POV: Maximilian
The council chamber feels different when the doors close behind me.
The sound is final—thick wood meeting thick stone, sealing the room away from the rest of the palace. No servants linger. No courtiers pretend to admire tapestries. The long table is already occupied by the elders, their robes a uniform blur of dark fabric and heavier expressions. My father stands at the head, hands resting on the carved back of his chair, posture rigid.
I am nine years old, and I am here because I am the future.
“Sit,” Father says.
I obey, taking the seat to his right. It is slightly too large for me. My feet do not quite reach the floor. I make sure no one notices.
This is not a lesson. I understand that immediately. There are no scrolls laid out, no maps waiting to be unfurled. There is only tension, coiled tight in the air, pressing against my chest.
An elder clears his throat. “Prince Maximilian is old enough to hear this.”
Another nods in agreement. “He must.”
My father does not look at me. “Proceed.”
The words settle like a weight.
One of the elders—Lord Veyrin, his beard streaked with gray—folds his hands together. “What we discuss here does not leave this room.”
I nod. “I understand.”
Do I? I’m not sure. But I say it anyway.
“The incidents involving Princess Celeste,” he continues, “have increased in frequency and intensity.”
I feel my jaw tighten.
“She is a child,” I say before I can stop myself.
Several heads turn toward me. One elder raises a brow. Another sighs softly, as if indulging me.
“Indeed,” Lord Veyrin replies. “Which is why this matter is so… unfortunate.”
Another elder leans forward. “The signs are unmistakable.”
“What signs?” I ask.
My father finally looks at me then. His gaze is sharp, warning. But he does not stop me.
“The blood,” the elder says. “Your sister’s bloodline carries an ancient imprint. A curse, if you prefer the common term.”
The word hits harder than I expect.
Curse.
I swallow. “That’s superstition.”
“It is history,” Lord Veyrin counters. “Long before Astoria was united, before your dynasty took the throne, there were records. Warnings. Certain bloodlines were marked.”
“Marked for what?” I demand.
A pause stretches too long.
“For power,” another elder says quietly. “And for ruin.”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t want power. She’s just a girl.”
“That is what makes it dangerous,” he replies. “The magic responds to emotion. Fear. Pain. Rage. As she grows, so will it.”
“And if it doesn’t?” I ask. “If you’re wrong?”
No one answers me directly.
My father speaks instead. “We are not accusing Celeste of wrongdoing.”
“Then why is she being punished?” I snap.
“Careful,” he warns.
“Why is she watched?” I continue. “Why is she shut away from everyone?”
An elder exhales. “Because the kingdom cannot afford uncertainty.”
There it is again. That word. The way they use it like a blade wrapped in velvet.
Lord Veyrin spreads his hands. “We must consider containment.”
My stomach drops.
“Containment?” I repeat.
“Restrictions,” he clarifies. “Controlled environments. Limited exposure.”
“And if that fails?” I ask, my voice too thin.
Silence.
Then, softly, “Sacrifice,” someone says.
The word echoes in my ears, louder than the pounding of my heart.
I stand so suddenly my chair scrapes against the floor. “You’re talking about killing her.”
“No,” Lord Veyrin says quickly. “Not now. Perhaps not ever.”
“Perhaps,” I spit.
My father rises as well, his expression dark. “Enough.”
The elders fall silent.
“She is my daughter,” he says. “There will be no talk of death.”
For a moment, relief flares in my chest. It dies just as quickly when he continues.
“But we must be realistic. If the curse spreads. If control is lost. If the people learn of this and panic—”
“You’re afraid of them,” I realize suddenly.
All eyes turn to me again.
“You’re afraid of what they’ll do,” I say, the truth clicking into place with horrifying clarity. “Not of Celeste. Of the court. Of the kingdom.”
No one contradicts me.
Lord Veyrin sighs. “Fear is not always irrational, Your Highness.”
“She needs help,” I insist. “Not this. Not guards and whispers and—” My voice cracks. “She’s alone.”
“That may be necessary,” another elder says gently. “Isolation can limit risk.”
I look at my father. “You can’t let them do this.”
His jaw tightens. “I am trying to protect the realm.”
“And who protects her?” I ask.
He does not answer.
The meeting ends shortly after. There are no formal dismissals, no ceremonial words. The elders file out one by one, their faces carefully blank, as if nothing of importance has just been decided.
I remain standing, my hands clenched at my sides.
“This isn’t over,” I say to my father.
He rubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking older than I have ever seen him. “You do not understand what is at stake.”
“I understand exactly what’s at stake,” I reply. “You’re choosing the crown over your daughter.”
His eyes flash. “You will learn, Maximilian. One day.”
I leave before he can say more.
***
I walk the palace corridors in a daze, the familiar walls suddenly foreign. Every guard I pass feels like an accusation. Every closed door feels deliberate.
When I reach my room, I lock the door behind me and pull the journal from beneath my mattress. My hands shake as I open it.
I write everything.
The curse. The blood. The words they used so easily—containment, sacrifice—as if Celeste is a problem to be solved instead of a person to be loved. I write until the page is full and then I keep going, the ink smearing where my hand moves too fast.
When I finish, I stare at the words, my vision blurring.
They are not afraid of her power.
They are afraid of losing control.
I close the journal and press it to my chest.
Celeste thinks something inside her is wrong. I know better now.
The danger is not my sister.
It is the people who have already decided what she is worth.