The Crimson Crown

The faint rasp of the brush against the stone floor was the only sound I could focus on, the repetitive motion of scrubbing pulling me along like a marionette. My hands moved mechanically, the bristles scraping away at dirt and grime, though I barely registered what I was doing. The rhythm of it was mindless, the water in the bucket growing murky as the minutes stretched into eternity.

Clara worked beside me, her silence palpable. She didn’t try to speak, didn’t push me to break the stillness. Maybe she knew I wouldn’t respond. Maybe she felt it too—the weight of what we’d just witnessed. The King and Queen were gone, their lives stolen from them in front of us all. The memory of the sound—the snap, the gasp, the silence—played over and over in my mind, each loop more unbearable than the last. In that moment, our shared experience was a bridge that connected us, a mutual understanding of the pain we were both feeling.

I didn’t feel the ache in my knees or the burn in my arms as I scrubbed. My body was a hollow shell, moving on autopilot as my thoughts swirled like a storm. Every brushstroke felt futile, every scrape of the sponge a reminder of how little control I had over anything.

The Winds had abandoned us. Even they had gone silent in the face of such loss.

The Queen’s eyes haunted me, the final glance we shared before the end. The weight of her gaze, the unspoken command it carried, pressed heavily on my chest. She had seen me. She had known who I was, even in my servant’s disguise. And she had passed her strength to me at that moment, a silent blessing, a torch I was not ready to carry.

I blinked, my vision blurry with unshed tears as the bristles of the brush scraped over a deep crack in the stone. My hands trembled, my grip faltering for a moment before I forced myself to continue. My scrubbing grew more frantic, the water sloshing over the rim of the bucket as I worked harder, faster, trying to drown out the thoughts clawing at my mind.

“They’re gone,” I whispered to myself, the words slipping from my lips unbidden. The sound of my voice startled me, brittle and hollow.

Clara paused, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t speak, but her presence was steady, grounding in a way I didn’t deserve.

I lowered my head, my fingers tightening around the handle of the brush. My thoughts churned with images I couldn’t push away—the Queen’s regal posture, the King’s quiet strength, the way they stood so tall even as their lives were stripped from them. And then... the silence.

My hand slipped, the brush clattering against the stone. I froze, staring at it as my breathing grew shallow, my chest tightening with a mixture of grief and anger. The loss was unbearable, suffocating, but beneath it all, a new feeling began to stir—a spark of something sharper, hotter. It was rage. It burned low and quiet for now, a smoldering ember buried beneath the ashes of my sorrow. But it was there, growing stronger with every passing moment, fueled by the injustice of it all.

Rage.

It burned low and quiet for now, a smoldering ember buried beneath the ashes of my sorrow. But it was there, growing stronger with every passing moment, fueled by the injustice of it all. Despite the overwhelming grief, a spark of something sharper, hotter, began to stir within me. It was a testament to our resilience, a sign that we were not defeated but ready to fight back.

The King and Queen were gone. My new parents. My kingdom. But their legacy... that was not dead yet. This realization, like a beacon in the darkness, gave me a glimmer of hope in the midst of my overwhelming grief.

I tried to keep it together. I really did. The brush scraped against the stone, the rhythm of it steady, controlled, giving me something—anything—to focus on. But the weight in my chest was unbearable, pressing harder and harder with every breath I took. My hands trembled against the handle, my grip unsteady as I scrubbed the same spot over and over, the world narrowing down to the sound of bristles against stone and the swirling thoughts in my head.

And then it cracked.

The first tear slipped down my cheek, warm and unwelcome. I blinked hard, willing it away, but the dam was broken, and another followed, then another. My chest tightened, my breaths coming faster, the grief crashing over me in a wave I couldn’t fight. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the tears from falling, didn’t stop the sound that escaped my lips—a soft, broken sob that I couldn’t hold back.

The brush slipped from my hand, clattering against the floor as I covered my face, my shoulders shaking as the weight of everything finally overwhelmed me. The King and Queen. The execution. The silence of the Winds. It all crashed down at once, too much to bear. I couldn't hold it in any longer. I broke down, my sobs echoing in the empty room.

“Liliana,” Clara’s voice was soft and tentative, and I felt her presence beside me before I could respond. A hand touched my shoulder, light but steady, and then she was pulling me toward her, wrapping her arms around me as I crumbled.

I buried my face against her shoulder, the tears falling freely now, soaking the rough fabric of her dress as I shook with sobs. “They’re gone,” I choked out, the words spilling from me in a broken whisper. “They’re gone, Clara. I—I couldn’t do anything.”

Clara’s arms tightened around me, her hand moving gently over my back in soothing circles. “I know,” she murmured, her voice steady and calm, even as I felt her tension beneath the surface. “I know, Lila. It’s not fair. None of it is.”

I clung to her, my hands gripping the fabric of her dress as though it could keep me from falling apart completely. Her warmth was a small comfort, a steady presence in the midst of the chaos swirling inside me. She didn’t try to hush me or tell me to stop crying. She just held me, letting me release everything I’d been holding in, letting me grieve.

Minutes passed—maybe longer. I didn’t know. Time felt meaningless as the sobs wracked my body, leaving me hollow and exhausted. Clara didn’t let go, didn’t pull away, even as my crying began to subside into hiccupping breaths. She stayed, her arms unyielding, a quiet anchor in the storm.

When I finally pulled back, my cheeks were flushed, my eyes swollen and puffy. I couldn’t meet her gaze, too ashamed of my outburst, but Clara didn’t seem to mind. Her hands remained on my shoulders, her grip gentle but firm.

“You’re allowed to cry,” she said softly, her voice tinged with an understanding that made my chest ache. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

I sniffed, wiping at my tear-streaked face with trembling hands. “I’m supposed to be,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I’m supposed to... to lead them. To be better.”

Clara shook her head slightly, her fingers giving my shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “You’re human, Liliana,” she said firmly. “And no one—no queen, no princess, no servant—can carry this alone. Let yourself feel it. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”

Her words struck a chord, the truth of them settling over me like a heavy but necessary weight. I nodded faintly, my hands still shaking as I drew in a deep, unsteady breath.

Clara held me for a moment longer, her grip strong but comforting, before finally pulling back, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders. Her expression was softer now, her usual sharpness replaced by something more thoughtful, almost pained. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched me as if gauging how much more I could take.

“Loss... it doesn’t get easier,” she said finally, her voice low, barely above a whisper. She sat back on her heels, brushing her hands against her apron. “But it changes. You learn to carry it differently. I’ve had to.”

I blinked at her, her words breaking through the fog that still hung over me. Her tone wasn’t pitying; it was steady, grounded, as though she spoke from a place of deep understanding.

“You?” I managed, my voice hoarse from crying.

Clara glanced away, her fingers tracing the edge of the sponge she’d set aside. “You’re not the only one who’s lost people, Liliana,” she said simply. Her tone wasn’t bitter, but there was a weight to it that made my chest ache. “The world isn’t kind. It wasn’t kind to me, either.”

She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push her to. Something about the way her shoulders tensed told me she wasn’t ready to share more, at least not now. But her words lingered, her pain reaching across the space between us and settling beside my own.

“What do you do?” I asked softly, my voice shaking slightly. “How do you... keep going?”

Clara’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze focused on the bucket between us. “You don’t have a choice,” she said finally, her tone blunt but not unkind. “You wake up, you keep moving, and you find little things to hold onto. People, moments, even just a bit of hope. You let that carry you forward, one step at a time.”

Her words hung in the air, and I nodded faintly, her advice both grounding and overwhelming at once. One step at a time. I could do that... couldn’t I?

“Come on,” she said gently, rising to her feet and offering me a hand. “We’ve got work to do. Sitting here won’t make it better.”

I hesitated for a moment before taking her hand and letting her pull me to my feet. My body felt heavy, my movements sluggish, but I forced myself to pick up the sponge and dip it back into the bucket of soapy water. The numbness hadn’t lifted, not entirely, but Clara’s presence gave me just enough strength to move.

We worked in silence at first, the sound of scrubbing filling the air. Clara occasionally glanced my way, her gaze lingering as though she wanted to say more, but she didn’t push. Finally, as I scrubbed a stubborn stain from the stone floor, she spoke again, her tone lighter, more casual.

“Keep your strokes steady,” she said, nodding toward my sponge. “Less pressure, more movement. You’ll save your arms that way.”

Her advice was practical, her words cutting through the haze in my mind. I adjusted my grip, mimicking her movements, and found the work just a bit easier. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a small step forward.

The numbness remained, but Clara’s quiet presence, her unspoken understanding, and her steady rhythm gave me a thread to hold onto. One step at a time, she’d said. One sponge stroke, one moment, one breath. For now, that was enough.

The hours stretched on, the monotony of our work broken only by the rhythmic rasp of brushes against stone. The hallways were eerily silent, the usual bustling of servants absent, as though the castle itself mourned alongside us. Every so often, I’d glance at Clara, her movements steady and practiced, her focus unwavering. She didn’t speak, and I didn’t either; the silence between us was heavy but not unwelcome. It felt like all I could handle.

My arms ached, my knees throbbed from kneeling on the hard floor, but I kept scrubbing. The repetitive motion dulled the sharp edges of my thoughts, numbing me to the grief that simmered beneath the surface. It wasn’t peace, not really, but it was enough to keep me moving.

The faint light filtering through the high windows began to shift, the cold stone walls catching the warm hues of midday. Clara sat back suddenly, dropping her sponge into the murky water with a soft plop. She leaned back, stretching her arms above her head, her movements languid and unhurried.

“That’s enough for now,” she said, glancing toward the window as she rolled her shoulders. “It’s lunchtime.”

I looked up from my work, blinking as though waking from a dream. The realization that hours had passed settled over me, my body heavy with exhaustion as I dropped my brush into the bucket beside me. Clara stood, brushing off her apron, and extended a hand toward me.

“Come on,” she said, her voice softer now, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve earned it.”

I hesitated for a moment, the ache in my knees making me reluctant to move, but her steady gaze was insistent. Taking her hand, I let her pull me to my feet, the joints in my legs protesting the movement. My hands were sore and raw from the scrubbing, and my shoulders were stiff, but Clara’s support helped steady me.

“We’ll get the rest of it after,” she said casually, waving toward the section of the hall we hadn’t yet reached. “No one’s rushing us.”

I nodded faintly, letting her guide me toward the bucket to rinse my hands in the cleaning closest. The cold water was a brief relief against my raw skin, and I took a deep breath, the simple act grounding me. Clara handed me a towel, her expression light but watchful as I dried my hands.

As we made our way toward the dining hall, the silence between us began to shift. It wasn’t as oppressive as before, the weight of the morning still present but less suffocating. For the first time all day, I felt the faintest flicker of something other than despair—a sliver of normalcy, fragile and fleeting, but enough to keep me moving forward.

The walk to the dining hall was quiet, save for the faint rustle of our skirts, the crinkle of our diapers, and the soft tapping of our shoes against the stone floor. My heart thudded with a familiar unease as we rounded the final corner, half-expecting Mistress to be waiting there, her sharp eyes ready to pick apart every flaw in our appearance. But to my relief, the corridor was empty, the ominous presence of her inspections absent for the moment.

Clara glanced at me, her brow furrowed slightly as though she shared the same tension, but when no one appeared, she let out a soft breath. “Looks like we’re lucky today,” she murmured, her tone subdued.

I nodded faintly, unable to muster more than a small sigh of agreement. My body ached from the morning’s work, and my mind was still heavy with the weight of the day before. Any reprieve, no matter how small, felt like a gift.

As we stepped into the dining hall, the usual low hum of conversation felt muted, the air thick with unspoken grief that seemed to hang over the room like a storm cloud. Servants moved about with quiet efficiency, their faces drawn and pale. Even the clatter of bowls and spoons seemed softer, subdued, as though everyone was afraid to make too much noise.

Clara and I moved to the line, filling our bowls with the same bland porridge we ate every day. The routine was familiar, comforting in its simplicity, but the heavy silence that surrounded us made it feel hollow. I glanced around as we made our way to a table, noticing the way the other servants avoided meeting each other’s eyes, their shoulders hunched as though carrying invisible burdens.

We settled into our usual spot near the edge of the hall, Clara sitting across from me as she stirred her porridge absently. I mirrored her motions, the spoon moving through the thick mixture in slow, methodical circles, though I didn’t feel the hunger that usually accompanied the grueling mornings.

“Everyone’s still reeling,” Clara said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn’t look at me, her gaze fixed on her bowl. “The executions... it’s shaken them.”

I swallowed hard, the memory of the nooses tightening around the King and Queen flashing through my mind. The lump in my throat returned, heavy and unrelenting, but I forced myself to nod. “It’s not just them,” I murmured, my voice trembling slightly. “It’s the whole kingdom.”

Clara looked up then, her eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. She didn’t say anything, but the look she gave me was heavy with understanding. She didn’t need to say it—we both knew the truth. The loss of the King and Queen wasn’t just a blow to the royal family; it was a wound that cut deep into the heart of the kingdom itself.

Around us, the hall remained subdued, the occasional whispered conversation barely breaking the heavy silence. Servants ate quickly, their movements efficient but joyless, the usual chatter of the room replaced by a sad quiet that felt oppressive. Even Clara, usually sharp and quick with her observations, seemed to have little to say, her gaze occasionally drifting toward the windows as though searching for something beyond the walls.

I took a small bite of the porridge. It tasted as bland as ever, but even that felt like too much. My appetite was gone, replaced by the hollow ache of grief and uncertainty. For now, I kept my head down and my spoon moving, trying to hold onto the faint thread of normalcy that the meal provided. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do to keep myself from falling apart.