POV: Maximilian
I learn early that palaces never sleep. They whisper.
They whisper behind doors and beneath silk hangings, through servants’ stairwells and polished corridors, in voices that grow softer the closer you come. I am not supposed to hear them. Princes are meant to exist above rumor, untouched by it, but I am nine years old and curious, and no one expects a future king to linger in the passage behind the kitchens.
That is where I hear her name spoken like a sickness.
“She did it again,” one of the maids murmurs, her voice tight with fear. “At breakfast. Candles and glass, all at once.”
“I told you,” another replies, crossing herself quickly. “There’s something wrong with that child.”
I stop walking.
My lessons ended early today. Master Halric dismissed me with a tight smile and a lecture about discipline, but I am not in the mood for discipline. I am in the mood for answers. I stand very still in the shadows, pressing my back against the cool stone wall, and listen.
“They say it’s a curse,” the first maid continues. “Something old. In her blood.”
“Hush,” the second says sharply. “If the Queen hears—”
“The Queen already knows,” a third voice cuts in. “Everyone knows. That’s why they won’t let her sit with the tutors anymore. Why they watch her like that.”
My jaw tightens.
I step forward before I can stop myself. “Watch who?”
Three servants whirl around, faces paling as soon as they see me. They drop into bows so fast it’s almost comical, skirts brushing the floor.
“Your Highness,” one stammers. “We—we were just—”
“Talking about my sister,” I say.
The words come out sharper than I intend. I don’t care.
Silence stretches. One of them swallows hard. “We meant no disrespect.”
“You said there’s something wrong with her,” I press.
They don’t answer. They don’t need to. Their faces say enough.
“Leave,” I say.
They don’t hesitate. They scatter like frightened birds, disappearing down the corridor, leaving the air heavy with the words they didn’t take with them.
Curse.
Wrong.
Blood.
They are afraid of her.
I straighten my shoulders and turn away. I don’t know what to do with that yet, but I know one thing: I will not let them say it where she can hear.
***
The next sign comes during lessons.
Celeste used to sit with me and the other noble children, her feet swinging beneath the table as she tried to copy the shapes our tutor drew on the slate. She was never very good at sitting still, but she tried. She always tried.
Now, her chair is empty.
Master Halric clears his throat and adjusts his cuffs, avoiding my eyes. “The princess will no longer require private instruction.”
I frown. “Why?”
He hesitates. “The Queen believes… it is safer for her to learn in groups. With supervision.”
Safer for whom, he does not say.
“So she’s coming back?” I ask.
“No,” he replies quickly. “She will be instructed separately.”
“But—”
“That will be all,” he snaps, louder than necessary.
I don’t argue. I sit through the rest of the lesson with my jaw clenched, my attention drifting no matter how hard I try to focus. The noble children whisper among themselves, casting glances toward me, then toward the empty chair.
When the bell finally rings, I push my chair back and stand.
As I pass through the corridor, I hear it.
“There goes the cursed one’s brother.”
The voice belongs to Lord Renard’s son. He’s older than me by two years and already thinks himself important because his father sits on the council. He leans against a column with two other boys, his mouth twisted into a grin.
I stop in front of him.
“What did you say?” I ask.
He tilts his head, mock-innocent. “I said there goes the prince.”
“Say it again,” I demand.
The grin widens. “Your sister’s a monster,” he says cheerfully. “Everyone knows it. Glass breaks when she walks by. Animals hate her. Maybe she’s cursed by the gods.”
Something snaps.
I don’t think. I move.
My fist connects with his mouth, a sharp jolt that sends pain shooting up my arm. He yelps and stumbles back, clutching his face. The other boys shout, scrambling away as if I might turn on them next.
“Take it back,” I say, my voice shaking. “Take it back right now.”
“You’re insane,” he spits, blood on his lip. “Just like her.”
I hit him again.
Guards rush in moments later, pulling me away before I can do more damage. My heart is racing, my knuckles throbbing, but I don’t regret it. Not when I see the fear in his eyes.
They drag me before my father within the hour.
He listens without interruption as the guards explain what happened. His face is unreadable, carved from stone. When they finish, he dismisses them with a wave of his hand.
“Leave us.”
The doors close. The room feels too large, too quiet.
“You embarrassed me,” he says finally.
“He insulted Celeste,” I snap. “He called her a monster.”
My father’s gaze sharpens. “You will not speak of your sister in public.”
I stare at him. “Why not?”
“Because,” he says slowly, “it draws attention.”
“To what?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns away, staring out the window at the palace grounds. “You are the future of this kingdom, Maximilian. You cannot afford reckless behavior.”
“I was defending her.”
“She does not need defending,” he says.
The lie hangs between us.
I leave before I say something I can’t take back.
***
By the end of the week, things have changed.
Celeste no longer attends meals in the great hall. She is escorted through back corridors instead of the main galleries. Servants avert their eyes when she passes. Some cross themselves. Others step aside as if she carries a disease.
And always, always, there are eyes on her.
I notice them first in the gardens—two guards lingering near the hedges, pretending to talk while watching her from the corner of their vision. Then in the library, where a court lady positions herself too close, too attentive. Then in the corridors, where doors close just a little too quickly.
They are monitoring her.
I clench my teeth and pretend not to see it, but I do.
That night, I sit at my desk and open a blank book.
I do not know why I do it at first. I only know that I feel the need to write something down, to trap the truth on paper before it slips away.
I write the date. I write Celeste’s name.
I write everything I have seen and heard—the whispers, the looks, the way the adults’ voices change when they speak about her. I write until my hand cramps and the candle burns low.
When I finish, I close the book and hide it beneath my mattress.
If no one else is willing to protect my sister, then I will.
Even if I have to remember everything myself.