I never thought I'd find myself here, writing this.
I'm not the kind of person who needs to spill their thoughts onto paper just to feel better.
But I know—this isn't about relief.
That's not why I'm writing.
I need to leave a record of what I've seen. Of the suspicions growing inside me. In case something happens to me.
I'll write down every detail, so that whoever finds this journal will know the truth.
Because no one really knows me.
My engagement to Lucien Kearn Shirvanian, Crown Prince of the House of Szarszen, became official a week after a royal representative visited the residence where I live with my family.
A letter, signed by the King himself, was read aloud in our sitting room.
It stated that the royal family was impressed by my beauty and intelligence.
I can't say that flattered me.
I know what I look like—I'm not naive. But there are plenty of attractive people in the world. And physical beauty? It means nothing if the person behind it is ignorant, vain, or utterly useless.
That being said… the fact that they acknowledged my intellect gave me an odd sense of reassurance.
If they knew I wasn't a fool, then surely they weren't planning anything sinister.
Right?
I don't know why, but I've never been able to trust them the way everyone else does.
Don't get me wrong—my life here has been comfortable. I'm treated as a daughter by Reginald Satorius, the man who raised me, though I still carry my birth father's surname.
But trust? That's something else entirely.
I can't blindly believe in people just because they tell me I should.
It's like those who swear a politician is honest just because he shakes their hand and makes them a promise.
Still, for years, my questions went unanswered. So I stopped asking.
I gave up trying to understand and accepted the path laid before me.
The day the royal ring slipped onto my finger—as if I had been born with it—I stopped being who I was.
Some envy me.
Others say this ring is a symbol of ownership.
To me, it's just… duty.
My mother was thrilled.
Proud, even.
She believes that a woman's greatest achievement is securing a good marriage. She's walked that path twice herself. And now, her eldest daughter is about to lead a nation—what could possibly make her happier than that?
But what does leading a nation even mean?
I've never seen my engagement as anything more than an enormous challenge.
Maintaining order in a kingdom that's already satisfied. Keeping conflicts at bay. Ensuring that wealth continues to grow.
And yet, for some reason, forbidding people from setting foot on the royal burial grounds.
Why?
Why would they deny their citizens the right to honor those who built this country? Those who have kept their lives peaceful?
Maybe I think too much. Maybe I see conspiracies where there are none.
But what I witnessed tonight—
Yesterday morning, a large package arrived in my room. Along with it, an invitation to the palace.
With the wedding approaching, the royal family had decided it was time for me to adjust to life there.
A dinner. An overnight stay.
My younger sister, Kiera, insisted on helping me prepare.
I had maids for that. Even our mother had offered. But Kiera insisted.
She's thirteen. To her, my engagement is a fairy tale—one where I get the happy ending she's too young to understand doesn't exist.
I would bet my own hand—the one writing this—that she feels the kind of envy only a girl her age can.
I knew it the moment she yanked my corset laces too tight.
When I scolded her, she simply smiled and said, "It's love, sister. Love."
What kind of love is that—the kind that hurts the person you claim to care about?
I don't think I want it.
The carriage came for me, as it always does.
Since becoming the prince's fiancée, it has been at my disposal.
I've gotten used to traveling alone.
But I will never stop thinking that my legs work just fine. That I could and should walk.
Why should I be carried by six horses when I can move on my own?
Walking is good. It strengthens the body, clears the mind.
Does the prince want a wife who grows lazy and overweight after years of banquets and idleness?
Not that it matters.
I'm getting off track.
Now I understand why people say writing is therapeutic.
Whoever ends up reading this, I hope you understand me.
I had been to the palace before—Cabinet dinners, celebrations, political events.
But every time, I'm struck by the road that leads there.
A steep climb, cutting through the mountains.
The forest and sky blur together, and then suddenly—there it is.
Marble and stone. Dozens of windows. The royal flag rippling above one of the towers.
I counted them once.
Eight.
I don't know if the person reading this has ever stepped inside.
I imagine not.
Despite their reputation for being kind, the royal family rarely appears in public. They almost never welcome visitors.
So let me describe it for you—
The entrance is breathtaking.
A white marble floor.
Three massive golden chandeliers, glittering with endless crystal pendants.
Paintings and suits of armor.
Roman columns.
A grand staircase, wrapped in deep crimson carpet, leading to the second floor.
There are many rooms up there.
At dinner, I was greeted by the same royal emissary who had once visited my home. Along with him, a handful of the King's trusted officials. The King himself was abroad.
Also present was the leader of the Guard—a well-mannered young man.
My stepbrother insists he's a notorious womanizer.
I don't care.
What does matter is whether he's competent. If his personal affairs ever interfered with his work, my stepbrother would have quit long ago.
He hates handling problems that aren't his. Even when he's paid overtime.
And yes, you're probably wondering about my fiancé.
His cousin attended in his place, apologizing for his absence.
I wasn't surprised.
We've barely met.
The dinner was polite. Political. No different from any other official gathering.
Afterward, I was escorted to my room.
A vast space.
Rosewood bed. Rich canopies.
An armoire larger than the one I have at home.
And beside the bed—
A vase of blue roses.
A single note.
"I regret not being able to join you tonight.
—Lucien."
I doubt he regrets anything.
But then, I don't even know what kind of man he is.
Maybe we'll start figuring that out after the wedding.
Beside the table, there was also a chessboard—my favorite game.
I moved a few pieces, playing both sides, and at the first opportunity, I advanced a bishop.
I've always done that.
Relying on pawns for too long is a weak strategy.
My stepbrother calls me greedy because of it.
But I love chess—especially the queen.
Because even though she must be sacrificed in the end to protect the king, at least she has the freedom to move wherever she pleases.
I don't.
I picked up two pieces, one from each side, and studied them.
Crystal and ivory.
Why were both so pale?
Do the Shirvanians not see themselves—or anyone else—as adversaries lurking in the shadows?
As I said, I've never felt entirely comfortable around them.
And I want that to change.
Even now, I still hope I was wrong.
Did you notice the blue roses?
I have always been curious about them.
They are part of the royal crest and only used on special occasions.
I had never seen a rosebush that produced such flowers, and I couldn't resist looking for the garden where they grew.
There's no point in recounting how I got lost in the palace.
Because even if I had a map and a compass, I don't think I could navigate that place.
But after wandering through endless corridors and descending several staircases, I found myself outside a small, secluded garden.
There were trees. A fountain. A natural pool, ringed with stones.
A statue stood there, its expression almost overwhelming in the moonlight.
And beside it, a bench.
Seated there, alone in the dim glow of the night, was a woman dressed in a long white gown, feeding the swans drifting across the water.
She looked frail.
Her hands trembled.
And I swear—
I have never seen such lifeless eyes before.
I wouldn't have recognized her if I hadn't seen her face so many times.
In books. On postcards. In paintings.
Salena Adreyfus Shirvanian.
Queen of Leskhen.
They said she had withdrawn from public life years ago due to a degenerative illness.
That was the official explanation.
But the woman before me—
She wasn't sick.
At least, not physically.
She was just… sad.
What, then, has kept her hidden all this time?
I didn't even have the chance to speak.
Someone—a woman, maybe her caretaker—noticed me before I could say a word.
I was escorted back to my room.
I didn't ask any questions.
Because I knew they wouldn't answer them.
But now they know that I saw her.
And I know that I can't tell anyone.
Maybe I'm wrong.
Or maybe the world I grew up in is far more twisted than I ever imagined.
I hope—God, I hope—that I'm wrong.
Maybe they will need a new queen soon.
Because whatever is happening to the one they have—
It's too painful to reveal to the world.
Too shameful to let their people see.
Does any of this make sense?
Does anything make sense anymore?
My name is Abigail Fae Burgstaller.
I am eighteen years old.
And for the first time in my life—
I am afraid.