The palace was a gilded prison.
Amiya fucking hated it.
Every hallway glittered with chandeliers that hung like stars, each a perfect beacon of wealth, and tapestries worth more than the combined income of several villages, but none of it mattered. Behind all the silken fabrics and carved marble was the crushing weight of expectation, a silent force pressing against her chest, suffocating every breath she took. Every smile, every nod, every movement—everything was for show. She wasn't a person here. She was a symbol.
A perfect princess. That was the role she was forced to play.
Her room, while grand and seemingly a portrait of opulence, felt more like a meticulously designed cage than a sanctuary. The wardrobe was filled with gowns, delicate silks and velvets, each one chosen not by her but by a team of stylists who decided what a princess should wear. The bookshelves overflowed with volumes of philosophy, politics, and histories written by men who'd never considered the thoughts of the women they wrote about. Nothing in this place felt real to her. It wasn't her life—it was the one she was forced to act out, day in and day out.
Amiya stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. Her silver hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, catching the light like threads of moonlight. Her violet eyes locked onto her own gaze, the frustration that swelled within her almost palpable. People called her beautiful. They called her regal, perfect, but when she looked at herself, all she saw was a woman trapped in a role she didn't choose, performing in a life that wasn't her own.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she called, already knowing who it was.
Liora stepped inside, her presence as calming as always. The hazel eyes that met Amiya's in the mirror were warm, understanding, a small flicker of something more than servitude. Liora wasn't just her handmaiden. She was the closest thing Amiya had to a friend. But even Liora walked the tightrope of palace expectations. She had to, for her own survival.
"The council is waiting, Your Highness," Liora said, her tone polite but carrying the weight of unspoken understanding.
Amiya rolled her eyes and turned away from the mirror, her lips curling into a bitter smile. "Of course they are. Gods forbid the show start late."
Liora hesitated at the door, her gaze lingering a moment longer than usual. "Shall I accompany you?" she asked softly, offering more than just a formal gesture.
"No," Amiya said, her voice carrying a note of finality. She tugged on her gloves with purpose, the simple action grounding her for a moment. Beneath the silk, the familiar weight of the dagger hidden within her skirts gave her a sense of reassurance. No one knew about it. No one except her. She had found the dagger years ago, hidden behind ancient tomes in the royal library. It had been rusty, forgotten, but she had cleaned it and sharpened it herself, teaching her hands to hold it with precision, mimicking the movements from dusty combat manuals and scraps of overheard instruction.
Not that she would ever be able to fight—at least not in any real sense—but knowing it was there, hidden in the folds of her gown, gave her a small sense of power. A sense that perhaps one day, she might choose to use it.
Liora watched her, as if weighing her next words carefully. Finally, she sighed, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Be careful, Amiya."
It wasn't "Your Highness." Just Amiya.
The small, personal reminder felt like a lifeline in the suffocating atmosphere of the palace. Amiya nodded, though her thoughts were already elsewhere.
She stepped out into the hallway, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind her. The corridors of the palace were dimly lit, the sconces flickering weakly against the encroaching darkness. The silence was oppressive tonight, thicker than usual, like the air itself was holding its breath. The only sound was the soft echo of her heels against the polished marble floor, marking the rhythm of her steps.
Amiya's heart raced in time with the beat of her steps, a dull thrum in her chest. The council meeting awaited her. They had been waiting for her to show up and fulfill her role once again—seen, but never heard. She would sit there, nod at the right moments, and leave without offering a single opinion. That was her place here: a doll in a glass box, a figurehead who held no real power.
As she moved deeper into the hallway, she passed two guards standing at their posts. They barely acknowledged her, their eyes half-lidded, lost in their own worlds. Amiya didn't need to look twice to see that they were no more than statues. Their indifference was typical. But tonight, something felt different. The silence felt heavier, like a tension in the air that hadn't been there before.
The hallway curved ahead, taking her toward the wing that led to the council chamber. Amiya had always followed this path countless times, a ritual she had come to dread. But tonight, something drew her away from it. A sound—soft, almost imperceptible—caught her ear.
A footstep that didn't belong.
She stopped mid-step, her breath catching in her throat. For a brief moment, she considered walking on. Ignoring it, as she always did. She should go to the council meeting. The performance couldn't wait. But there was something... unsettling about the noise. A whisper of movement, just out of reach.
Against her better judgment, Amiya turned, her steps quiet as she moved off the path. The hallway she entered was narrower, darker. Faded portraits of long-dead ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes following her as she walked. Their faces were forgotten by time, but their gazes seemed to linger as if waiting for her to falter.
The silence here was suffocating, as though the very air held its breath. It felt wrong. The hairs on her arms rose, a chill creeping up her spine. She continued down the hall, moving slowly, deliberately, as if the weight of something unseen pressed against her shoulders.
At the end of the hallway, she spotted a door slightly ajar. A lesser-used storage room. The door creaked open with a soft, protesting sound as she pushed it further, a sliver of moonlight spilling through the cracked shutters inside.
Dust hung in the air, floating like forgotten memories, catching the light in a soft, ethereal glow. The room smelled of old wood, of forgotten things. It was a place untouched by time or use, the air still, as though nothing had disturbed it in years.
And then she saw him.
A man stood in the center of the room. Tall, dressed in dark clothes that blended seamlessly with the shadows. His hood was pulled low, but his eyes—emerald green and sharp—caught the moonlight. They met hers with a cool, calculating gaze.
Amiya's hand immediately dropped to the dagger hidden within her skirts, her fingers brushing against the hilt. The cold steel was a comfort against the sudden tension that coiled within her.
"Who the hell are you?" Her voice was low but sharp, laced with authority she wasn't supposed to have.
The man didn't flinch. Instead, he smirked, the expression curving his lips in a way that made her stomach tighten with unease.
"Didn't think anyone actually came in here," he said, his voice smooth, almost amused.
Her gaze flickered to his hand, where he casually twirled a pendant between his fingers. It caught the moonlight, a flash of blue that made her heart skip.
That pendant—she recognized it. It was one of the royal family's. Not priceless, but still—something he had no business touching.
"That doesn't belong to you," Amiya said, her voice hardening.
He didn't look at the pendant, as if it were nothing more than a trinket. "Neither does half of this place," he said, his tone casual, as though it were a fact he had long since accepted.
Amiya stepped forward, her hand still resting on the dagger, the metal cool against her skin. "Put it back."
He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "And if I don't?"
"I'll make you," she said, the words escaping before she could think better of them.
The air between them thickened, taut with tension. He laughed—not mockingly, but with genuine amusement. "With that little knife of yours?" His gaze flicked to her side. "Cute."
The words stung, but she didn't back down.
"Try me."
For a long moment, neither of them moved, the silence between them electric. Her pulse was erratic, her breath shallow, and every muscle in her body screamed to act. To stop him. To make him pay for daring to trespass in this sacred place.
But the council meeting loomed at the back of her mind. She had to be there. She couldn't afford to miss it—not again. If she did, the consequences would be worse than the idle chatter and empty gestures that awaited her.
Reluctantly, her hand slid away from the dagger.
The man, seemingly sensing her hesitation, smiled darkly. "Smart choice."
With a sudden, fluid motion, he turned toward the window, his hand already pushing open the shutters.
"Don't even think about it," he said, his voice turning cold and commanding. The warning was clear.
Amiya hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to act, to stop him, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he was far more dangerous than she could handle.
With a final, mocking glance over his shoulder, he disappeared into the night.
Just like that.
Amiya stood there, breathless and shaken. Her fingers curled around the dagger again, as if to steady herself. The silence returned, but it was no longer comforting.
It was empty. The weight of her choice—the need to attend the meeting, the need to play her part—crushed her in that moment.
Amiya was once again a prisoner in the gilded cage she called home.