The door closed behind me with a heavy thunk, and before I could rise to check, I heard the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock. Trapped. I stood still for a moment, my hand hovering midair, waiting to see if the sound would return, if perhaps they had made a mistake. But no—the silence that followed was complete.
I let out a long breath and turned back to the room. For the first time in my life, I had a space that was mine, at least for tonight. A real room, with real walls and real warmth. My eyes roamed every corner as if afraid it would vanish if I blinked too long.
There was a bed—large, soft-looking, layered in quilts so thick they seemed like clouds compared to the thin blanket I'd always slept under. A little desk stood near the window, an inkwell and sheets of parchment neatly set upon it. I almost laughed. What use would I have for ink and parchment? I couldn't read, let alone write. Still, the presence of it made the room feel important, as though whoever stayed here was expected to think and study, not simply survive.
To the left, tucked neatly against the wall, was a tall bookshelf. My steps carried me toward it almost without thinking. Dust clung to the spines, dulling what once might have been bright colors. This room hadn't been used in a long time, I realized. Perhaps years.
I stretched out my hand and tugged free the first book my fingers touched. The cover was red, dulled by time, but under the layer of dust I could still see the sheen of care in its making. I blew across it, coughing slightly as dust rose into the air, and then I opened it.
Lines of writing crawled across the pages—elegant, curling letters that meant nothing to me. It felt like staring at a locked door without a key. I flipped through page after page, trying to find something I could understand. And then I froze.
On one page, a drawing had been carefully inked. A woman stood, tall and graceful, her figure shaded in blacks and grays… all except her hair. Red. Bright red, as if the artist had wanted that single feature to burn from the parchment itself.
My throat tightened. She must have been from the Fire Kingdom. My kingdom.
Fourteen years ago, it was destroyed. Everyone knew that. Children whispered the tale at night, adults lowered their voices when speaking of it, and every book and bard repeated the same story: the Fire royals had fallen, and with them, their kingdom. Wiped away in flame and war.
And yet here I stood. A piece of it. A reminder that maybe the fire had not gone out completely.
I closed the book gently and set it aside on the night table beside the bed. I would keep it close, even if I couldn't read it. Someday, maybe, I would learn the letters. Maybe then her story—and mine—wouldn't remain hidden.
Curious now, I moved down the shelf. There were books bound in blue, in green, in yellow, even in black. One for each kingdom, perhaps? Stories of rulers, or old legends. Or perhaps just records. I wished I could know.
My hand stopped on a brown book. Its cover was carved with strange circles, symbols and lines twisting together into intricate patterns. I traced them with my fingertip, feeling the grooves etched deep into the leather. A magic book. It had to be.
I opened it carefully. More unreadable writing filled the pages, but among the words were diagrams. Circles intersecting with runes, flames drawn beside waves, jagged lines that must have been lightning. My heart gave a strange thump.
Even though I couldn't read it, I knew. This was magic.
I'd never studied it, never practiced, though I'd always been told I should be able to use it. Blood like mine carried power. But no one had ever taught me.
I remembered the one time I had seen magic with my own eyes. I must have been ten, maybe younger. I'd crept closer to the upper part of town, where the people lived who had wealth and lineage, where their children were said to master two, even three elements. Through the gap of a window, I had seen a woman kneeling by her hearth. She whispered a word, moved her hand, and a spark of flame leapt from her palm, igniting the wood instantly.
I had stood frozen in awe, heart pounding, wishing desperately that I could do the same. Fire, alive at her fingertips.
Now, standing in this room filled with books I couldn't read, I wondered if I ever truly would.
I slid the brown book back into place and sat down on the edge of the bed. The quilts sank under my weight, swallowing me in softness I wasn't used to. I sat there for a long moment, staring at my hands.
The princesses' voices echoed in my head. Strange. They had looked at me as if I didn't belong, and maybe they were right. Not just because of my clothes, or my hair. But because of what my hair meant.
Red. Fire. A kingdom erased, yet here I was.
Why was it strange? It wasn't as though royalty never had colorful hair. Theirs was blue, the queen's was green. The king's family had ruled for generations, and everyone accepted that their hair marked them as belonging to the water. So why was mine so different? Why did it earn whispers?
Because everyone knew what red meant. Everyone knew the Fire Kingdom had burned away in the war, crushed under blade and tide. Fourteen years gone. My very existence was a reminder of it.
I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. The king didn't see me as a threat now. That was something, at least. He thought being a girl made me less dangerous, that I could never sit on a throne. That might have saved my life.
But his words still lingered. Even the smallest fire can spread.
The queen… she seemed different. Calmer, more rational. I couldn't guess at her thoughts, but she hadn't looked at me with the same suspicion. And the prince… Well, I couldn't read him at all.
Then there were the princesses. Two with blue hair like their father, one with black hair. I'd heard whispers in town once, about royal alliances. The black-haired princess would be sent away, married off for treaties. The others, too, would likely be married to second princes or third princes from neighboring kingdoms. That was the way of things.
I wondered, distantly, what they thought of their fates. Did they accept it? Did they dream of something else? Or did they, like me, feel trapped by the weight of blood and history?
My thoughts drifted back to the others. The children who had been with me. How were the girls faring, with the servants fussing over them? And Jakie—was he handling the guards well? He always tried to act braver than he was, but I worried.
"When someone comes to see me," I whispered aloud to the empty room, "I'll ask."
The silence that followed was heavy but not unkind. For the first time, I had walls around me, books on a shelf, a bed of my own. Yet I felt more lost than ever.
My eyes returned to the red book on the nightstand. The woman on the page stared back at me, hair aflame even across centuries.
Maybe someday, I thought, I'd learn her story. Maybe someday, I'd learn mine.