The castle roof was not meant for anyone. It was a place of solitude, a haven for the moon, the stars, and the occasional flash of lightning. Yet Charlotte, ever the rule-breaker, found herself there often. It was her sanctuary—quiet, removed from the intrigues of the court and the demands of her family. Here, at the palace's highest point, the world seemed smaller. The weight of everything could be shrugged off, if only for a moment, as she gazed up at the heavens.
Tonight, however, she was not alone.
The firstborn sat cross-legged on the slate slabs, her coat wrapped tight around her thin frame, the fabric billowing in the wind like a black flag. Her hair, dark and loose, tumbled around her face, caught by the cool night breeze. She was a spirit of quiet rebellion, as though the roof were a space where the rules of the world did not hold sway over her. Between them sat only a small lantern, its soft golden glow a fragile light against the encroaching darkness. The flame flickered, as if uncertain of the weight of the words to come.
Charlotte ascended beside her with care, her boots making soft, steady taps against the stone. She sat next to the firstborn, mindful not to disturb the lantern, and set it carefully between them—a tiny island of warmth in the vast sea of night.
For a long while, neither spoke. Below them, the city lay in silence, a still sea of rooftops and streets, its usual hum reduced to a distant murmur. Above, the stars hung like distant witnesses, blinking softly in the dark velvet sky, as though observing with the same guarded curiosity that the two women shared for each other.
The first to speak was Charlotte, her voice barely above the whisper of the wind.
"I never thought you'd be real," she said, her words falling like a pebble into the quiet.
The firstborn turned her head, her eyes dark as mirrors, reflecting the lantern's light as she glanced sideways at Charlotte. "And I didn't think anyone would search for me," she replied softly, the words drifting around them with no malice—only a cold, aching emptiness that stood between them like a paused note in a song.
Charlotte reclined against the icy slate of the roof, her hands cupping the rough texture of the stone. She carefully adjusted the lantern, its glow casting a fragile warmth in the expanse of darkness between them.
"When I was younger," Charlotte began, her voice distant, "I used to wish I had a sister. Someone who would understand what it meant to be… observed. Expected."
The firstborn gave a small, rueful laugh, light but heavy with a sorrow Charlotte alone could sense. "I used to pretend I was a princess once," she said, the words tinged with a bittersweet sadness. "It felt safe. Like something beautiful was hidden in me. Something worth waiting for."
Charlotte's gaze softened. "You're not pretending anymore."
A breeze stirred between them, colder than the last. It was the kind of wind that carries secrets, the whispered truths too raw to speak aloud.
The firstborn tugged at the hem of her sleeve, a nervous gesture. "Do you think they believe in the prophecy?" she asked, her voice low, heavy with uncertainty.
Charlotte's gaze wandered toward the distant rooftops, her eyes distant as she pondered the question. "I used to mock things like that," she whispered, the words edged with a bitter experience. "I grew up in a world where prophecies were nothing more than convenient plot devices—just a way for writers to avoid making hard decisions. Simple solutions. Tidy conclusions."
The firstborn looked at her, confusion flickering across her face for a moment. Charlotte waved her hand, dismissing the question. "Never mind," she muttered, a little mortified.
The silence that followed was different now—more comfortable, as though they were finding common ground on this rooftop, under the vastness of the sky. The lantern flickered, casting soft shadows on their faces, the only thing separating them from the chill of the night.
Charlotte took a deep breath, her fingers tracing the rim of the lantern, her mind turning inward. "I don't know what it means," she said softly, her voice quieter now. "Sunlight and shadow. Perhaps it means we'll fight. Perhaps it means we won't. Perhaps it means the world will finally have to stop pretending that only one of us can be."
The firstborn turned her head toward her, her gaze thoughtful and intense. "You sound like someone who's always known how this story ends," she said, her tone a mixture of awe and curiosity.
Charlotte's eyes fixed on the flickering lantern between them, as if it held the answer she was too afraid to speak aloud. "I don't," she replied quietly, the words barely more than a whisper. "Not anymore."
They remained in silence for a while longer, the wind gently ruffling their hair, the cold settling around them. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, but neither moved away. There was something natural about the unspoken understanding between them, something delicate yet unshakeable.
Then, unexpectedly, the firstborn leaned over, gently resting her head on Charlotte's shoulder. The contact was brief, but it carried a weight of trust Charlotte wasn't prepared for. She didn't move away. Instead, she let the moment linger, her breath catching in her throat as the world seemed to pause around them.
The firstborn's voice was barely a whisper. "Whatever happens," she murmured, "don't let them turn us into enemies."
Charlotte's throat tightened, the words lodging in her chest. She didn't answer immediately, letting the weight of the request sink deep within her heart.
"I won't," Charlotte promised softly, her voice husky but resolute. "Unless you try to steal my books."
The firstborn snorted, a light, airy sound. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a full, genuine laugh that shattered the silence. It wasn't a chuckle; it was raw and unguarded, full of edges and warmth.
And for one small, fragile moment, the world felt big enough for both of them. Big enough for their different paths, for the stillness that had settled between them in the glow of the flickering lantern and the wind-swept darkness.
Even if the storm was coming, they had this: a brief moment of peace, shared on the rooftop under the watchful gaze of the stars.