I had waited years for this moment, and when it finally arrived, something felt wrong. Deeply wrong. As though I were meant to be somewhere else—anywhere other than seated upon a throne, watching servants labor on my behalf. I could not bear to look at them. My head ached, my thoughts blurred, and an uneasy truth settled in my chest: something was not as it should be.

Two weeks earlier…

“Miss Catrina! I have news,” Samantha exclaimed as she helped me dress. “I think you’re finally ready to be a queen!”

We were preparing for a formal dinner at Larsond Castle, the home of my betrothed. Samantha had been assisting with my lessons alongside Lady Vesper—undoubtedly the harshest tutor imaginable. Yet as a princess, and soon a queen, I was never permitted to voice such thoughts. My mother had taught me that kindness must be shown even to those who offer none in return.

My mother was a pillar of our country, always searching for better ways to serve our people. My parents were growing older, and ruling as king and queen had become increasingly dangerous at their age. They decided that within a few years, the crown would pass to me. To prepare, they sent me away by ship to study under Lady Vesper.

At first, I was hopeful—until I realized I would not be allowed to visit my family.

Most of my days were spent nursing bruised hands, the result of Lady Vesper’s switch. She believed me unworthy of the crown, accusing me of being rude, childish, and undeserving of queenship. Still, I forgave her every day. And now, at last, I was returning home.

My grandparents would be there, along with my aunts, uncles, cousins, and the entire court of Larsond Castle.

That evening, Samantha and I attended dinner at the castle, where I met my betrothed for the first time. He was far more handsome than I had imagined—his eyes a striking blue, his hair brown with soft blond highlights, and his manner genuinely kind. We could hardly look away from one another.

After dinner, he approached me, and we spoke at length. He told me how much he enjoyed games and how eager he was to meet my family. He even mentioned staying several days after my crowning so we could better know one another. Hours passed unnoticed—until Lady Vesper arrived.

Without warning, she seized my arm and dragged me away, not even allowing me to bid farewell to my future parents-in-law.

Outside, Samantha was forced to walk beside the carriage Lady Vesper had brought—a massive vehicle large enough to hold ten people. When I protested, Lady Vesper coldly replied, “Samantha has not earned the right to sit with us. And if I may be honest, I do not believe you have either.”

I longed to snap back, but I knew that doing so would only bring deep embarrassment upon my family. Instead, I turned away, unable—and unwilling—to look at her. Upon our return to Lady Vesper’s estate, I guided my weakened friend to her chambers. Samantha’s feet were bleeding, and I summoned another maid to tend to her before retiring to my own room.

When I entered my chambers, Lady Vesper was perched on the very edge of my bed, as though touching anything that belonged to me disgusted her.

“Good evening, Lady Vesper. May I assist you?” I asked, deliberately avoiding her gaze.

She grunted and rose, striding toward me with her switch clenched tightly in her hand.

“Where is your servant?” she snapped. “She should be with you!”

“You forced her to walk for an hour without rest,” I replied evenly. “Her feet are bleeding. Is it truly unacceptable for your future queen to order her maid to seek healing?”

Lady Vesper opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“You may have passed your trials and earned scores impressive enough to please your parents and secure your return,” she said coldly, “but I would not be proud. I would not even wish to see you. If you were my daughter—”

“If you were my mother,” I cut in sharply, “I would have left with joy. I doubt I would ever wish to see you again.”

Lady Vesper twitched. Her mouth opened and closed, as though words pressed against her tongue yet refused to emerge.

“Miss Catrina—”

“You may address me as Your Highness, Vesper,” I snapped.

She stiffened, then corrected herself. “Your Highness. Your ship will be prepared to depart at twelve tomorrow. Good night.”

With that, she stormed out of the room. I held my head high until the door slammed shut—only then did my shoulders sag as the weight of the moment finally settled in.

I got dressed by myself for the first time in two years. Samantha had been helping me since my arrival. It felt strange not to have her share stories about her life before meeting Lady Vesper, as they were quite intriguing.

I lay in bed for hours unable to sleep, too rowdy and excited. I'd finally see my parents. I finally dozed off, and morning arrived quickly. Sunlight peeked through my window curtain. I jumped out of bed, and Samantha was waiting for me. She smiled, but deep down, I knew she was hurting. "Catrina, I can't begin to express how much I've enjoyed having someone close to my age around. You've become one of my best friends. It's been a pleasure, your highness." She curtsied, and I nodded. Tears welled in our eyes as we embraced in a hug.

Lady Vesper and I rode to the docks, where I would soon board the enormous ship anchored there. It smelled of rotten fish and eggs, and while Lady Vesper covered her mouth and nose, I reveled in the open air. Being confined to a stuffy mansion had been quite tiresome. As I boarded, Lady Vesper waved goodbye and turned to leave. Then, the ship began to move. A sign that I was finally going home!

The ship had been built to impress her.

Its white hull caught the sun like a blade, and the banners at its mast—her banners, though she still thought of them as her parents’—snapped crisply in the wind. Every morning the sailors bowed. Every evening the officers dined below deck and spoke in careful tones, as if she were already wearing a crown that could bruise them if they stood too close.

The princess accepted it all without question. She had always been good at that.

She stood at the rail most days, watching the water darken as they traveled farther from the outer islands and closer to the mainland. Home. The word felt warm and unreal. Home meant marble halls and long corridors that smelled faintly of beeswax and old books. Home meant her mother’s voice, sharp and musical, correcting her posture. Home meant her father’s silence, which somehow always carried approval.

She was going home to be coronated. That much she knew.

The night before they reached port, the sea went strangely calm. The wind fell away, and the sails slackened, and the ship drifted as though reluctant to finish the journey. She stayed awake long after her attendants had withdrawn, sitting alone in her cabin with a single lamp burning.

There was a knock.

Not the light, deferential knock she was used to, but something hesitant. Careful.

It was the ship’s steward who entered, a thin man with hands that shook despite his efforts to still them. He did not bow. That, more than anything, made her uneasy.

“Your Highness,” he said, and stopped.

She smiled at him to put him at ease. “Is something wrong?”

He swallowed. “There is… information you must have before we dock.”

He did not use poetry or euphemism. He spoke plainly, as one does when afraid of being misunderstood. Her parents had died months ago. Illness, sudden, swift. The council had delayed the announcement, delayed everything, until she could be brought home. Until the line of succession could be secured.

She listened politely. She even thanked him when he finished.

Only after he left did the world begin to tilt.

Her parents were dead.

How could that be true when she had spent the entire voyage imagining their faces waiting at the harbor? When she had practiced her speech with her mother’s corrections echoing in her head? When she had fallen asleep each night comforted by the certainty that they were alive somewhere behind her, holding the kingdom together until she returned?

She pressed her hands flat against the table, as though the wood might steady her thoughts.

The coronation.

She had known she would be crowned upon her return. She had accepted it as one accepts rain or sunrise—an event, not a consequence. Only now did the logic assert itself, cruel and obvious.

Coronations did not happen in the presence of living kings and queens, not under a hereditary monarchy such as this.

If she were to be crowned, then her parents must already have been gone.

Which meant that for weeks—months—she had been living inside an impossibility.

The realization hollowed her out.

What else had she failed to understand? What other truths had stood in plain sight while she smiled and nodded and imagined herself wise? She had thought herself educated, observant, prepared to rule.

She laughed once, softly, then stopped, frightened by the sound. Maybe Vesper was correct. She was too naïve, too childlike, unworthy of queenship that had now been thrust upon her by the cruelty of fate's hand.

If she could be this wrong about something so fundamental, what did she truly know? Was the sea as deep as she believed? Were the stars the same ones her tutors had named? Had her parents ever been proud of her—or was that, too, a comforting story she told herself?

She sat very still and tried to rebuild the world from its smallest pieces.

She was expected to rule not because the world was kind or sensible, but because it was not.

When the bells rang from the harbor and the city came into view, she stood at last. Her reflection in the mirror looked younger than she felt, but steadier than she expected.

Perhaps wisdom, she thought, was not knowing everything.

Perhaps it was learning how to live after discovering just how much you had misunderstood.

If I thought I would have time to properly grieve for my parents, I was sorely mistaken. The ship docked in the morning and hardly an hour after sunrise an entourage of familiar and unfamiliar faces came to escort me off the ship. Staunton, head butler, serious as ever but he must have aged 75 years; Nonnie, our sweet and flighty seamstress; Marky, head chamberlain; Denzi, Berrick, Camarina, Harrow - attendants, heads of some castle function, servants, friends - I can't even remember right now.

All these familiar faces swished around with new faces of attendants and castle servants. Nonnie brought me down to reality, a little bit. She gentle took my hand. I am grateful to have something tangible to focus on. "Come dearest Catrina. We all missed you. There is much to do for the Coronation in three days," Nonnie says to me with eyes moist with tears. "Nonnie, how did they die? When did it happen? Where are they buried Where is my betrothed and his parents?" I have an endless ocean of questions, but Nonnie answers none of them and neither does anyone else.

I realized instantly that my grueling training with Lady Vesper was meant for the rest of my life beginning now. The child with questions, the demanding, the insisting, the begging, the pouting, the whining was for that child whom I left behind. The soon-to-be-queen gained control. I held my head high and walked in a dignified way after Nonnie.

The next three days leading up to the Coronation were a blur of gown fittings, menu reviews, glancing at the guest lists put in front of me, meeting my new castle staff leads, and greeting the few dignitaries that Staunton had to let in despite his valiant efforts to keep the majority of them away.

My outer facade was the epitome of a queen. My inner world was a tornado. Then bits of information I managed to collect were that Mother died first, six months ago. Father died forty days ago. They are buried in the family cemetery eight miles away. Lady Vesper could have shared the news with me, but did not. Lady Vesper sent orders dismissing one staff member after another. Marky honored the first few orders but then wrote back to Lady Vesper that no new orders would be fulfilled until the throne was occupied by its rightful occupent, me. That partially explains Lady Vesper's increased cruelty the last few weeks. My betrothed was delayed in coming to see me, no reasons given.

The Coronation. It was magical with gowns and sparkles, dignified with all the titled and important people, laden with sorrow that my parents were gone, hopeful that my reign would keep our people and lands secure, traditional with all the required formalities, and also innovative because I insisted that there be a large gallery installed for the peasants and middle class to view portions of the process.

Now here I am: seated upon a throne, watching servants scurry about. But I knew with an aching heart that something was not as it should be.

The throne was colder than she expected.

Not to the touch—the cushions were velvet and down—but to the spirit. It sat too still beneath her, too patient, as though it had been waiting a long time for her to notice it was not merely a chair but a demand.

The servants moved quickly, eyes lowered, footsteps hushed. Too hushed. In a palace that should have been ringing with relief and celebration, there was instead a careful quiet, the kind that grows around sickrooms and graves.

She watched them until the pattern became undeniable: linen carried away and replaced, braziers burning stronger herbs than usual, a servant pausing to steady himself before moving on. No one lingered. No one laughed.

Something was wrong.

Staunton approached at last, his back bent but his gaze steady. He bowed—deeply, correctly—and waited until she inclined her head before speaking.

“Your Majesty,” he said. The title still startled her. “The council requests your presence when you are ready.”

“When,” she repeated lightly, “not if?”

A flicker of something—relief, perhaps—passed across his face. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

She rose. The weight of the crown shifted, then settled again, familiar already in the way of burdens one does not have the luxury of refusing. As she walked, she noticed the distance people kept from her. Respect, she told herself at first. Protocol.

But respect did not usually come with fear in the eyes.

The council chamber smelled of smoke and vinegar. The windows were open despite the chill, and the long table had been rearranged so the chairs stood farther apart than tradition allowed. That alone told her more than any report could have.

They stood when she entered. All of them. Even Lord Henswick, whose knees had not bent for anyone since her grandfather’s reign.

“Sit,” she said, and was quietly pleased that her voice did not waver.

They obeyed.

There was a moment—just a moment—where they seemed to wait for one another, as though hoping someone else would be the one to begin. At last, Camarina cleared her throat. Minister of Trade. Sharp-eyed. Pale.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “we rejoice in your safe return and coronation. May your reign be long and—”

“Camarina,” the queen interrupted gently, “tell me why my palace smells like a sickroom.”

Silence fell hard and fast.

It was Harrow who answered. Harrow, Master of Roads and Rivers, whose hands were usually stained with ink and map-dust. Today they trembled.

“The fever began in the low quarters near the southern docks,” he said. “Late winter. At first we believed it seasonal. Then it spread.”

“How far?” she asked.

He hesitated.

“How far,” she repeated, more firmly.

“The city, Your Majesty. Most of it. And the villages along the east road. We have closed markets, limited travel, posted notices—”

“And buried my parents,” she said quietly.

That landed like a stone in water. Ripples of guilt, fear, and something like shame crossed the table.

“Yes,” Harrow said. “The physicians believe… believe it is likely.”

She absorbed that in silence. Mother first. Six months ago. Father forty days. The timing aligned too neatly now to be coincidence. Not illness, sudden and swift, but illness, spreading and ignored until it wore a crown.

“Why,” she asked, “was I not told?”

No one answered.

She looked at them one by one. These were not foolish people. Nor were they all cruel. They had been afraid—of panic, of unrest, of losing control before the succession was secure. Afraid, perhaps, of her.

“Lady Vesper,” she said at last, and saw several faces stiffen, “trained me to rule by discipline and endurance. She taught me that hesitation is weakness. But she did not teach me that silence is wisdom.”

She leaned forward slightly. Not looming. Inviting.

“You will tell me everything,” she said. “Not the polished summaries. Not the hopeful estimates. I want the numbers. The patterns. What has been tried, and what has failed.”

A pause.

Then Marky spoke, voice hoarse with use and disuse alike. “If we do that, Your Majesty, you may decide things we cannot undo.”

She met his gaze steadily. “That,” she said, “is the nature of rule.”

They began to speak then, overlapping at first, then falling into order as Staunton quietly took notes. The fever burned hot and fast in some, slow and wasting in others. The healers were overwhelmed. Supplies were thin. Faith in the palace thinner still. The people whispered that the gods were displeased, that the old king and queen had died because the land itself was sick.

By the time they finished, the queen’s hands were clenched so tightly her nails had left half-moons in her palms.

She stood.

“Prepare proclamations,” she said. “Open the west granaries. Convert the old barracks into infirmaries. I want physicians paid double and protected by the crown. No more secrecy. We will tell the people what we know and what we do not.”

Camarina blinked. “Your Majesty, that may cause fear.”

“Yes,” the queen said. “But fear thrives in darkness. We will give them light.”

As they rose to obey, she added one final thing, her voice softer but no less certain.

“And tomorrow,” she said, “I will go to the city.”

Every objection died on their tongues at the look she gave them.

Something was not as it should be.

And she would not look away again.