Esther and two guards are waiting near the grand entrance, their heads bowed. I step in slowly, the hem of my deep-blue dress brushing the white marble floor. It isn't mourning black anymore, but I'm not ready for color either. This is... the in-between. And that's where I am now between pain and purpose.
Inside, the palace feels altered. As if the walls themselves have exhaled sorrow. The grand chandelier has been dimmed. The hallways whisper instead of echoing.
When we reach our wing, I pause at the doorway. I don't know why I'm afraid. Maybe because I left a version of myself behind when we went to Wild Villa and I'm not sure who will greet me now.
Esther opens the doors gently. "We've made it fresh, Your Highness," she says softly. "Only what you asked for remains."
My breath catches.
The cradle is gone.
In its place, by the tall window that faces the gardens, stands a round table with a low vase of white orchids and purple hyacinths for strength, forgiveness, resilience. I step toward it slowly, fingertips brushing the petals. A note rests beside the vase in Esther's handwriting.
"This isn't forgetting. It's choosing to continue."
My throat tightens. I don't cry. Not anymore. The tears have already carved their place inside me.
Cassian steps in behind me but doesn't speak. He places one hand at the small of my back and kisses my shoulder lightly before stepping out again. Giving me space. Letting me find myself again, on my own terms.
I sink into the edge of the bed, running my fingers along the embroidery of the cover. There's a strange stillness here now. Not emptiness. Not sadness. Just quiet.
And I realize... I need the quiet.
I rise, walk toward the large mirror across the room, and pause.
The girl staring back at me has changed.
Still me but deeper. Still royal but sharper. Not a victim of pain, but a witness of it.
And maybe... maybe that's enough to begin again.
***
I fall asleep without realizing it.
When I open my eyes, I'm in the library.
Not just the palace library, my library. Where I go when I need silence, when the world outside is too loud. Everything is as it always is; warm-toned shelves, the heavy velvet drapes, my old notes scattered across the desk.
And the portrait.
The Judge King.
His painted eyes follow me again, like they always do. But tonight, they feel different. Not watchful. Present.
"Celeste," a deep voice calls.
I turn. He's not in the portrait anymore.
He's standing near the window, half in shadow, half in moonlight. Dressed in his ceremonial robes, trimmed in gold. There's calm in his face, not softness, but the kind that comes with great knowing.
"Your time is not later," he says. "It is now."
I take a step toward him. "But I'm still gathering myself…"
"Then gather fast. This kingdom waits. The throne you fear has already turned toward you."
"I didn't come for power," I whisper.
"Good. Then you're ready."
He walks toward the center of the room and places something on the table, a simple wooden gavel. The kind judges use. The kind he once held. The kind I used to admire in his courtroom portraits.
"You were born for more than survival. Rise from this. Do not be empty, but equipped."
His voice echoes, not just in the room, but somewhere deep in me.
"Do not hide from your name. Or your light. The time for mourning is passing. You know what must come next."
And just like that.
He's gone.
The portrait is back in place. Silent. Still.
But I remain standing, a strange fire kindling in my chest.
I wake up at dawn, still holding the blanket close to me, but my fingers feel like they're gripping something heavier.
I sit up. The weight of the dream lingers but not like sorrow, but like direction.
I don't cry.
I don't crumble.
I rise.
Later tonight, I return to our bedroom.
Cassian is already in bed, reading, the lamp casting a warm glow across his face. He looks up as I enter, and for a moment, we just gaze at each other; no sadness, no expectations. Just presence.
"You stayed out long today," he says, setting his book aside.
"I visited the library," I reply, slipping under the covers beside him. "And the gardens. Even spoke to Esther about resuming school fully."
He smiles, gently, with pride. "She's coming back."
"She never really left," I say. "She just needed time to breathe."
Cassian reaches over and takes my hand beneath the sheets, weaving his fingers through mine.
We lie in silence for a while. Not heavy silence. A comforting one. The kind that says we're still here.
And as I rest my head on his shoulder, I whisper to the quiet air between us:
"Tomorrow, I begin again."
***
"It's been nearly two moons since we laid our daughter to rest—since the palace walls echoed with solemn hymns instead of laughter. Grief hasn't left, but purpose has quietly taken its place."
The air outside the palace carries a different kind of electricity today, one stirred not by protocol or politics, but by purpose.
Cassian and I stand beneath a large ivory pavilion outside the palace gates, where rows of golden chairs spread across the sunlit courtyard. The banners read: Matica First Hearts Foundation — A New Dawn Begins.
It's our initiative.
Our first public charity event.
And it's open to the people.
Food banks, scholarships, maternal care, and post-trauma support — the very things I once dreamed of when the world bruised me and offered no balm. Today, they take form.
Cassian adjusts my mic and smooths the sleeve of my blazer before stepping back with a proud nod.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
"As I'll ever be."
When I step forward, the chatter fades. The crowd stretches from the courtyard to the main road, a blend of nobles, city folk, pressmen, students… even guards out of uniform.
And then there are the council members, seated in front, watching with uncommon admiration.
And above them all, in a private canopy, the Queen sits, stony-faced, hands folded in her lap. Beside her, Shea leans forward, eyes narrow and unreadable.
But I don't speak for them.
I speak for the Matica I believe in.
"I once stood where many of you stand today; unknown, unheard, and uncertain of what tomorrow might bring," I begin, my voice steady through the mic. "But Matica taught me something: survival is not enough. We must build. We must heal. We must help others rise."
Heads nod across the rows. I keep going.
"This foundation is not a gift, it is a promise. A promise that the palace will no longer be a silent fortress. That the crown will no longer sit in isolation. We are stepping down from marble staircases… and into the hearts of our people."
Cassian watches me with awe, his pride nearly tangible.
"We launch this foundation today not as a display of power but as an act of love. Of unity. Of service."
When I end with the words, "Let us become the nation that lifts each other," … the applause swells like thunder.
A standing ovation rises across the entire courtyard.
Some of the council members even wipe their eyes. Others lean into one another with whispers of "she's the one," and "she belongs on that throne beside him."
But the Queen doesn't rise. She doesn't clap.
Her expression remains unreadable; lips pursed, eyes trained on me as though trying to unravel a puzzle she never meant to complete.
Shea whispers something to her.
She merely nods once and looks away.
But I don't look back.
I step down from the podium and walk straight to Cassian, who wraps me in a proud, silent embrace.
"You were perfect," he murmurs into my ear.
And for the first time in a long while, I feel it, that sense of destiny meeting preparation.
The crown might still be distant.
But today, I wore power in a different form:
My voice.
My purpose.
And the people heard me.