The scent of milk and honey clung to the air like whisper, soft and Indulgent, made richer by the rose petal that floated lazily across the steaming surface of the bath. Havynlee reclined in the centre – serene, statuesque, and still. Light from high windows filtered in, gliding the pale mist, casting soft halos across the rippling surface. Her skin, smooth and luminous, glowed beneath the water like porcelain kissed by gold.
Her body rested in effortless grace – arms stretched gently along the carved marble edges, her hair tilted back, resting against a silk cushion, exposing the gentle line of her throat, the long black silk of her hair floating like shadow in the water.
She looked like a still-life portrait – too perfect to move, too distant to disturb. As if beauty had frozen in time.
Three maids bathed in silence, their hands gentle but reverent. One washed her back, another lathered her arm. With oils, while the third poured warm water down her hair, letting it flow like melted gold over a goddess.
The palace bathing chamber, enormous and adorned with ivory pillars and frescoed ceilings, echoed with the soft splash of water. No words passed for a while. Only the drip of water, the scent of roses, and the flickering flame of chandelier above.
Lia, her trusted maid, wasn't near the tub. She was preparing Havynlee's eight dress of the day – soft crimson silk, embroidered with golden vines. She watched the other maids chat, folding slowly her eyes occasionally drifting to the serene figure in the bath.
Havynlee had not requested eight dress. But the court demanded she be perfect. A prince's bride must shine, they said.
And Havynlee, ever calm, ever silent, let the world bathe her in their exceptions.
The other maids whispered as they worked, trying to hide their giggles.
"Did you see the princess' entrance today?" One asked, squeezing a cloth over Havynlee's shoulder.
"Princess?" The other grinned. "Ivy or the chandelier?"
They both burst into soft laugher.
"I swear, she looked like a chandelier. That dress? All shine, no shape. As if she was attending a ball instead of a midday meal."
Another laugh.
"Trying to steal the proposal moment," the first muttered.
"Sapphire dress…..and an emerald necklace?" The second one said, as if confessing to a crime. "I'm a maid, not a noblewoman, but even I know that's symbolic chaos."
They both giggled.
The youngest maid chimmed in, dabbing oil onto Havynlee's collarbone with reverence.
"Mm, it was like watching a chandelier get dressed in fruit."
They snickered.
"Did you see that neckline? My ribbon spool has more structure."
"And those sleeves? Looked like they were stitched by war criminals."
Even Lia, by the wardrobe, bit back a smile.
"She's royalty, isn't she?" The youngest one sighed.
"So was king Alaric's cousin," came the older maid's dry reply, "and she married a goat herder."
Silence.
"She's royal, yes. But someone should tell her royalty comes with taste, not just tiaras. Sometimes I wonder if the crown skipped her head and landed on her ego."
They all burst into laughter.
"She's always wanted the spotlight," the third, whispered. "She's finally got it….only for it to flicker out."
Lia cleared her throat gently. The laughter dropped.
But Havynlee didn't speak. She didn't flinch. She didn't look at them. She simply stirred the water near her hand, slowly, as if the noise was beneath her notice.
And then she lifted one hand, elegant and slow, fingers barely flicking.
The maid's fell silent instantly.
She hasn't said a word.
She didn't need to.
One by one, the maids bowed, drying their hands, gathering bowls and clothes before quietly filing out.
All except Lia.
Havynlee has not said, Lia, wait.
But she hadn't needed to say that either.
Havynlee stood in the water, the milk and petals cascading off her skin, revealing the figure of a woman carved by gods. Elegant, curved, terrifying in her poise.
Lia turned instinctively, though she had seen her before – on colder nights. On long dressing morning. But today….something was different.
The way she rose like a figure carved of moonlight and silk, every line of her form poised in silent and power.
She wasn't thin – she was sculpted.
Full in the right places, firm in others.
A figure shaped not by indulgence, but by quiet strength.
Her waist narrowed with flawless symmetry, her back long and straight, her posture perfect – chin lifted, eyes half-lidded as if the world beneath her mattered only slightly.
Water slid down her skin in a quiet rivulets. She didn't reach for a towel. She didn't cover herself.
She walked across the chamber toward the mirror, bare and unbothered, her long hair leaving wet streaks down her back.
She paused in front of the glided mirror.
Admiring herself, calmly. Coldly.
"Have you ever thought about what it feels like," Havynlee murmured, her voice as soft as velvet, to carry two souls in one body?"
Lia turned, unsure if she was meant to answer.
"Hmm?" Havynlee glanced at her through the mirror.
Lia murmured, "I…I don't know, My lady."
Havynlee chuckled. But it wasn't warm.
Lia stood frozen, her heart still pounding, unsure if she should laugh along or run.
But Havynlee, calm as ever, reached up, touched her own reflection – gently, as if unsure it would mimic her.
Then she said it, low and distant.
"Sometimes….when I look in the mirror, I think the reflection isn't mine."
Lia's breath caught.
But Havynlee didn't look back at her. She only stared at the glass, a faint smile tugging at her lips – like she understood something no one else did.
Then, as if remembering something far away, she crossed the room – still naked – toward the fruit bowl set on a pedestal of carved ivory.
She reached for a small silver knife meant for slicing apples.
Lia's eyes widened. She wanted to flee – but her body betrayed her, rooted to the spot.
Havynlee turned slowly, knife in hand, that same soft smile blooming – but wrong somehow.
A smile too perfect. Too slow.
Too wide.
Her eyes met Lia's.
"Don't look so frightened," she whispered. "It's only a fruit knife –it can't do any harm."
She walked toward Lia, step by step, water still dripping from her ankles. The knife gleamed. Lia stiffened.
Then – just as the air grew too tight to breathe – Havynlee laughed. Bright, light, almost musical.
She walked back to the pedestal of carved ivory, and dropped the knife back into the bowl with a casual clink, plucked a slice of apple, and bit into it.
As if nothing had happened.
Lia didn't move.
Havynlee smiled at her again, softer now, and walked past, her skin glowing, her steps unbothered, her silence...louder than any scream.