Chapter 1: The Princess's Cage
The palace glittered beneath the twilight, a beautiful illusion crafted to mask the suffocating reality within.
Amiya fucking hated it.
Every chandelier sparkled with false brilliance, casting fractured light upon marble walls polished to a painful shine. The halls, filled with the scent of rose oil and politics, hummed quietly beneath a façade of elegance. Velvet tapestries whispered empty promises of valor and history, woven thick with golden threads meant to dazzle and distract. Beautiful, yes—but still nothing more than an elaborate prison.
Her room—no, her cage—sat tucked away in the eastern wing, illuminated by the cool, distant glow of the moon that never quite warmed the polished floor. Dresses chosen by faceless courtiers filled her wardrobe, each more elaborate than the last, a reminder of her station rather than her taste. Books lined the shelves, pages upon pages written by men convinced that her place was to be seen and not heard. Her tutors had long stopped expecting genuine curiosity from her.
Amiya stood before the mirror beside her vanity, meeting her reflection's sharp, violet gaze. Silver hair cascaded down her back, catching the moonlight streaming through the open balcony doors, and she looked every bit the lunar elf princess she was meant to be—ethereal, poised, perfect. But beneath that flawless façade, frustration coiled tight within her.
"Perfect," she muttered bitterly, her voice sharp-edged with sarcasm.
She sometimes wondered who she would be without the weight of her title, without the endless expectations that pressed on her chest like stones.
A soft knock disrupted her brooding.
"Come in," she called without turning.
Liora stepped inside, quiet and composed as always, her gentle hazel eyes assessing Amiya with silent understanding. Her simple slate-blue dress and neatly braided hair made her look more graceful than most ladies of the court, even without any pretense.
"The council awaits, Your Highness," she said softly.
Amiya turned finally, eyes cool. "Let them wait."
Liora hesitated, her hand lingering on the doorframe. "Would you like me to accompany you?"
Amiya managed a slight, bitter smile. "No, I'm fine."
Liora paused, eyes searching Amiya's expression before finally nodding, accepting the gentle dismissal.
With practiced ease, Amiya pulled on her gloves and straightened her posture. Her dress tonight had been chosen with care—simple yet elegant, smooth indigo silk accented by a crescent-silver sash. The skirt was sleek and practical, slit subtly along one thigh, allowing freedom of movement without layers of cumbersome fabric. Beneath, secured discreetly, rested a dagger she'd discovered hidden behind forgotten volumes in the library years ago—a rusted, neglected weapon she'd painstakingly restored and learned to wield in secret.
"Be careful," Liora murmured softly, her voice tinged with quiet concern.
Amiya's gaze flickered briefly to meet Liora's—no titles, no formalities. Just quiet, unspoken friendship.
With a final nod, Amiya stepped out into the corridor.
At dusk, the palace corridors were emptier, the silence deceptively calm. Guards stood motionless, indifferent sentinels gilded in armor and apathy, barely sparing her a glance. As long as she fulfilled her role, they cared little about her true thoughts or desires.
Her footsteps echoed softly on polished stone floors, each step well-practiced along the path she had trodden too many times. Attend the council meeting. Sit silently. Smile when necessary. Nod agreeably. Leave without protest. Repeat. Tonight, however, something felt different, a strange sensation tugging at her consciousness.
A faint sound—subtle, deliberate—pulled her attention to a shadowy side corridor. Servants' wing, rarely visited, dimly lit and forgotten. Her curiosity piqued despite caution whispering in the back of her mind.
She hesitated only briefly before turning toward the sound.
The hall was dark, dusty, and unused, littered with faded portraits and cold, abandoned memories. Her heart thudded softly as she approached an ajar door near the end, faint moonlight spilling from within.
She eased the door open further.
Dust danced in the pale moonbeam filtering through cracked shutters, illuminating forgotten relics scattered carelessly across shelves. An old storeroom—unused, neglected, and filled with the lingering scent of forgotten books and aged wood.
And there, standing casually in the shadows, was a man.
Tall, shrouded in dark clothing that hugged his form like a second skin, a hood partially concealed his face, but not enough to hide sharp emerald eyes glinting with alertness. Dangling casually from his fingertips was a pendant of silver and blue sapphire, delicate and gleaming softly in the moonlight.
Recognition sparked in her instantly. A forgotten diplomatic gift from another kingdom, mentioned briefly by her father in passing. It held significance to him once, though she'd never been entrusted with its importance. Its existence had lingered only vaguely in her awareness.
Her breath caught sharply. "That doesn't belong to you."
His gaze lifted, assessing her calmly. "Neither does most of what's hidden away in this palace."
The easy insolence in his voice sparked a flash of irritation. "Put it back," she ordered firmly.
"And if I don't?" His tone held a subtle challenge.
Her fingers brushed the slit of her skirt instinctively, shifting just enough to reveal a glint of silver—her dagger. "Then I'll make you."
The stranger's posture shifted ever so slightly, recognition flickering subtly in the tension of his shoulders, the faint narrowing of his eyes. He had seen that stance before, knew what it meant—knew she wasn't bluffing.
With fluid confidence, she drew the dagger, the blade catching the moonlight in a quiet, defiant flash.
His eyes met hers, intrigued rather than intimidated. "You ever used that thing?"
Her voice was calm, even. "Do you really want to find out?"
For a long, suspended moment, they stood locked in silent assessment. Then, with decisive swiftness, he turned toward the window, unlatching it with practiced ease.
"Don't follow me," he warned quietly, his voice cool and authoritative. "And don't scream—unless you want to the guards to come running."
Amiya remained frozen, dagger still raised, her heartbeat loud in the silent room as he slipped effortlessly into the night, disappearing as silently as he'd appeared.
She stood motionless, staring at the open window, at the empty space he'd occupied moments ago. For the first time in years, something within her cracked—something long-contained, something dangerously close to longing.
And it had nothing to do with the stolen pendant.