The sun barely dared to climb the gray morning sky, its light hesitant as it slipped through the heavy curtains cloaking the royal palace of the Third Kingdom. The entire kingdom seemed to be drowning in silence—
Not an ordinary stillness, but one that felt like the eerie void after a storm... or perhaps the calm before one.
Through the slivered light that leaked behind the drapes, the ivory floor shimmered with a subtle, broken elegance. Delicate engravings lay hidden across the marble surface—ancient, intricate, and unnoticed by all.
Far above, in a secluded wing of the palace, a quiet room floated like a secret.
Its walls were draped in velvet, the color of midnight—
Dark, rich blue that shimmered like ocean waves under moonlight.
Silver threads wove through the fabric, reflecting dim light from a massive chandelier that hung from the ceiling like a frozen constellation.
Thick curtains choked out every noise from the outside, as if this place—this moment—was suspended in time, half-asleep in luxurious stillness.
Neva lay on her bed, surrounded by a sea of pillows like feathers in a winter nest.
Her eyes, vast as a stormless sky, stared into nothing.
At that moment, her face did not resemble that of a child.
There was something ancient in her expression—
Like a soul far older than the body it inhabited.
She stared at the ceiling in silence. Then, slowly, as if conversing with the void, she murmured:
"Another morning... just like the last."
Her voice was soft, a mere whisper. Yet underneath it, a note of mockery rang clear—
Mockery of the rhythm, the monotony, the carefully choreographed nothingness that surrounded her.
Without rush, she sat up.
Her bare feet touched the silk carpet, cold as glass.
She didn't shiver. Instead, she smiled—faintly, knowingly—
as if the cold pleased her.
She turned her gaze toward the grand mirror resting in the corner of the room.
It was framed in gold, etched with symbols of old—
Circles within circles, winding lines like constellations or ancient maps.
Some said the markings represented the Five Kingdoms.
Others said they marked something far more mysterious.
Neva stood before her reflection in silence, examining herself as one might critique a statue.
Her skin was porcelain pale.
Her red hair fell short and tilted gently to the side.
At the edges of her face, her eyes glowed a glacial blue—
this morning, they looked like two shards of ice.
She lifted a brow and whispered with a touch of bitter amusement:
"Princess of the Third Kingdom… what a heavy crown."
A small voice passed beyond her door—barely audible, reciting words he had no doubt repeated countless times:
"Your Highness… it's time to prepare."
Neva did not reply.
Instead, she strolled to the window and pulled the thick curtain aside with slow grace.
She looked down upon the world.
From this height, the palace resembled a miniature city beneath her feet.
Gardens curved with impossible symmetry.
Artificial lakes shimmered like polished gems.
Servants moved in silence, their motions casting long shadows across stone corridors—
They walked like ghosts in the misty morning.
But Neva wasn't watching them.
Her eyes were fixed far beyond—
To the horizon where massive pillars touched the sky, and gray smoke drifted gently upward.
Factories? Maybe. Or something else entirely.
She sighed, a deep exhale that seemed to carry more than breath.
Then, with a cryptic smile, she whispered to herself:
"Even the sky hides her secrets… behind the fog."
Suddenly, she turned and made her way to the wardrobe.
The doors opened wide, revealing endless rows of royal garments.
She didn't hesitate.
She didn't choose anything lavish.
Instead, she picked a simple dress—dark green with a faint silver sash.
It was plain, by royal standards.
She wore it quickly, and while tying her hair in messy strands with deliberate care, she mused aloud:
"Let them waste their time on the parades and the heir…
I have plans of my own."
A knock came at the door, soft and rhythmic.
The same voice, whispering:
"Your Highness… breakfast awaits."
Neva responded, her voice cool and faintly teasing:
"Tell them I'm coming…
After I taste a little freedom."
Before she opened the door, she looked at her reflection once more.
Then, slowly, she said—
As if it were an oath:
"This performance… won't belong to you alone today."
And with that, she stepped out.
Her steps were light, yet each one carried the echo of a shadow.
Neva slipped through the corridors of the palace like a secret.
Though her path twisted through servants' halls and silent chambers, she moved as if every stone remembered her—
as if the palace itself parted to let her pass.
Soon, she reached the narrow passage leading to the great kitchen.
It was a world of its own—
Heat burst from ovens, fogging the air with scents of sugar, butter, and a hint of something burnt.
The clatter of knives sliced through the din like percussion,
Spoons tapping, pans hissing—
a sharp rhythm that could've been mistaken for music.
Then—
She stepped in.
And silence fell.
It dropped slowly, heavily, like a curtain drawn over a stage.
Even the fires dimmed.
Even the chefs, mid-motion, seemed to hesitate.
Even the stoves held their breath.
Neva entered the room like a queen among marionettes.
Her cold blue eyes scanned the scene,
Not in arrogance—
But with the quiet authority of someone who knew every string behind every puppet.
She walked forward and said gently, her voice smooth as silk:
"I need something sweet this morning."
It was not a request.
It was a declaration.
The old head chef tried to respond, his words seasoned with caution:
"Your Highness… this may not be the right place…
It may upset His Majesty…"
Neva lifted an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips—
A smirk sharp enough to slice.
"Anger doesn't cook on a quiet fire, old man," she said coolly.
"It burns kingdoms down."
The chef sighed—
Not in protest, but in surrender.
He knew better than to argue with a storm.
He stepped aside.
Neva moved toward the central table, where piles of ingredients sat unused—
flour, eggs, herbs, oils.
Odd combinations.
Things even the most daring chefs hesitated to touch.
She took her place.
Then she began to mix.
Her movements seemed random—
Yet beneath the surface, there was purpose.
Precision.
Each step, each stir, each pour—
A ritual disguised as mess.
A spell disguised as baking.
"A drop of nothing," she whispered,
"A sprinkle of disappointment…
A spoon of hope…
All soaked in rebellion."
She laughed softly to herself.
The servants watched her in confusion,
Uncomprehending, yet unable to look away.
When the dough was ready, she slid the cake into the oven.
She leaned forward, staring into the firelight.
The flames curled around the tin like hungry beasts.
And she murmured quietly:
"Everything ripens beneath the fire…
With truth."
Then—
A voice came from behind her.
Warm. Soft. Hidden.
"You look like a cake yourself, little one…
Still in need of more time to bake, troublemaker."
Everyone turned.
Their heads bowed instinctively.
The Queen had entered.
She was tall, dignified, with long black hair swept back with regal care.
A simple violet dress flowed around her—
Nothing flashy, but worn like a crown.
Her presence filled the kitchen with gravity.
No one dared to speak.
Except Neva.
She did not bow.
She turned slowly, a mischievous grin spreading across her lips.
Then, with theatrical cheer, she said:
"Oh, Mother…
Was it the chaos that drew you in, or the scent of cake?"
The Queen chuckled softly, her laugh both sweet and edged.
"It wasn't the cake," she said, eyes narrowed in amusement.
"It was your scent.
I could smell it from the far ends of the palace."
Neva laughed again—
a light, clear sound, filled with something almost innocent.
Almost.
"At least my scent doesn't lie to anyone."
The Queen approached,
Placing a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder.
But her gaze was not soft.
It held something more ancient. More aware.
She leaned close and whispered,
A thread of meaning running through her voice:
"Looks like everyone is preparing for the celebrations…
In their own way, hmm?"
Neva looked up at her, then smiled slowly.
She replied, her voice honeyed with sarcasm:
"Everyone loves a festival.
Some celebrate openly…
Others in secret."
Together, they laughed—quietly, privately.
It was a laugh that felt like a riddle the rest of the world couldn't solve.
Just before leaving, the Queen leaned down again, whispering one last thought into Neva's ear—
softer than breath, but sharper than any lesson:
"Enjoy this day…
It will never taste like the ones to come."
Neva stood still for a moment, eyes fixed on the cake in the oven.
Then she murmured, as if repeating an old truth:
"I know…
The real flavor never shows…
Until it's fully baked."
After her quiet rebellion in the kitchen, Neva made her way to the royal training hall.
This was the place where mannerisms were sharpened like blades—
Where tongues were polished to perfection,
Where posture, etiquette, and restraint were all rehearsed…
Like scenes in a play.
To Neva, it was exactly that—
A play.
No stage, no applause,
But a performance nonetheless.
The hall itself was massive—
Stone pillars stretched skyward like trees of marble.
Above them, stained-glass murals flickered in the shifting light,
Depicting long-forgotten glories of past kings.
Their painted eyes seemed to follow her from every angle,
As if judging… or waiting.
Neva sat lazily on a chair draped in crimson velvet,
Her legs crossed,
Facing Lady Melora—the royal instructor of etiquette.
Melora was a blade dressed as silk.
Her face sharp and cold,
Her voice soft, but never warm.
She had the kind of smile that could pass through glass without leaving a crack.
She began the day's lesson in a voice too smooth, too careful:
"These days, Your Highness,
One must perfect grace with even greater care.
The world watches words… and measures gestures."
Neva raised a single brow—subtle, yet enough—
And replied with innocent mockery:
"And how, exactly, does the world watch?
Do I flutter my spoon… or my eyelashes?"
The instructor allowed herself a faint, artificial smile—
A curve of the lips that never reached her eyes.
"Sometimes," she said softly,
"It is the simplest motions…
That move the greatest kingdoms."
Neva chuckled—
A quiet sound laced with bitterness.
"Oh, I know," she said,
"Some smiles kill more than swords."
Still, she complied with the lesson—at least on the surface.
She picked up her utensils and followed the gestures precisely,
As if acting out an old ritual passed down from ghosts.
Each motion rehearsed.
Each smile curated.
Each sip and glance, a move in a dance she did not believe in.
But her thoughts were elsewhere, floating far above the room.
Parades.
Heirs.
Ceremonies.
A procession of polished rot wrapped in velvet.
"I know how to bow when the time comes," she thought.
"That's all they want anyway."
The quiet ritual was broken when a servant stepped into the hall.
He approached Lady Melora and whispered discreetly into her ear.
The instructor nodded,
Then turned toward Neva with a formal smile and said:
"Your Highness… the theatre awaits.
His Majesty prefers it… entertaining. Prepare yourself."
Neva stood without a word.
She faced the mirror in the corner, staring at her reflection—
Not in admiration, but in analysis.
As if trying to see what lay behind the eyes.
Her mother's voice cut through the silence, crisp and commanding:
"Come now, Neva.
We mustn't be late for the festival."
Together, they exited the training hall.
Servants bowed as they passed, like blades bending under wind.
The golden marble corridors echoed with the silence of practiced order.
They stepped onto a high balcony,
Overlooking the city of the Third Kingdom—
Now cloaked in ceremonial splendor.
---
The Festival Begins
The Third Kingdom was a sculpture of civilization—
An architectural marvel sculpted in the image of Greco-Roman grace.
Its towers rose like pillars of ivory,
Its plazas bloomed with hanging gardens and wild blossoms.
Statues of ancient, mythical beasts stood proud in the squares,
Gazing down with hollow eyes.
The streets were paved with gleaming marble.
Music and drums echoed through the air,
Merging with the sound of laughter and cheer.
Scents of spices, perfume, and blooming flowers wove into the wind.
Vendors sold glittering sweets,
Drinks that shimmered in the sun,
And golden bubbles that floated lazily through the sky.
In the heart of the central square stood the grand monument—
The statue of "The Great Telescope."
A woman sculpted in stone, holding a dome of sky between her hands.
Her eyes shone with a soft, eternal light.
Neva and her mother climbed the wide steps,
The crowds parting silently to let them pass—
Not out of obedience, but awe.
They stopped at the highest platform.
Before them stood the sacred telescope—
An artifact of bloodlines.
Only the royals could look through it.
Neva stepped forward and gazed through the lens.
Her breath caught.
What she saw… defied description.
— A translucent being, its body like liquid glass, floated through a shapeless world.
Inside it, slow whirlpools churned like silent, watching eyes.
— A creature of stone, half-shattered, limped through the void.
Each step sent out tremors—vibrations that sliced through emptiness.
— A veiled shadow twisted in slow motion,
Its body woven from dust and forgotten letters,
Trailing particles like ancient secrets.
Neva whispered:
"They look like broken dreams…"
Her mother stood beside her, voice low and calm:
"Those are the Formative Beings…
They make deals with those who dare to pay the price.
They grant power—at a cost.
They are not weak.
To the royal bloodline… they are priceless."
Neva turned to her and asked, a hint of mischief in her voice:
"And what about the ones who aren't weak?"
Her mother smiled—cryptic and quiet.
"You'll see them…
When it's time."
As twilight descended, the Queen led Neva to the Royal Theatre.
The grand stage loomed with intricate carvings, its velvet curtains glowing under the golden light of floating lanterns.
Nobles sat within their ornate balconies, draped in jeweled silks and polished masks, murmuring like waves before a storm.
Laughter shimmered, hushed and hollow.
And then—
The curtain rose.
The performance began with flair and farce:
A retelling of the First King of the Five Kingdoms…
Told not as legend, but as parody.
The actor portraying the King stumbled onto the stage,
Clad in a robe too heavy and a crown too large—so massive he could barely move.
He spoke in over-the-top elegance,
His voice like syrup, his gestures exaggerated to absurdity.
Then entered a figure cloaked in black.
Tall, lean, face masked in an exaggerated grin.
He held a dark book in one hand—
And moved with a calm that contrasted the chaos around him.
The scene unfolded:
The king complained to himself, pacing in circles, voice dripping with frustration.
"Oh heavens!" he cried. "Even the bread tax—I wasn't ready!
My advisors are fools! What am I to do?"
At that, the dark figure stepped forward.
He spoke with ominous slowness:
"Sign… and all your troubles shall vanish."
The king turned to the audience, feigning hesitation—
Then, with a wink, asked:
"Does this cover taxes, too?"
The audience laughed.
With exaggerated drama, the king pulled out a fruit—
bit into it, smeared it on the contract—
and signed.
Instantly, golden light flared.
Silly sound effects whistled across the theater.
Bubbles floated upward as bells chimed in mock ceremony.
Kings from the other realms appeared one by one—
Each bowed before the First King,
Then collapsed to the floor in a variety of theatrical pratfalls.
The King of the First Kingdom crawled in last,
More jester than monarch—
He bowed low, then suddenly leapt to his feet and shouted:
"But I trust no one!"
He pulled out a dagger the size of a toy sword and lunged—
Actors began tumbling across the stage in a chaotic mock-fight.
They tripped, rolled, dodged in comedic fashion—
A staged war of clowns.
Eventually, the First Kingdom's king tripped over his own cloak and fell,
His exit as foolish as his entrance.
The final scene arrived:
The First King stood victorious, crowned with the symbol of all five kingdoms.
He raised his arms and proclaimed in a booming, ridiculous tone:
"I am the ruler of light and shadow…
Protector of bread and the people's will!"
The curtain fell to wild applause.
The audience clapped, cheered, laughed.
They adored it.
But Neva did not.
She turned toward her mother and murmured coldly:
"In the end…
everything comes down to contracts."
The Queen replied with a soft smile, her eyes unreadable:
"And every contract…
is only the beginning.
The clever one is the one who writes the terms."
Silence settled between them,
Yet Neva's eyes remained fixed on the stage—
Not on the show,
But on the shadows behind it.
As if she were reading between the lines…
Decoding a script written in a language no one else dared to learn.