A word left Lucia's lips as she followed Queen Ruth through the towering marble corridors of Hamilton Palace.
The Queen's heels struck the floor with crisp certainty, each step deliberate. Lucia's own footsteps trailed behind, softer, echoing without direction — a quiet shadow tethered to a louder will.
"Lucia," the Queen said, glancing back as they passed the Hall of Portraits, where generations of Hamilton Family's stared down from gilded frames with powdered dignity. "You have been silent since breakfast. Has the cat taken your tongue?"
Lucia lifted her chin slightly. It was not pride that straightened her spine, but restraint — a thin shield against saying too much.
Eldorath?
A realm that rose to dominion over the regions by the sword and by subjugation, extending its borders through conquest and the intimidation of neighbouring thrones. A realm that waged war upon countless lands until, one by one, they yielded — not from loyalty, but from the dread of utter ruin.
What concern, then, has the modest Kingdom of Hamilton with so formidable a power as Eldorath?
"You are to be wed," Queen Ruth continued, her tone smooth but unyielding. "It is not a curse, child. It is a blessing. A union that secures the future of this kingdom. Hamilton may be beautiful, yes — but beauty invites danger. Suitors, bandits, opportunists. We are not the largest of realms, but we possess what many desire. To protect it, we must bind ourselves to strength."
She turned fully then, blue eyes — mirrors of Lucia's own, though colder — fixing upon her daughter. "You are the jewel of this palace. And jewels belong in crowns, not hidden drawers."
The words were elegant. And suffocating.
Lucia's voice, when it came, was thin but steady. "I did not realize I was a bargaining chip."
The Queen's expression sharpened. "You speak like a spoiled child. You have never known hunger, nor neglect, nor the absence of comfort. Do not add ingratitude to your list of indulgences."
Lucia lowered her gaze, her mouth pressed into silence once more.
"Go," the Queen said with a dismissive flick of her hand. "Walk among your vines and brood if you must. But remember who you are."
And so Lucia went.
The palace gardens welcomed her the way they always had — with stillness, with warmth, with the illusion that time could be paused if one simply breathed deeply enough. Anne was already there, her apron half-filled with sun-ripened berries and grapes. She straightened at the sight of Lucia, worry creasing her gentle features.
"You look troubled, my dove," Anna murmured.
"I am to be married," Lucia replied plainly, lifting a cluster of grapes to the light. "To a stranger, most likely stiff and pale, with breath that smells of boiled eggs."
Anna let out an unladylike snort. "Let us pray it is not another Lord Vancouver."
A laugh escaped them both — sharp and brief, but freeing. Cousin Eleanor had not smiled since her own wedding to that unfortunate nobleman, whose snores and endless complaints had become whispered legend.
Lucia knelt beside Anna, fingers brushing the cool vines. "I used to come here when I was twelve," she said quietly. "After Mother scolded me for missing a piano note. The quiet helped me think."
"I remember," Anna said warmly. "You would storm in wearing that blue velvet dress, dirt be damned."
"I despised that dress."
"You despised many things."
Their shared smile lingered a little longer this time.
Later, as twilight deepened into night, Lucia sat alone in her chamber. A single candle flickered beside her journal, its flame bending whenever the wind slipped through the window. Moonlight pooled across her desk, silvering the ink as her pen moved slowly across the page. Her red hair fell unbrushed over one shoulder, her posture weary but composed.
She wrote of duty. Of strangers. Of questions no one had asked her.
A knock sounded at the door — soft, almost apologetic.
Lucia did not answer.
The door opened anyway. Queen Ruth stepped inside, no crown upon her head now, only a silk robe draped around her shoulders. For a moment she stood near the threshold, as if uncertain whether she was welcome. Then she moved closer.
"I was harsh today," she said quietly. "One day, you will understand why."
Lucia looked up but offered no reply.
The Queen hesitated. "Would you like to know who the prince is?"
Lucia's gaze returned to the page. She shook her head once. "It changes nothing."
Silence settled between them. After a moment, the Queen inclined her head and turned away, her footsteps fading down the corridor — softer than before.
Lucia dipped her pen again, steadying her hand.
The candle flame trembled, then steadied. Outside, the wind shifted.
And just as the final stroke of ink dried upon the page, a shadow passed across her window — vast, winged, and impossibly silent — blotting out the moon for a single, breathless second before vanishing into the night.