelt near a patch of violets that had begun to wilt, their leaves curling toward the earth.
"Oh, you poor things," she whispered, her voice low and tender. "You're not meant for this soil, are you?"
Her heart ached as if she were speaking to herself.
When she reached out, warmth stirred beneath her skin — subtle at first, then stronger, pulsing like a heartbeat that wasn't her own. The air shimmered faintly around her hands. Light, soft and golden, flickered between her fingers.
The violets lifted their heads, petals glowing as new color rushed into them.
Christin gasped softly and drew back, her palms trembling. For a long moment, she could only stare — the flowers stood upright again, fresh and alive.
Not again, she thought, her breath shallow. Not where someone might see.
She looked over her shoulder, half-expecting to find a servant watching from the archway. The garden was empty. Still, her pulse raced.
She pressed her hands together, willing the warmth away.
It was the same feeling she'd had years ago, when she'd healed a bird's broken wing in the stables. She had told no one then, and she would tell no one now.
"Magic," she whispered to the flowers, bitterness soft in her tone. "They'd burn me for less."
A bell tolled from the highest tower, and the spell of solitude broke. Dawn had come — and with it, the day she dreaded most.
Her father's birthday.
By the time she entered the palace, the halls were already alive with movement. Servants hurried past her with trays of silver, candles, and velvet banners. The scent of polish and wax filled the air.
Christin moved quietly, her blue gown simple against the swirl of crimson uniforms and gilded dresses. The maids curtsied as she passed — not out of respect, but out of habit. When she turned her back, their voices dropped to whispers.
"Did you see her eyes? One green, one brown."
"She looks like that maid, the one who—"
"Shh! You'll get us whipped."
Christin kept walking, her chin lifted, though the sting of their words followed her like shadows. The king's mistake. She had heard it so many times the phrase had lost its sharpness, but never its weight.
"Christin!"
Her name rang out, bright and commanding, slicing through the murmur of the hall.
Isabella descended the grand staircase in a gown of blush silk and pearls, her golden hair glinting in the sunlight. Her smile was sweet and sharp all at once. Behind her trailed two ladies-in-waiting, whispering flattery like perfume.
"You've dirt on your skirt," Isabella said, wrinkling her nose. "Were you crawling through the gardens again?"
"I find the gardens… peaceful," Christin said, brushing the dust away. "Unlike most of the palace."
Her half-sister laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Well, Father's birthday isn't a time for dirt or peace. Try not to embarrass yourself today."
"I'll try," Christin replied evenly. "Though I seem to do that simply by existing."
Isabella's smile faltered for a moment, and then she swept past her, chin high. "You'd do well to remember your place, sister."
Christin's fingers tightened around the hem of her gown. Sister. Isabella used the word as though it were an insult.
When she looked up again, her gaze caught on the great portrait above the stairway — her mother's.
Lady Alina. The maid who had captured a king's heart but never his crown.
Her mother's painted eyes — one emerald, one brown — seemed to watch her even now, soft and sorrowful. Christin touched her own mismatched eyes, whispering, "You'd tell me to be kind, wouldn't you? Even to them."
The silence gave no answer.
By midday, the palace glittered with preparation. Everywhere she went, gold and silk and perfume surrounded her, but none of it felt real.
In the ballroom, sunlight streamed through tall windows and spilled across white marble. Servants moved like a practiced dance, arranging flowers and candles. Christin joined them without protest, tucking roses into crystal vases, her mind far from the celebration.
The scent of the blooms filled the air — too sweet, too heavy. She preferred the wildflowers outside, the ones that grew without permission.
Her thoughts turned to the small satchel hidden beneath her bed: a worn map, a few coins, her mother's locket.
Tonight, when the last candle burned low, she would be gone.
"Princess Christin?" a voice interrupted. The King's steward, old and stiff, bowed slightly. "His Majesty requests your presence in his study."
Her heart quickened. The King rarely summoned her — and when he did, it was always behind closed doors.
King Fredrick Sinclair sat beside the tall window, the afternoon light catching the silver in his hair. A decanter of wine rested untouched on the table. He looked older than she remembered — not just in years, but in spirit.
"You wanted to see me, Father?" she asked softly.
He nodded, his eyes tired but kind. "You look more like your mother every year."
Christin lowered her gaze. "You shouldn't say that where the Queen might hear."
A faint smile touched his lips. "No, perhaps not." He rose and turned toward her. "Tonight will bring many powerful guests to the palace. Among them, King Leroy Donovan."
She hesitated. "The vampire king?"
"Yes," he said, studying her expression. "He's ruled his realm longer than I've ruled mine. A man of… unsettling power. He values diplomacy, but he is not to be trifled with."
"I will stay out of sight, then," she murmured. "As I always do."
His eyes softened, regret flickering in them. "You deserve more than shadows, Christin. I wish things were different."
"So do I," she whispered.
When she left the study, she caught her reflection in the gilded mirror by the door. The girl who looked back at her wasn't a princess — not really. She was a secret dressed in silk.
As evening approached, the palace bloomed with light. Musicians tuned their instruments, laughter echoed from the courtyards, and the scent of roasted pheasant filled the air.
Christin stood by her window, watching the last rays of sun melt into the horizon. She could hear the faint hum of carriages arriving below, carrying nobles and lords from every corner of the realm.
She pressed her palm against the cool glass and whispered to the fading sky,
"Just one more night."
Her fingers brushed her mother's locket, resting against her collarbone. She could almost imagine her mother's voice — soft, warm, filled with promise.
Your heart will know, my love. It always will.
Christin closed her eyes, unaware that far beyond the palace walls, a dark figure was already on his way — a king whose heart had forgotten how to beat.