"Morning joy is a brittle thing. It glitters, it dazzles, but one whisper of truth can shatter the whole day."
Morning crept over Crest Keep in a hush, soft and unhurried, as though unsure the realm deserved a gentler dawn after the night it had known. The last embers of celebration still smoldered in the courtyards, and faint trails of song drifted from windows left open to the cool air. Yet beneath the quiet glow of sunrise lay something restless — a feeling that joy had risen too quickly, too brightly, and that the day would ask a price for it.
The celebration did not die with the night.
By morning, it had merely moved — out through the high gates of Crest Keep and into the open meadows beyond, where pavilions bloomed like white lilies across the fields.
Trumpets blared, banners flared, and every lord and merchant of standing found a place beneath the silken canopies. The Iceese envoys sat beneath a high awning stitched with frost-white thread, their cold courtesy gleaming as sharp as their jewels.
Children scattered petals along the paths; musicians struck bright chords to chase away the fog of drink that still clung to the air.
It was the most laughter the realm had heard in months.
And yet beneath it ran a quiet strain — the hum of politics disguised as music.
Saphirra sat beside her mother beneath the royal pavilion, a crown of thin gold resting lightly on her brow.
From afar, she seemed the image of grace — serene, radiant, untouchable.
Up close, her hands were still, folded too tightly in her lap.
Everywhere around her, the talk was of union — alliances and bloodlines, dowries and thrones.
Men she had never met toasted her name as if it were a prize won at sea.
One lord boasted of his son's lineage; another swore his nephew could tame a drake if the princess so willed. Their laughter rang like hammered metal.
Naerya leaned close, her whisper a balm against the noise.
"You need not smile for them, my love."
"I would rather not breathe for them," Saphirra murmured.
One noble lord leaned across the table, grinning through his beard. "They'll be singing of this day for years, Your Grace. The peace that began with a wedding feast, mayhaps."
Another chuckled. "Aye — though the bride has yet to smile."
Saphirra said nothing. The words slid off her like dull arrows.
To them she was a name, a crest, a key to the realm's future — not a girl who dreamed of quiet mornings and open sky.
Her mother touched her hand softly beneath the table. "Endure the hour," she whispered. "The wind will change."
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But the hour stretched.
The crowd swelled. Toasts rose and fell like tides. Each cup seemed raised in her name, each jest about her fate.
And when she could no longer bear their voices, she stood — softly, without announcement — and walked beyond the circle of banners.
Past the tents, the meadow sloped into a small wood of elm and pine.
There the laughter faded into the murmur of leaves and the sighing of wind through branches.
Saphirra led her horse along a narrow trail, her skirts brushing wildflowers, her thoughts heavy and shapeless. The quiet here was honest; it asked for nothing.
She stopped beneath an old elm, pressed her palm to its bark, and closed her eyes.
"I was not born for this," she whispered — though whether she meant the feast, the throne, or the world itself, she did not know.
A bird stirred in the branches above. The scent of resin and summer filled the air.
And for a fleeting moment, the world felt whole again — untouched by council schemes, Iceese gold, or the burden of a crown not yet hers.
For a while she thought of her mother's voice, calm and proud, telling her that duty was the spine of every Vermilion.
"Without it," Naerya once said, "we are just blood, not legacy."
Saphirra opened her eyes. The woods stood still once more.
Only the wind answered, whispering through the grass like the breath of an unseen watcher.
The words lingered like the taste of old wine — rich, heavy, clinging.
Saphirra loved her, but she wondered if duty had ever truly loved anyone back.
Her gaze softened as the path opened into a clearing. Wildflowers grew thick there — violet, blue, gold — bowing gently in the breeze. She slipped down from her horse and walked among them, letting her fingers brush their petals.
A butterfly, pale as moonlight, landed on her wrist.
It stayed there for a heartbeat, wings trembling, then lifted away.
Saphirra smiled.
For that moment, the world felt like it belonged to her — not to kings, not to gods, not to council tables or treaties written in her name.
She laughed, quiet but real, and chased the butterfly through the clearing. Her slippers caught dew, her gown brushed against fern and thorn, but she didn't care. She ran until her breath came fast and her cheeks flushed with color again.
When she grew tired, she sat beneath a willow and let her horse graze nearby. The breeze hummed through the leaves, whispering small, harmless things.
For a while, she just watched the clouds drift — naming their shapes like she did as a child. A wolf. A ship. A crown. Then she stopped naming them at all and simply watched them go.
The world didn't ask anything of her here.
And for a little while, she didn't have to be a princess.