The garden bloomed in mourning.
Not the wild, vibrant bloom of spring, but something softer… subdued… reverent.
White flowers swayed beneath a sky veiled in gray, their petals trembling in the hush of a kingdom holding its breath. Marble pathways gleamed faintly, untouched by footsteps, as though even stone understood the weight of the day.
At the center—
She rested.
Ophelia.
Encased within a coffin of crystal glass.
Fragile.
Untouchable.
Unbelievably still.
She wore white.
Not the ceremonial white of royalty, nor the glittering splendor of a queen.
But something gentler.
Something that belonged only to her.
A flowing garment of silk cascaded endlessly, spilling like moonlight across the edges of the coffin. The fabric shimmered faintly, impossibly pure, impossibly serene.
Her hands lay folded peacefully over her chest.
Within them—
A bundle of white lilies.
Her favorite.
Always her favorite.
A delicate lace veil rested over her eyes.
Soft.
Ethereal.
Like sleep pretending to be death.
And for a cruel, unbearable moment…
She looked merely asleep.
"She's beautiful…"
"She looks like an angel…"
"…Our Queen…"
Whispers rippled through the gathered crowd.
But grief swallowed every voice.
Nobles.
Knights.
Servants.
Commoners.
All stood united beneath sorrow's merciless hand.
Because Ophelia had never belonged only to the throne.
She had belonged to everyone.
At the foot of the glass coffin—
The King stood.
But he did not look like a king.
His posture, once unshakable, now bent beneath invisible ruin. His golden attire could not disguise the hollowness carved into his features, nor the devastation etched into eyes that had forgotten sleep.
For long minutes…
He could not speak.
Because love does not prepare one for this.
Finally—
His voice emerged.
Shattered.
Barely human.
"This garden…"
A tremor broke the words.
"…was built for Ophelia."
Wind stirred softly through white blossoms.
"…From this day forward…"
Silence deepened.
"…it shall be declared sacred ground."
A collective gasp passed through the crowd.
"No footsteps shall defile it."
"No laughter shall disturb it."
"No presence shall intrude upon her rest."
His voice cracked.
Completely.
"This place…"
A whisper now.
"…belongs only to my Queen."
And grief settled like a permanent shadow.
Not far away—
An infant stirred.
Cradled gently in trembling arms.
Ophelia's maid.
Faithful.
Tear-streaked.
Heartbroken.
Within her embrace—
The blind child slept.
Unaware.
Wrapped in silk too soft for the cruelty awaiting her existence.
Soft curls framed a face so painfully familiar that even servants struggled to breathe when they looked upon her.
Snow-pale skin.
Delicate features.
Ophelia's reflection.
"…She looks exactly like Her Majesty…"
"…It's unsettling…"
"…It's unnatural…"
Whispers shifted.
Changed.
Darkened.
"And she's blind…"
"…Blind…"
"…A cursed sign…"
"…A bad omen…"
Rumors spread like poison in silk-lined halls.
The maid clutched the child tighter.
As though fragile arms alone could shield innocence from human cruelty.
The twins stood nearby.
Silent.
Confused.
Too young to fully grasp death…
Yet old enough to feel its terror.
"…Mother?"
The young princess whispered.
Small fingers gripping her brother's sleeve.
"…Why won't Mother wake up?"
No one answered.
Because grief has no language children can understand.
Days passed.
But sorrow did not soften.
The King could not bear it.
He tried.
Gods knew he tried.
But every glance…
Every fleeting look at the child…
Was another blade.
Because she was Ophelia.
And she was not.
Her resemblance was cruel.
Unforgiving.
A living wound that refused to heal.
"…Take her away."
The command was barely audible.
Spoken without malice.
Yet devastating all the same.
"…Your Majesty?"
The maid's voice trembled.
"I cannot…"
His voice collapsed under unbearable truth.
"…I cannot look at her."
Silence shattered the chamber.
"…Move the child."
Cold.
Final.
"…To the northern wing."
The northern wing.
Far from royal chambers.
Far from celebration.
Far from warmth.
A place long forgotten by laughter.
The maid's hands trembled violently.
"…Your Majesty… she is the Queen's daughter—"
"I know what she is."
The King's voice cracked with something darker than anger.
Grief.
Guilt.
Weakness.
"…That is precisely why."
And thus—
Without ceremony.
Without protest.
Without mercy.
The blind princess vanished from the heart of the palace.
Only one soul followed.
Ophelia's maid.
Because loyalty sometimes survives where love fails.
The northern wing breathed silence.
Dust lingered in corridors untouched by nobility. Curtains dulled sunlight. Chandeliers slept beneath neglect.
And within its cold, distant chambers—
A child lived.
Forgotten.
"She must be named."
A servant muttered one evening.
"…Even cursed things require names."
The maid stiffened.
Eyes blazing with silent fury.
"She is not cursed."
A trembling whisper.
"She is Her Majesty's miracle."
But the world is rarely kind to miracles.
"…Her name…"
The maid looked down at the sleeping child.
Soft.
Fragile.
Ophelia's ghost breathing gently in silk blankets.
"…Lily."
Because Ophelia had adored lilies.
Because Ophelia had once laughed among them.
Because Ophelia had once been light itself.
And thus—
The blind princess became Lily.
A name born of love.
In a life defined by abandonment.
Far away—
Across endless battlefields—
Selara marched beneath storm-dark skies.
Unaware.
Unknowing.
Unprepared.
Because grief had not yet delivered its cruelest blow.