Instead, a small, plain wooden box sat snug in the narrow space. No carving, no lock, just smooth dark grain and a lid that fit so perfectly it almost vanished into the sides. The sort of thing a person hid because of what was inside, not how it looked.
Elara picked it up. It was light. When she shook it gently, nothing rattled. No shift of weight.
She set her thumb against the edge of the lid and pushed.
Nothing.
She tried again, harder. The lid didn't even creak; it felt as if the whole thing had been carved from a single block. She turned it over, examining every side. No hinges. No keyhole. No visible catch. Just wood. Too perfect.
"Magic, then," she muttered.
She pressed at each corner in turn, tried twisting the base, tapping out little patterns along the sides. The box stayed stubbornly closed. After a few minutes, her fingers ached and her patience thinned.
Annoyance made her bring it closer. She lifted the box to her face, squinting at the hairline where lid met body, searching for even the faintest shimmer of a spell line, any tiny imperfection—
Click.
The lid popped up by a finger's width. No glow. No word. No warning. It simply… opened, as if some hidden condition—blood, breath, angle—had finally been met.
Elara froze, the box still held at eye level.
"…Naturally," she said under her breath. "Work for ten minutes, and you open when you feel like it."
She slid her thumb under the raised edge and lifted the lid the rest of the way.
Inside lay a slim book, nestled perfectly in the little box. Its dark cover was plain except for a small, worn sigil pressed into the leather. No title, no jewels. The edges of the pages were frayed from being turned many times. Elara lifted it out carefully; the weight felt right—used, but not fragile.
She opened it.
On the first page, a neat date sat at the top, followed by a single line of cramped script, then more lines below, dense and close together. Not a report. Not a formal essay. The spacing was wrong for that. This was someone writing only for herself. Tiny ink blots marked where the pen had hesitated, where a feeling had jerked the hand if not the face.
Good, Elara thought, eyes moving over the first few sentences.
.
.
13th Year of the Crimson Phoenix, Seventh Day of the Third Month
Night, Azure Lotus Palace
I am writing again because there is no one left I can speak to who will not twist my words. Paper is the only thing in this palace that listens and does not answer back.
Today the palace felt even whiter than usual. The walls, the courtyards, the faces. Everything the same pale colour, as if someone scrubbed all the warmth out of it on purpose. I spent the morning in the west garden with my tools, trying to coax a spark out of the new resonance stone, but even that refused to behave. Perhaps it is only following its owner.
The beasts were on duty again outside my doors. I heard their collars hum when the sun passed the third pillar. The humans say it is an honour for them to wear red and stand inside the inner court, but when I look at them I only see leashes painted to look like medals. The fox‑eared one at my door flinches every time someone walks past, even when no one speaks to him. I pretended not to notice, because if I do, someone will take him away.
Eleana sent her knights through my palace twice. They walked my corridors like they belonged to her—as perhaps they do. Father gave her command of the inner guard last winter. Since then, every man who stands in my halls has eyes that report to her, not to me. They bow and call me "Your Highness," but when Eleana's shadow falls across a doorway, they stand straighter for her than they ever do for me.
I know I am supposed to be grateful. The Fourth Princess is too "fragile" to be left unprotected, they say. I hear that word in every polite smile. Fragile. Delicate. Harmless. It is easier to let them think so. A porcelain cup is less threatening than a blade, even if both can cut when broken.
Sometimes I wonder if Father remembers that I exist anywhere outside those words. When I was small and Mother still held my hand, he would lift me into his lap and smell faintly of metal and cedar. Now I only see him from the back of the hall, a red‑black line at the far end of the throne room. He never looks up when I send requests about the beastmen, or the new wards I want to set around the outer orphanages. Perhaps the petitions never reach him. Perhaps they do, and he simply has no time for a daughter who plays with stones and stray dogs.
The other princesses move like comets—bright, loud, everyone watching. Eleana burns the brightest, of course. When she smiles, ministers lean forward. When she frowns, heads bow. I have seen her bend a captain to his knees with three quiet sentences and no magic at all. She is everything a Crown Princess should be: sharp, certain, beautiful, and terrible.
I am none of those things. I do not know how to turn a room with a word. I do not know how to make people love me or fear me. I only know how to listen to the way a stone vibrates when you pour power into it, how a beastman's ears flatten when a human raises a hand, how the gloms pause a heartbeat longer at certain corners, as if someone far away is leaning closer to see.
Mother used to say that power is not just what you hold, but what you notice. She told me that before she began coughing blood into her handkerchiefs and Father stopped visiting our quarters. After she died, no one spoke of her again unless it was to remind me that her magic did not save her. They forget she also said: '"What you see and do nothing about will stain you as surely as if you had done it yourself."'