— Where Even Silence Could Be Heard —
The opening day of the school arrived with a crisp wind and a sky so blue it looked freshly laundered. Pennants snapped in the breeze, tethered to gleaming pillars and the brand-new gates—each embroidered with the royal crest… and a few, mischievously, with a hastily drawn cat wearing a crown.
It was unmistakably Princess Charlotte's personal touch.
The School of Voices, as it was now officially named, rose just beyond the capital—a wide, sunlit structure of warm stone, arched windows, and garden courtyards. Ramps sat beside stairs. Wide halls invited easy passage. Signs were marked with words and pictograms. The children inside peered shyly from behind polished glass, their new uniforms rumpled and bows askew—another quiet rebellion of Charlotte's, a nod to comfort over perfection.
By noon, the guests began to arrive: nobles in embroidered silks, the King and Queen in full regalia, and the Royal Council wearing their usual masks of skepticism. Near the front stood Elias, tall and stern in ceremonial armor, his gaze often drifting toward the center stage—where Charlotte was allegedly preparing the presentation.
Which, of course, was merely her cover for organizing something far more chaotic.
A Very Charlotte Ceremony
Princess Charlotte strode onto the stage with Mira at her side, both dressed in navy coats embroidered with winding silver vines. Mira signed the word for welcome, and Charlotte echoed it aloud before beginning what had been intended as a solemn speech.
And it did start out that way.
"For too long," Charlotte began, her voice steady, "children like Mira haven't had a seat at the table. Today, we change that. We declare—out loud, in plain words, and with as much mischief as we can carry—that every child is entitled to be heard."
Mira flashed a string of signs. Charlotte grinned.
"She says 'and cookies,' but I'm doing my best to ignore that part."
A ripple of laughter moved through the courtyard like sunlight through leaves.
And then—it began.
The Pranks Begin
As the Head Scholar approached to present a ceremonial gift to the King, a lifelike rubber mouse sprang from the velvet box. The Queen gave a most regal yelp. The King raised a brow and turned his gaze to Charlotte, who stood utterly composed—hands folded, the picture of innocence.
Then the Head Scholar's hat exploded in a fountain of glittering confetti, thanks to a hidden string tugged gleefully by one of the children. Laughter erupted from the crowd. Mira clapped silently, her grin wide enough to rival the sun.
Next, a particularly stuffy lord sat down only to discover that the seat had been subtly inked—leaving a perfectly stamped image of Whiskers the cat, monocle and all, on the back of his silk coat.
Elias groaned where he stood. "She promised me she'd behave."
"She is behaving," said a nearby court lady, dabbing her eyes from laughter. "This is Charlotte behaving."
The Surprise Performance
Finally came the closing event: a student performance. A few children stepped forward, visibly nervous.
Then Charlotte appeared—wearing a ridiculous fake beard—and Mira brandished a wooden spoon like a scepter.
They launched into a theatrical skit: a comedy spoof of the Royal Court.
Charlotte, playing the King, bellowed proclamations like:"I decree that all socks must match at all times—or ELSE!"
Mira replied with exaggerated signs and expressions that had even the most stoic nobles doubled over with laughter. The Queen was openly dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief.
Elias was reluctantly pulled onstage and made to wear a flower crown as "The Hero Who Didn't Know He Was Adorable." He flushed red but accepted his fate with a grim sort of grace.
A Perfect Ending
By the time the towering cake was cut—three layers of sponge and cream, iced with animals signing the alphabet—there wasn't a single guest who hadn't laughed until their sides ached. Even the most humorless councilman was chuckling, and the royal guards had not-so-secretly joined in the applause.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, guests filtered out in warm clusters, murmuring that this had been the most unforgettable royal event in decades.
The Queen leaned in and whispered to Charlotte, "It seems you've done something truly remarkable, my dear."
The King, flicking glitter from his collar, muttered, "Remarkable, yes. Orderly, no."
Charlotte beamed. "Order is overrated."
Later That Night
After the final guest departed and the courtyard stilled, Charlotte sat beside Mira beneath the lantern-lit sky. The soft sound of children's laughter still drifted from the dormitories like the fading strains of a lullaby.
Mira signed slowly: Happy?
Charlotte nodded, her reply as simple as it was true. Very.
And thus began the legacy of the School of Voices—not just founded on reading and arithmetic, but on empathy, joy, rebellion, and the undeniable truth that even the quietest voice, paired with a spoonful of mischief and a heart full of love, could echo across a kingdom.
And—perhaps for the first time in its history—the kingdom finally listened.