Chapter Text
The palace lay hushed in the waning hours of evening, its vast halls echoing only with the restless sigh of the wind. Beyond the high stained-glass windows, a storm gathered, rattling the panes in their frames as if impatient to be let inside. Candlelight flickered weakly against the draughts, their flames stretching and bowing before guttering low, throwing long shadows across the vaulted chamber.
At the end of the long banquet table, beneath a mural of saints and forgotten ancestors, sat King Alan and Queen Sarah. The table stretched endlessly before them, lined with polished silver and goblets no hand dared to touch. The silence between them was a living thing, oppressive, heavy with words unsaid.
Alan sat hunched in his carved oak chair, his once-proud frame weighed down by weariness. His dark hair, streaked prematurely with grey, clung damply to his brow from the heat of the candles and the wine he poured too freely. The strong lines of his jaw were set tight, though his mouth trembled as if each breath cost him dearly. His hands, broad and scarred from years of battle, gripped a goblet of wine so fiercely that the veins stood out like blue ropes beneath his skin. Across from him, Sarah was the image of quiet, aching dignity. Her golden hair, threaded now with silver, was braided into an intricate coronet that gleamed faintly in the firelight. Her gown of pale ivory silk shimmered softly in the candle’s glow, but her posture betrayed no softness—her spine was straight, her shoulders squared. Only her hands betrayed her, pale and trembling as they clutched a rosary that slipped slowly between her fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly in prayer, though her eyes, rimmed with weariness, glistened with the hollow ache of longing. The King broke the silence at last, his voice hoarse, as if dragged from the depths of his chest.
“All these years and nothing. No child. No heir. Only silence in these halls. What legacy have we to leave, Sarah? What kingdom will endure when we are dust?” The storm growled outside, thunder rolling across the heavens as if to echo his despair. Sarah lifted her gaze to him, her voice tender yet frayed at the edges, betraying the same fear she wished to soothe.
“Alan, you must not speak so. We still have hope. As long as we draw breath, there is hope.” She reached across the vast oak table, her fingers trembling as they brushed his hand. He seized them eagerly, clutching her as if she were his last tether to a future that refused to come. Alan’s face, so often hardened by crown and duty, broke in that moment. His eyes, rimmed with red, reflected both anger and helplessness.
“I fear it is not God’s will for us. That our line ends here, in this empty palace, with our unspoken grief echoing louder than laughter ever will.” Sarah’s grip tightened, her thumb stroking his knuckles. Her own tears threatened, but she held them back with a queen’s discipline.
“Then we shall endure, you and I. Even if the halls remain empty, even if the silence mocks us, we endure. We are not nothing, Alan. We are still here.” Her words lingered in the candlelight, defiant against the thunder that cracked above them. Yet when she lowered her gaze again, her tears fell silently onto the rosary in her lap, gleaming like pearls in the wavering light. The storm pressed harder against the palace walls, as though the heavens themselves mourned with them.
***
Midnight cloaked the palace gardens in silence, though silence was a fragile thing that night. The roses swayed restlessly in the rising wind, their crimson petals whispering like restless tongues. Moonlight struggled to pierce the storm clouds, casting the hedges in fractured shadows that slithered across the gravel paths like living serpents. At the heart of the garden stood the old stone fountain, its waters dark, rippling beneath the touch of the wind. The air grew colder, unnaturally still, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Then, with a shimmer like burning silk, a red glow split the air between the thorned bushes.
From that glow, Stella emerged. She was radiant and terrible all at once: her long black hair swept up into a crown of feathers, her eyes rimmed with kohl that deepened the cruel beauty of her gaze. Her crimson dress rustled like fire with every movement, its feathered skirt shifting as if alive. From her back unfurled black wings, vast and jagged, casting monstrous shadows against the hedges.
Two sinister figures followed at her heels, her companions, twisted fairies with sharp faces and ragged wings, who flitted behind her like carrion birds circling a dying beast. Their laughter was thin and metallic, like knives drawn from scabbards. Stella raised a pale hand, silencing them. Her voice, low and serpentine, slid into the night air.
“A kingdom without a heartbeat. A cradle without a cry. Shall we give them a gift… or a curse?” The sinister fairies hissed their delight, whispering eagerly into her ears, but Stella brushed them aside. Her gaze fell upon the fountain and her lips curved into a smile as sharp as glass. From the folds of her crimson feathers she withdrew a single black feather, glistening with unnatural sheen. She held it aloft between two elegant fingers, then let it drift from her hand. It fell like a whisper into the water. The fountain shuddered. The water glowed blood-red, light spreading outward in shimmering rings as the air thickened with the scent of iron and roses. Shadows pooled around Stella’s feet, coiling up her dress, twining around her wrists as if obeying her command. She lifted both hands, her voice rising in a chant that mingled seduction with menace. Her wings flared, scattering feathers into the night, while the air hummed with power. From the rippling crimson water, the shadows gathered and twisted, condensing into the shape of a tiny child. A baby swaddled in white silk, her golden aura shining faintly, fragile yet pure, a star birthed in the dark. The child slept peacefully, untouched by the ominous magic that had woven her into being. The sinister fairies hovered close, hissing hungrily, but Stella’s smile was one of calculated grace. She cradled the bundle briefly in her arms, the black feathers of her dress stark against the baby’s pale silk. The contrast was jarring—darkness holding light. She pressed her lips to the child’s brow, mockingly tender. “Let them think it a blessing.” With a single sweep of her wings, she vanished from the fountain and reappeared at the palace gates. She laid the bundle gently upon the stone steps, the white silk catching the moonlight so that it glowed with an otherworldly shimmer. The golden aura lingered faintly, as though the child carried a piece of the heavens in her breath.
Stella stepped back into the shadows, her eyes gleaming with triumph. Her companions snickered softly, wings chittering like beetles in the dark. The baby stirred, releasing a faint sigh, as if already aware she had been thrust into a world of sorrow and fate. And then Stella was gone, leaving only the whisper of wings and the faint echo of her laughter, lingering in the midnight air.
***
The storm had broken, though its memory still lingered in the sodden air. Rain lashed the flagstones in weary sheets and the great oak doors of the palace gleamed darkly with wet, as though they too had endured the wrath of the heavens. Midnight hung heavy over the courtyard, cloaked in the fading growl of thunder and the hiss of wind through the battlements.
Then it came, a sound so fragile it cut through the night like glass through silence. A cry. Thin. Trembling. Alive.
The guards on watch froze where they stood, their halberds clutched tightly in calloused hands. They exchanged a look, half disbelief, half dread, before one raised his torch. The flame guttered wildly in the damp breeze, casting a trembling glow across the rain-slicked steps. With a groan of ancient hinges, the great doors opened. Cold, wet air rushed in, making the flames flare brighter and shadows lurch across the vaulted hall behind them.
At their feet, upon the glistening stone, lay a wicker basket, its weave swollen dark with rain. Draped across it was a length of white silk, soaked but strangely luminous, as though the moon itself had tangled in its folds. The cloth shimmered faintly, defying the darkness that pressed in around it. And within the basket: small, stirring, wrapped in warmth despite the storm—lay a baby. Her cheeks glowed with the softest rose, her tiny fists clenched as if fighting the night. Her cry was not one of despair, but of fragile defiance, a sound that seemed to still the storm itself.
The first guard, a tall man with a scar running from jaw to ear, lowered his torch until the light spilled fully across the sight. His brow furrowed, lips moving soundlessly before he managed to speak.
“By the saints, who would leave a child at a king’s gate?” The second, broader and younger, shifted uneasily. The rain dripped from the rim of his helmet, trailing cold down his neck, but it was not the weather that made him shiver. His eyes flicked to the silk, to the strange glow it carried and he swallowed hard before answering.
“Or what would?”
The words hung heavy in the wet night, heavier still in their hearts. For though the infant radiated innocence, untouched by storm or shadow, there was something in the air, an unnatural hush, a sense that the world had shifted on its axis.
The baby stirred again, a soft whimper escaping her lips before she fell back into the rhythm of sleep. The first guard knelt, almost despite himself, as if compelled by some unseen hand. He reached for the basket with tentative fingers, brushing the silk. It was warm to the touch, impossibly so, like cloth woven from sunlight. His breath caught in his throat.
“She’s not meant for us. She’s meant for them.” He glanced back at the yawning black of the palace doors, where beyond lay the lonely King and Queen who had long prayed for a child. His companion hesitated, casting another wary look into the storm, as though expecting some phantom to rise from the shadows and reclaim the gift. But none came. Only the sigh of the wind, only the faint glow of silk against stone, only the sound of a tiny heartbeat defying the night.
Together, with a mixture of awe and trepidation, the guards lifted the basket. The baby shifted within her silk, her golden aura flickering faintly like the last spark in a dying fire, waiting to be fanned into flame. The oak doors closed slowly behind them, shutting out the storm. The echo of the latch fell like a final word—sealing fate itself.
***
The palace corridors gleamed coldly under the flicker of torches, their marble floors slick with rain tracked in by frantic boots. Tapestries depicting long-dead kings and queens hung along the walls, their muted colours darkened by shadows, their embroidered eyes seeming to follow the chaos as it rushed past. The two guards hurried through the halls, their boots echoing sharply, a staccato drumbeat against the vaulted ceilings. Rainwater dripped from the edges of their armour, pattering onto the polished stone with a soft, nervous hiss. Behind them, the faintest clatter of slippers and whispers echoed from half-open bedchambers. Courtiers peered out like startled deer, their faces pale, murmuring among themselves about the mysterious bundle carried so urgently through the palace.
At the end of the corridor, standing with arms crossed and eyes sharp beneath her nurse’s coif, was Abbey. Stern yet warm-hearted, she radiated calm authority that cut through the tension. Her presence seemed to command even the hurried guards to slow their pace.
“Here!” she called, her voice steady but quick, a rope thrown across the tide of panic. She reached for the basket before the guards could speak, her hands gentle but unyielding. The guards obeyed, almost instinctively and Abbey lifted the child into her arms. She adjusted the silk around her, murmuring softly to calm the infant. The baby’s cries, which had been thin and trembling, faltered the instant her tiny fingers brushed Abbey’s sleeve. Her blue-grey eyes flickered open for a brief moment and a faint, almost imperceptible smile curved her lips. Abbey’s heart constricted at the sight. “Shh, it’s all right, little one,” she cooed, her voice a soothing thread in the storm-laden palace. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Miranda, as though recognising the warmth and protection offered, quieted immediately, nestling against Abbey’s shoulder. The gold glow around her soft and pure, barely visible in the torchlight, seemed to pulse with life, contrasting the dark, wet corridors and the storm that still raged outside. The guards exchanged uneasy glances, but neither questioned the nurse’s authority. Abbey, with the infant cradled securely, moved like a shadow through the halls, the baby’s calm weight in her arms anchoring her steps. Through the towering doors of the throne room, the distant rumble of thunder mingled with the soft heartbeat of a child who had, in one miraculous instant, brought a fragile spark of hope to a palace long weighed down by grief. Abbey glanced down at the baby once more, whispering: “Don’t worry, little one. They will love you, they must.” The words barely left her lips before the doors of the throne room opened ahead and the King and Queen would see the child who had arrived under the shadow of magic and storm.
***
The throne room was cloaked in shadow, candle flames guttering and trembling like frightened birds. The polished marble floors reflected their flickering light, throwing long, wavering shapes across the vaulted ceiling. The heavy scent of wax mingled with the faint chill of the storm still lingering in the air, pressing against the thick velvet drapes that framed the tall windows.
King Alan sat stiffly upon his throne, shoulders hunched, dark eyes shadowed with sleepless nights and unspoken grief. His dark hair, damp from the rain-soaked corridors, clung to his brow and the strong lines of his face were taut with years of longing. Beside him, Queen Sarah’s pale hands rested limply in her lap, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders like a sunlit river. Her cheeks were damp with silent tears and her lips were pressed together as if holding in years of sorrow.
The doors burst open. Guards and Abbey stormed in, boots splashing puddles across the polished stone. Abbey held a small bundle carefully in her arms. The baby stirred, a faint coo escaping her lips and the golden shimmer around her seemed to brighten in the dim hall.
Alan’s eyes widened in disbelief, his wine-dark gaze locking onto the tiny figure wrapped in white silk. He rose stiffly, hands shaking as he leaned forward, unable to trust the reality before him.
“Is this?” Sarah gasped, a sharp intake of breath that cut through the oppressive quiet of the hall. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she rose, stepping forward with a trembling grace, her hands reaching instinctively for the child. Abbey lowered the baby into Sarah’s arms and the infant’s tiny fingers curled around the queen’s necklace. The baby giggled, a delicate, crystalline sound that seemed to scatter the shadows across the room. The oppressive weight of years of grief lifted, if only slightly and the hall seemed to breathe once more with the rhythm of hope. Alan sank to one knee beside them, his large, calloused hand hovering over the baby’s tiny one. Hesitating, he finally brushed it gently, reverently. Miranda’s fingers curled lightly around his and he felt a warmth that had eluded him for decades. “Our prayers answered.” Sarah’s lips trembled as she kissed the baby’s forehead, whispering softly, almost to herself:
“Oh, my little one, my miracle.” The infant stirred again, pressing her tiny cheek against Sarah’s chest, cooing, blinking up at the golden candlelight and for the first time in years, the throne room felt alive. The tapestries seemed brighter, the shadows less oppressive and the storm outside, though still rumbling in distant clouds, felt far away. Alan leaned closer, a hand on Sarah’s shoulder and a whisper of laughter escaped him, choked with awe and disbelief.
“She is ours. Truly ours.” The baby giggled again, a sound that seemed to weave magic into the very air and the long, cold palace hall, once heavy with sorrow, was now filled with the fragile, radiant light of new life.
***
Word of the infant’s arrival spread through the palace corridors like wildfire, carried on the quick, excited steps of attendants and the hushed, urgent whispers of courtiers. The grand hall soon filled with observers: pale-faced maids clutching skirts, silver-haired advisors muttering prayers and young pages whose wide eyes reflected the flickering candlelight.
“A miracle child, a gift from Heaven itself.”
“Heaven has blessed the King and Queen at last.” Some bent their heads, crossing themselves with trembling fingers, while others curtsied so low their skirts brushed the marble floors, eyes never leaving the swaddled baby. Even the most stoic of nobles seemed softened, as though Miranda’s presence drew the very air toward her, commanding reverence.
In the midst of the murmuring crowd, Nurse Abbey moved like a calm, purposeful force. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hands steady despite the quickened pace of her heart. She fussed over a small cot, laying down the softest blankets the palace could offer, muttering under her breath with a mix of pragmatism and quiet awe.
“Fate has the strangest sense of humour. A kingdom in despair and it gifts them a child like this.” She adjusted the swaddling silk around the baby, smoothing it with care, her eyes scanning the hall for anyone who might be tempted to swoop too close. Miranda stirred, a soft gurgle escaping her lips and Abbey felt her heart lift. The child’s tiny hands reached instinctively for warmth, clutching at Abbey’s sleeve as if recognising the protection offered. The courtiers leaned closer, eager to glimpse the child whose arrival had broken decades of sorrow. The whispers of awe grew louder, echoing under the vaulted ceilings, carrying a strange, electric sense of expectation. Already, Miranda inspired devotion, her small presence altering the very rhythm of the palace. Abbey straightened, brushing back a stray lock of hair from her brow, her expression a mixture of pride and unease. “She may be tiny, but mark my words. This one will shape the destiny of more than just a king and queen.”
Outside, the wind moaned through the castle spires and a faint shadow of movement passed over the courtyard—a reminder that the night’s magic had not fully departed. Yet inside, the palace held its collective breath, wrapped in the warmth and light of a small, swaddled miracle.
***
The storm’s fury had quietened, but the palace grounds still glistened with rain. Silver rivulets streamed down the wide marble steps, tracing veins through moss and stone until they met the wicker basket resting at the foot of the stairs. Its silken lining caught the glow of the torches above, shimmering faintly as if touched by some divine hand. But the moment was not divine. It was claimed.
Stella lingered in the shadows, her dark cloak pressed to the damp stone archway. Her figure was half-concealed by drifting mist, yet her eyes: cold, sharp and black as obsidian, gleamed with satisfaction. She had chosen her moment with care and now she savoured it.
On the balcony above, King Alan and Queen Sarah bent protectively over the child, their faces softened by awe and disbelief. Alan, broad-shouldered and stern even in grief, seemed almost fragile in that instant as he brushed a trembling hand across the babe’s cheek. Sarah, her crown tilted in haste, pressed her lips to her daughter’s brow, tears mingling with rain as she clutched the infant as though the world itself might steal her away.
Stella’s smile deepened, cruel and deliberate.
“Perfect,” she whispered, her voice carried only by the restless wind. “They believe themselves blessed. They will raise her as theirs, never knowing until it is too late.” Above her, the sky shifted. A shadow swept across the moon, cloaking the courtyard in a silvery pall. The flames in the torches sputtered, their light shrinking back as if recoiling from her presence. In that spectral hush, her laughter spilled forth, soft, lilting and venomous echoing faintly around the high stone walls. It was a sound too eerie to be entirely real, as though the night itself had remembered how to mock. And then she was gone. Her form unravelled into the mist, feathers and smoke scattering with the gust. On the rain-slicked steps, a single black feather remained, glistening with water. It clung to the stone as though deliberately placed, an omen of what had passed and what was still to come.