The hallways of the palace were colder now, though the morning sun touched the marble floors through tall, arched windows. I moved quietly, the silence heavier than ever. The scent of polished wood and old stone reminded me that this place once held warmth, laughter, and my mother. Now it was only echoes.
Sometimes I imagined her here. I could see her standing in the grand hall, silver hair braided neatly, her gown shimmering like water in the sunlight. She had married Father because it was expected, because two great houses demanded it. But love—real love—had never been hers to give.
I remembered overhearing the older servants speak of their wedding. The Queen had walked down the aisle with a composed face, bowing and smiling politely to the courtiers who had gathered to witness the union. Father had looked at her with awe, devotion spilling from every gaze, his chest rising with pride and hope. And she had returned it—not with joy, not with warmth, but with obedience, grace, and duty.
I could see it now, even years later. The smile that never reached her eyes. The hand she held out politely, never tightly. The way she carried herself as if the weight of her parents' promises rested on her shoulders. And yet, she bore children, carried the kingdom's future on her back. She performed all her duties, but love? That had been absent from the very beginning.
I had begun to notice, even as a child, the subtle differences in how she interacted with Father and the rest of the household. Father's laughter would sometimes elicit only a faint, polite smile. When he praised her accomplishments, she nodded, thanked him, but her gaze wandered. Always wandering. I never understood then what it meant, only that it was quiet and wrong.
The Beastwoman appeared in our lives subtly at first—rumors whispered through the corridors, fleeting glimpses at the edge of my sight. I had been too small to understand, yet old enough to feel the subtle tension in the air. Every time the Queen laughed more freely, every time a stranger's voice seemed to stir something in her, I noticed. I didn't know why it mattered then. I only knew that something in her had shifted.
From my father, I learned constancy, love without question. His hands, roughened by years of ruling, always found mine when I faltered. His eyes, heavy with sleepless nights, softened when he looked at me. He never left me in doubt. I could always tell that, whatever else happened, he was steady. My mother—well, she had never given me that certainty.
I watched the household shift under her absence before she fully left. Servants whispered when she delayed appearances. Courtiers raised their brows at canceled audiences. Father remained patient, masking fatigue with his usual composure, yet I could see the strain in the quiet moments, in the pauses between instructions. It was as though he carried the palace on his shoulders, and I had begun to feel the first stirrings of responsibility.
I remembered a particular afternoon when I had been allowed to sit in the garden while Father conducted a meeting inside. The Queen had walked past the glass doors, her eyes catching mine for a fraction of a second. There was a brightness there, a warmth in the corners of her lips—but it was fleeting, directed elsewhere, never for me, never for Father. Later, I learned she had been speaking to the Beastwoman in private, a fleeting touch of hand, a smile exchanged. I did not understand it fully then, but even at that age, I felt the stir of jealousy, confusion, and fear.
I began noticing absence in small ways. The Queen was late for meals, distant during ceremonies, and sometimes gone entirely for days. Servants whispered of private meetings, of her wandering the gardens alone, of a stranger waiting at the edge of the palace. I listened quietly, cataloging each hint, feeling unease grow like a storm in my chest. I did not move to follow. I could not. But I observed. And each observation added weight to my heart, to the burden of knowing something was coming.
I saw Father strain to cover her absences, and in that, I saw my own role forming. I began anticipating meals, adjusting schedules, quietly ensuring the household did not collapse around him. The palace whispered, courtiers gossiped, and I became aware that I was one of the few constant presences he could rely on. I had begun my transformation from a child who only noticed, to a child who acted, silently, deliberately, under the shadow of betrayal I could not yet name.
By nightfall, the palace seemed to shrink around me. I sat by the hearth, imagining her in some distant place, laughing with someone else. My stomach twisted, my chest heavy, and my hands clenched until the knuckles turned white. The Beastwoman's presence lingered even in rumor, but the truth settled slowly in my mind: my mother's heart had shifted, and I had no control over it. All I had was observation and the knowledge that she was leaving, that her absence would stretch into years.
I shivered, imagining what it meant for Father, for my siblings, for the entire kingdom. I could feel fear creeping along my spine, but more than fear, a spark of resolve ignited. I would not abandon him. I would remain loyal. I would be the child who carried the weight of the palace while she chased her freedom.
And in that quiet, heavy moment, I realized the truth I would carry like armor for years: the Queen was absent, her choice made, and the responsibility now fell to me. The thought of her smiling elsewhere did not soften my heart. It sharpened it. I would protect Father. I would shoulder the burdens she had left behind. And I would never forgive her.
The palace shadows stretched long and thin across the stone floors as the lamps flickered, and I sat quietly in my chamber, the weight of loyalty pressing down, mingling with fear, rage, and grief. Outside, the garden whispered in the night wind. Somewhere, she was alive. And somewhere, I was here, tethered to duty, anchored to love, and sharpening the hatred that would sustain me through what was coming.