Part II – The Day the Sky Fractured
It happened just days after the school's joyous opening—when children still ran barefoot through courtyards, their laughter rising like wind chimes in spring. Charlotte had become a symbol—not of rule, but of renewal. And for once, the kingdom basked in something warmer than tradition. It basked in hope.
Even the nobles, typically allergic to change, had begun to whisper. Some admired the reforms. Others scoffed—but even scoffing meant they'd noticed. That morning's council had ended with the Duke of Tarrow half-jokingly asking if glitter would soon be added to the royal seal.
Charlotte had merely smiled.
And then the world tipped.
That morning, Charlotte strolled the school's corridors with Mira, her voice soft as she taught the signs for library, friend, and finally, danger.
Mira mimicked each gesture with quiet determination—brow furrowed, eyes bright with purpose.
"Good," Charlotte said gently, adjusting Mira's fingers. "If anyone ever makes you uncomfortable, you use this. Show a teacher. Elias. Me."
Mira looked up and signed, Even you?
Charlotte knelt to meet her gaze. "Especially me."
Mira grinned—crooked teeth flashing, pride lighting up her cheeks.
The palace gardens were in bloom—roses tangled in riotous color, lavender shivering in the breeze, and swans gliding across the fountain like ghosts.
Charlotte walked ahead, hand in hand with Mira. "We'll plant sunflowers at the school," she said. "They always follow the light."
Elias trailed behind, silent, watchful.
And then—
A spark.A shadow.The silence broke.
A figure exploded from the hedge—steel flashing in the light, robes whipping in motion.
Elias roared, raw and unhuman, lunging forward—but he was too far.
Charlotte turned. She didn't scream.
She shoved Mira behind her.
Steel carved across her side.
Pain bloomed. Blood soaked her bodice.
Mira didn't make a sound.
Her silence was thunder.
Time fractured.
Charlotte staggered, one hand pressed to her side. Wet. Hot. Sharp.
Elias crashed into the attacker like a tempest. Steel shrieked. Bones cracked. The man shrieked in a language twisted by rage.
More guards rushed in. The assassin—broken and frothing—was dragged away, one arm dangling, curses spilling from his lips.
Blood dripped from Charlotte's fingers.
Elias turned to her, stricken. "You're hurt."
"I've been worse," she said through her teeth. "In another life."
He stared. But there was no time to ask questions.
Mira dropped to her knees beside Charlotte. Her small hands touched the blood, then moved in rapid, wild signs.
You. Stay. Don't. Leave.
Charlotte winced but reached for her. "I'm not going anywhere."
Mira clutched her arm and buried her face in the bloodstained fabric. Her fists clenched. Her silence roared.
A vow was born in her eyes.
News traveled faster than pain.
An attempt on the princess's life. In the gardens. On palace grounds.
The council chamber erupted.
Some blamed zealots—furious about the princess's compassion for refugees.
Others whispered of traitors in silk—nobles disturbed by her rising star.
"She's become a messiah to peasants and orphans," Lord Brixton snapped. "And messiahs make enemies."
"She's a child," someone shouted.
"No," the Queen said from her throne, her voice cold and distant. "She's not. Not anymore."
The wound was shallow, but long. The surgeon knelt, pale and sweating, as Charlotte lay on the table and refused sedation.
Elias never left her side. His sword lay across his knees, boots still stained with blood.
"I failed you," he whispered.
"No," she murmured. "You caught me."
Mira stayed too—curled at the foot of Charlotte's bed each night, always touching her wrist. As though if she let go, Charlotte might disappear.
By the fifth day, Charlotte was out of bed and pacing.
"I'm creating a new guard for the school," she announced, voice like flint.
"You mean assigning one," Elias said.
She shook her head. "No. Creating. A new order. Women. Orphans. Survivors. People like Mira. People who can't be bought. Or silenced."
He studied her, arms crossed. "And what will you name them?"
She paused. "The Vigilant."
He nodded. "Then I'll train them myself."
Charlotte looked up, startled.
"You said you're done playing court games," Elias said. "So am I."
And for the first time in days, Charlotte smiled.
It was not soft.
It was sovereign.
That evening, by candlelight, Mira traced danger into Charlotte's palm.
Charlotte closed her fingers around the small hand and signed back: Safe. Now.
But she knew that wasn't entirely true.
Not yet.
Somewhere in the dark, someone still wanted her silenced.
But Charlotte was no longer afraid of being loud.
She would rise—brighter, bolder, louder.
She would become impossible to ignore.