A knock, firm and exact, echoed against the carved door.
She didn't answer — just stared at the shadows on her wall, still feeling the weight of that woman's voice tangled in her chest. But the door creaked open anyway. That's how it always went. Her silence was never enough to stop duty.
The servant entered, cloaked in pale green robes threaded with silver. Her steps were silent, practiced. Fae-blooded, undoubtedly. Sharp cheekbones, sharper eyes — and not unkind, but not exactly warm either. Like a statue that had been told to smile once, a very long time ago, and decided not to try again.
"Your Highness," she said softly. Not gently. Just the words, clean and formal. "You are summoned to the royal breakfast."
The girl nodded absently, her mind still fogged with crimson light and crumbling gardens.
Without speaking, she let the servant guide her — lifted her arms so the sleeves of her gown could slip over her shoulders, turned her head slightly so her tangled hair could be pulled into a loose braid. The brush caught in knots, and she winced once, quietly.
"You didn't sleep well," the servant observed, not as a question. "Was it… one of the dreams again?"
The girl hesitated, fingers curling into the lace at her sleeve.
"I remembered something," she murmured. "But I don't know if it was mine."
The servant paused. Just for a breath. Then continued weaving the braid, as if she'd heard nothing at all.
---
By the time she entered the grand hall, the gold light from the stained glass was already pooling across the table, casting jeweled shadows across white plates and untouched fruit. Her father — the High King — was seated at the far end. Surrounded by advisors. Surrounded by pure fae.
He did not look up.
Neither did the queen. Not her mother, not truly — her father's wife. With eyes like frostbite and lips set in stone.
The girl sat at her place. Third chair from the end. Far enough that the crown's shadow didn't reach her.
Her presence was acknowledged only in silence — no greeting, no glance, just the gentle clink of crystal and gold. She placed a strawberry on her plate. It bled slightly when she pressed the knife through it.
She imagined, briefly, what they would say if she stood on the table and shouted the poem. If she recited it in that broken voice, in front of them all.
Would they stop chewing?
Would they recognize it?
Or would they still pretend she was just a quiet, mortal-ruined half-blood girl?
She swallowed the thought. And the berry. Bitter.
The servant stood silently behind her, gaze locked forward, like a blade sheathed in silk.
The girl lowered her eyes.
But inside — beneath bone and blood — the poem still burned.