The queen tossed and turned beneath the heavy, gilded covers of the four-poster bed, each rustle a reminder of the prison walls closing in. The rules echoed in her mind, a clanking iron chain securing her to a life not her own. The grand chandelier, once a symbol of beauty, was now a fractured, crystalline eye, its dancing light a mocking, hollow spectacle.
The frescoes on the walls twisted and writhed, the mythical creatures morphing into leering gargoyles, their painted smiles filled with silent, malicious glee. The phantom feeling of being watched was no longer a phantom. The palace was a cage, and the queen was a canary.
When dawn finally bled through the towering windows, its soft, pearlescent light felt not like a promise but a threat. The first knock at the door, however, was worse. It was not Maddy's precise, bloodless tap, but a crisp, authoritative rap that announced the start of a new, relentless ritual. A contingent of maids entered, led not by Maddy but by a younger, sharper woman with a jaw that could cut glass. The queen was out of bed, but not by choice. The maids fussed around her, their movements as frantic as a flock of startled sparrows.
The first duty was the ceremonial bath. The queen was not to bathe herself, but to be bathed. Two maids carefully prepared the bath, their movements choreographed to perfection, while a third selected a dozen vials of scented oils and a handful of exotic petals. As they scrubbed and polished her, she felt like a doll, an object to be meticulously cleaned and dressed for display. There was no relaxation in the ritual, only a profound sense of helplessness.
Next came the morning dressing. The younger maid with the sharp jaw, whose name the queen learned was Elise, selected an elaborate, stiff gown made of heavy velvet and embroidered with threads of silver. It was beautiful, undeniably so, but it felt like a suit of armor, each layer a fresh weight on her shoulders. The corset was tightened until she could barely breathe, a subtle, constant reminder of her lack of freedom. Every movement was now a conscious effort, every breath a shallow struggle.After a breakfast she barely tasted—served with the same silent, judgmental air as the previous night—the queen was ushered into a grand salon. Here, a succession of tutors and advisors awaited her, their faces equally unreadable.
Her daily education commenced. A historian lectured her on the political lineage of the royal family, a lineage she had never been a part of until her marriage, and one she had no genuine interest in. The words washed over her, a torrent of names and dates she couldn't bring herself to care about. A finance minister then droned on about the kingdom's fiscal policy, his voice a monotonous hum that made her eyes droop.
Then came the art of a royal smile. A courtier with a ridiculously well-oiled mustache coached her on the precise angle of her head, the perfect curve of her lips, and the required half-lidded expression of supreme, detached benevolence. This was not a lesson in etiquette but in camouflage. She was being taught how to feign happiness, how to appear content while her soul withered under the weight of her gilded cage. By noon, her cheeks ached from holding the vacant expression, and her head pounded with the names and numbers she had no desire to know.
After a brief, private lunch, the relentless grind continued with a social and diplomatic briefing. Mr. Alexander, the king's confidante, materialized with the grace of a gliding shark. His manner was less condescending than the others, but far more sinister. He rattled off a list of foreign dignitaries she would need to address, detailing their customs, prejudices, and the political favors they sought. He spoke of treaties and trade routes, and of the delicate dance of royal diplomacy. As he spoke, his eyes held a strange, assessing glint, as if she were a new weapon he was testing.The queen's head spun. She was exhausted. Not just from the sheer volume of information, but from the emotional and mental strain of being a performance, not a person.
The palace wasn't just a prison—it was a theater, and she was the main act, destined to play a role she hadn't auditioned for until her last breath. With every new duty, every rigid routine, the vast, dark emptiness of the fourth floor loomed larger in her mind. It was a secret, forbidden and dangerous, and with each passing hour, it became the only real thing in this beautiful, hollow world.