The palace is unlike itself today.
Gone is the gleam of royalty, the shine of politics, the hum of power. In its place is silence. A reverent, fragile hush that hovers in every corridor, echoing softly through the halls like a held breath.
Today is for her.
My daughter.
Our princess.
There are no cameras. No paparazzi hiding behind marble columns. The Queen banned them herself. "This," she said, "is not for spectacle. This is for remembrance."
The entire nation has been asked to pause. For one day only; no public broadcasts, no national music, no celebrations. Mática holds its breath with us.
In the palace atrium, they've created something like heaven.
Sunlight spills in through the great glass ceiling, filtered through drapes of white silk that fall like clouds from the rafters. The floor is dusted in white petals. At the center rests the cradle, not a coffin but a masterpiece carved of crystal and glass, shaped like a blooming lily.
Inside, wrapped in pale lavender silk, lies the smallest royal I've ever seen.
My child.
Cassian stands beside me in silence. He's dressed in a ceremonial white tunic embroidered with gold leaves. No sash. No weapon. Just a grieving father.
The Queen Mother is already seated in the front row, her face unreadable but her eyes glassy. Amalia sits at her right, head bowed.
Dignitaries line the outer rows. Foreign ambassadors, nobles, and ministers from every province have come. The senators wear white armbands with her insignia stitched in silver thread, a swan and a lily. No one wears black. Not a single person.
Instead, we wear white.
White, for innocence.
Silver, for her lineage.
Lilac, for memory.
The choir; children, no older than ten, begins to sing. A lullaby. Soft and slow. A song composed in her honour. The harpists behind them pluck strings that sound like rain and hope colliding in the air.
And then it's my turn.
I rise and walk forward alone. The crowd parts for me like a tide, but I keep my eyes ahead, on her.
The microphone stands just a few steps from the cradle.
I inhale once. Only once. Then I begin.
"She was light. A soft, golden kind of light. The kind you don't know you need until it warms your chest, fills your lungs, and makes you believe again.
Her time here was brief, yes. But it was sacred. Because in that short breath of existence, she changed the air around her. She softened a kingdom.
She taught her mother, me, that life doesn't always need to be long to be meaningful.
She came quietly. She left quietly.
But she leaves behind echoes that will never die."
The atrium stays silent, unmoving. Even the babies in arms do not cry.
I glance down at her again. Her face is calm, almost wise.
"You were my daughter… but you were also Mática's daughter. Our sunrise child. Our prophecy, fulfilled.
And when history tells your story, I hope it includes this;
You were deeply and wildly loved.
I will carry you in every breath I take. I will live because you didn't get to. I will smile because you never cried.
And I will wait. Until the stars shift. Until the wind sings again.
I will wait."
I lean down, lips brushing her forehead, and whisper:
"I will wait for you to return… just as Grandpa said."
When I turn around, I feel the Queen's eyes on me. She doesn't blink. She just watches and I realize then, for the first time, that she sees me not just as a daughter-in-law…
…but as a mother.
And maybe something more.
Then come the final rites.
At exactly noon, the great bell tolls three times; once for her birth, once for her legacy, and once for her farewell.
The Royal Guards, four women dressed in ceremonial silver, step forward to lift the crystal cradle. Behind them, the choir's song fades into a hush. And from the palace's highest balcony, twenty-one white doves are released into the sky.
They scatter like hope, rising higher than I can watch.
We walk slowly behind the cradle, Cassian, then me, then the Queen. Then the rest of the family.
She is buried beneath the Lily Court, a sacred garden within the palace. Reserved only for royals who pass in innocence, children, mostly. No tombstones. Only living things. Hers is a jacaranda tree, planted in soft, fresh earth with roots that promise return.
A plaque is laid beside it, simple and elegant:
"Here blooms the light that once lived in us."
When it's done, the people begin to drift away in silence. The garden empties. The sun hangs low in the sky, purple and gold.
Cassian holds my hand tightly, and for the first time since her birth, I feel warmth again; faint, like a pulse under water.
The pain is still here.
But so is the promise.