The Crimson Crown

As we finished breakfast, the clatter of plates and soft murmurs of conversation faded into the background. Clara, ever composed and efficient, nudged me lightly, her signal to get moving. I stood, smoothing the folds of my dress, and followed her out of the dining hall, my footsteps heavy with dread. The morning sunlight barely reached the dim corridors, the air growing cooler as we descended toward the cleaning closet where the day’s work awaited.

The scent of soap hit me before I even entered the small room, the familiar sharpness stinging my nose. Clara moved with brisk determination, collecting a sponge and a bucket, already half-filled with water. I hesitated for a moment before doing the same, my hands trembling slightly as I dipped the heavy pail into the trough to fill it. The weight of the full bucket made my arms strain, and a wave of frustration surged through me, sharp and biting, the old servant from yesterday nowhere to be seen.

I felt the resentment building, simmering just beneath my exhaustion. This wasn’t supposed to be my life. The thought repeated in my head, louder and angrier with each passing moment. I was a princess, born to grace and privilege, not this—lugging buckets of soapy water through stone corridors, my hands raw and my back aching.

Clara glanced over her shoulder, motioning for me to follow. I forced myself to grip the bucket tightly, its weight pulling at my sore muscles as I trudged after her. My steps echoed faintly in the empty hallway, each one heavier than the last.

As we made our way to the east wing—a section of the castle that seemed to stretch endlessly—my thoughts wandered. Dorian’s face flickered in my mind, his steady gaze and warm smile a stark contrast to the cold, grimy reality surrounding me. Was he alive? Does he think of me? The questions gnawed at me; their answers shrouded in the same uncertainty that seemed to cloak every aspect of my life now.

And my kingdom—our kingdom. The thought of it, of the lands that had been taken, the people who had been subjugated, filled me with a deep ache. How had I fallen so far, from the promise of ruling with grace and strength, to this life of servitude? The humiliation of my current state burned in my chest, but it was the helplessness that cut deepest. I had no power here, no plan, no path forward.

Clara paused at the end of the corridor, turning to look at me with a raised eyebrow. “Come on, Lila,” she said, her tone brisk but not unkind. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

I nodded faintly, adjusting my grip on the bucket as I stepped forward. The resentment remained, coiled tightly in my chest, but I pushed it down as best I could. For now, survival meant following Clara’s lead, no matter how much I hated it. But my thoughts clung to Dorian and the life I’d lost, a quiet, burning resolve beginning to form beneath the weight of my fear.

Clara led me down another winding corridor of the East Wing, the stone walls closing in as we descended deeper into the castle’s labyrinthine passages. The familiar weight of the bucket pulled at my sore arms, but I barely felt it; my thoughts churned with restless energy, swirling with resentment and frustration. As we turned a corner, a wide archway came into view, leading to a grand hall I knew all too well—the throne room.

I froze for a moment, my breath catching in my throat. From where we stood, I could see into the room the once-pristine banners of my kingdom—reds and silvers that symbolized strength and unity—now gone. In their place hung garish banners of yellow and black, their sharp colors clashing violently with the regal elegance of the space. My stomach twisted at the sight, my fingers tightening around the handle of the bucket as Clara turned to glance at me.

“Keep moving,” she said quietly, her voice low and firm, though her expression betrayed a flicker of concern. I nodded mutely, forcing my feet to carry me forward, but my eyes lingered on the throne room as we passed.

A man sat upon the throne, draped in yellow robes embroidered with gold. His posture was anything but regal—he lounged lazily, one leg thrown over the arm of the Queen’s throne, his boots scuffing the ornate woodwork as though it were nothing more than a common chair. The sight made my blood boil. This was her throne, the place where the Queen had sat with dignity and grace, a symbol of unity for the kingdom. And now, this man—this invader—defiled it with his arrogance.

Hatred bubbled up in my chest, hot and sharp, and I clenched my jaw to keep it from spilling over. My hands trembled as I gripped the bucket tighter, my knuckles white as I followed Clara to the section of the hall we’d been assigned to clean. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from him, the man in yellow, his smug grin as he gestured lazily to a servant standing by. My stomach churned at the sheer mockery of it all.

“Lila,” Clara said sharply, snapping me out of my thoughts. She gestured to the floor, her brow furrowed. “Get to work.”

I knelt mechanically, dipping my sponge into the soapy water and pressing it against the cold stone floor. The familiar motion did little to distract me from the fury simmering inside me. Each stroke of the sponge felt heavier than the last; the image of the throne room burned into my mind. The yellow banners, the lounging man, the stolen throne—each detail fueled the fire in my chest, burning hotter with every passing second.

This was my kingdom, I thought bitterly, scrubbing harder as though the motion could somehow erase the sight of the man’s smirk. My throne. My people. The humiliation of my servitude, the fear and uncertainty that had plagued me since the castle fell—none of it mattered at that moment. All I could feel was the hatred boiling inside me, the sheer injustice of it all.

Clara cast me a sideways glance, her movements steady as she scrubbed beside me. She said nothing, but I could feel her curiosity, her quiet observation as I worked with a ferocity I hadn’t shown before. I didn’t care. The rage coursing through me was a lifeline, a sharp contrast to the numbness that had threatened to swallow me whole. For the first time since my fall, I felt something solid, something real.

The throne room loomed just beyond the archway, the man’s voice faint but tauntingly clear. Each word he spoke, each laugh that echoed through the hall, only stoked the fire in my chest. I scrubbed harder, my arms burning with the effort, the soapy water splashing against the stone. This was no longer about the floors or the tasks assigned to me. It was about reclaiming something that had been stolen, something that burned brighter and fiercer in my heart with every passing second.

The intruder king’s voice carried through the throne room with a grating, almost mocking quality, its sharpness cutting through the air and finding my ears despite the distance. I scrubbed furiously at the floor, pretending not to listen, but each word landed heavily, fueling the storm of rage simmering within me.

“Such a dreary place,” he drawled, his tone dripping with disdain. “How did they ever rule from here? This kingdom—these people—it’s all so... quaint.” There was a lazy arrogance in his words as if the weight of an entire kingdom was beneath his notice. “No wonder they folded so quickly. A kingdom this fragile was always bound to shatter.”

I heard the faint shuffle of a servant moving closer, their footsteps hesitant, before the man spoke again, his tone now one of bored command. “Have the banners replaced in the West Wing as well. Those ridiculous red and silver rags offend me. Yellow and black—they’ll learn to live under new colors soon enough.” He let out a short, dry laugh as though the very thought amused him.

“And what of the Princess?” he continued, his voice now holding a faint, venomous curiosity. “I hear she was quite the fiery one. Red hair, wasn’t it? So fitting for a spark that’s likely been snuffed out by now.” He chuckled again, the sound cold and hollow. “Do we have any news of her? Or is she still playing her little games, hiding like a frightened rabbit?”

My hand froze for a moment, the sponge dripping soapy water onto the stone, before I forced myself to move again, slower this time. My heart raced, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck as his words continued.

“As for the King and Queen,” he mused, his tone now eerily calm, “we’ll deal with them when the time is right. No need to rush these things. Let them stew for a while longer. It’s remarkable, really, how much more compliant even the proudest rulers become when they realize their offspring shares their fate.”

He paused as if savoring the weight of his own words before adding with a faint sneer, “Perhaps the boy and his bride will join them in time. A reunion of sorts. Isn’t that poetic?”

The faint murmurs of agreement from someone in his entourage followed, their voices subdued as if they dared not challenge him. His laughter returned, softer this time, more dangerous. “We’ll let them dangle on the edge of hope for a little longer. It makes the inevitable so much sweeter.”

My stomach churned, the bile rising in my throat as I fought to maintain the rhythm of my scrubbing. His words twisted through my mind, each one heavy with implication. Dorian. The thought of him in their clutches, subjected to the same torment he hinted at for the King and Queen, made my blood run cold.

“And remind the guard,” the man added casually, his tone dismissive as though the matter were of little importance, “to keep an eye out for the Princess. She’s too valuable to kill... for now.”

He laughed again, the sound echoing in the throne room, each note like a dagger in my chest. I scrubbed harder, the sting of my tears blurring my vision, but I didn’t dare let them fall. The hatred bubbling within me burned hotter than ever, but so did the fear. He had painted a cruel picture, one where Dorian and I were pawns in his game, our fates intertwined and dangling by a thread. But I couldn’t let him win. I wouldn’t. Even as my hands trembled and my heart raced, I clung to the faint ember of resolve that remained. I would survive. I would find Dorian. 

The anger burned in my chest, hotter and fiercer with every word that spilled from the man in yellow. His mocking tone, his blatant disdain for everything my kingdom stood for, made my blood boil. My hands worked furiously, scrubbing at the stone floor with more force than was necessary, each stroke of the sponge a release for the hatred bubbling inside me.

I didn’t notice the air around me growing warmer, nor the faint hum that seemed to pulse in my ears. My entire focus was on the rage churning inside me; the image of the throne room with its stolen banners and defiled thrones burned into my mind. This is my kingdom. My people. My throne.

The sponge pressed harder against the stone, my muscles straining as I scrubbed with all the might my trembling arms could muster. And then, with a sharp, resonating crack, the floor beneath me split. The sound was deafening in the quiet corridor, like thunder reverberating through the stone walls.

I froze; my breath caught in my throat as I stared down in stunned silence. The floor beneath my hands was no longer smooth and intact; a jagged fissure had formed, splitting the stone in two, the edges glowing faintly with residual heat. My sponge lay discarded beside it, its dampened edges already drying from the warmth radiating from the crack.

“What...” I whispered, my voice barely audible. My hands trembled as I pulled them back, my heart pounding in my chest. The heat in the air felt familiar, alive, and I realized with a jolt that it was coming from me. The Wind of Summer—it had answered me. Somehow, without even realizing it, I had channeled its power.

“Lila!” Clara’s voice broke through the haze, sharp and calm. I turned to her, my eyes wide with shock, and saw the look of complete disbelief on her face. She stood a few steps away, her sponge and bucket forgotten as her gaze flicked between me and the cracked floor. Her pale blue eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open, as though she couldn’t quite process what she’d just witnessed.

“You can channel?” she asked in a whisper, her voice trembling with awe and something that might have been fear. She took a step closer, her movements slow and cautious, as though I might explode again at any moment. “Who... who are you?”

Her question hit me like a slap, and for a moment, I couldn’t answer. My mind raced, struggling to make sense of what had just happened. I had almost forgotten about the Winds, about the power they granted, buried as they were beneath the weight of my servitude and despair. And yet, here they were, responding to my anger, my hatred, my need.

“I...” I started, my voice faltering as I stared at the fissure. “I don’t... I don’t know.”

Clara’s gaze bore into me, her awe tempered with something sharper now—curiosity, suspicion. “Lila,” she said, her voice steadier now. “That wasn’t normal. You just... the stone—” She gestured to the crack, her words failing her as her eyes widened again.

I swallowed hard, my hands trembling as I clenched them into fists to steady myself. “Please,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed slightly, her confusion giving way to something more calculating. “You’re not just a servant,” she said softly, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Who are you?”

Her question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable, as the heat of the fissure slowly faded, leaving behind only silence and the weight of her gaze. I didn’t have an answer—not one I could give her. But the crack in the stone and the power that had created it were undeniable. The Winds hadn’t abandoned me, and that meant there was still hope. Somewhere, deep inside, I could feel the ember of that hope beginning to burn brighter, even as Clara’s gaze bore into me, waiting for the truth I couldn’t yet share.

The sharp crack had echoed through the corridor, reverberating off the stone walls like a thunderclap. My breath hitched, and Clara’s eyes widened even further, her face going pale as the sound of hurried footsteps reached us from the throne room. The guards—they’d heard.

“They’re coming,” Clara whispered, her voice tight with panic as she glanced toward the open archway leading to the throne room. “Lila, we have to do something!”

My heart raced, the warmth of the fissure beneath my hands still faintly radiating against my skin. I looked at Clara, her fear mirroring my own, and then down at the jagged crack in the floor. There was no time to think, no time to plan—only to act.

“Something fell,” I said quickly, the words tumbling from my lips. “That’s what we’ll say. Something heavy fell, and it cracked the floor.”

Clara stared at me, her brow furrowing. “Like what?” she hissed. “We don’t have anything that—”

Her words cut off as my eyes darted to the heavy bucket of soapy water at my side. Without hesitation, I shoved it toward the fissure, letting it topple onto its side. Water spilled out in a rush, drenching the stone and splashing across the crack. The bucket landed with a loud clatter, skidding a few inches before coming to a stop.

Clara’s eyes widened, realization dawning as she nodded quickly. “The bucket,” she muttered, her voice low but urgent. “The weight of it. That might work.”

Before I could respond, the sound of boots on stone grew louder, and two guards burst into the corridor, their weapons drawn and their faces set in grim determination. Their eyes scanned the scene, taking in the toppled bucket, the spreading water, and the two of us frozen mid-task.

“What happened here?” one of them barked, his tone sharp as his gaze flicked between us.

Clara stepped forward, her expression shifting into one of nervous deference. She wrung her hands, her movements quick and fidgety as she avoided their gaze. “It—it was my fault,” she stammered, her voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. “I—I was moving the bucket, and it slipped. It—it must’ve been heavier than I realized, and the floor just... cracked.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, his gaze moving to the fissure on the floor. He crouched down, running a gloved hand over the jagged edges, his expression skeptical. “A bucket did this?” he asked, his tone dripping with doubt.

Clara nodded quickly, glancing back at me for support. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to nod as well. “It—it was full,” I said quietly, my voice shaking just enough to sell the story. “We didn’t mean to... we’ll clean it up, I swear.”

The second guard snorted his expression a mix of irritation and disbelief. “You servants,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Can’t even handle a bucket without making a mess.”

The first guard stood, his frown deepening as he stared at the crack for another long moment. Finally, he sighed, motioning to the other guard. “Tell the engineers to look at this later. Probably another fault in the old stone.” His tone was dismissive, but his eyes lingered on us for a moment longer as though weighing whether or not to press further.

Clara bowed her head, her voice meek. “Thank you, sir. We’ll be more careful.”

The guards exchanged a glance before turning and heading back toward the throne room, their footsteps receding into the distance. The tension in the air lingered, thick and heavy, even after they were gone.

Clara turned to me, her pale blue eyes wide and her face still pale. “That was too close,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What the hell was that, Lila?”

I didn’t answer, my heart still pounding as I stared down at the crack in the floor, now partially obscured by the spilled water. My secret had almost been exposed, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t be the last time. For now, though, we’d managed to buy a little more time—and with it, the faint hope that I might figure out what to do next.