There is nothing unusual about the morning, except how still it feels.
Not a rustle of the trees. Not a single bird call from the garden. Even the palace walls, which usually hum with the quiet shuffle of servants, seem to be holding their breath.
I rise slowly, careful of my balance. The weight in my belly is heavier now, a presence that makes me both ache and marvel. My son. My gift. A symbol of everything I never thought I would have again…love, family, belonging.
Esther enters quietly, holding a fresh robe and a bowl of scented water. Her face is peaceful, but her eyes linger on me too long.
"You didn't sleep well again," she says gently.
I smile faintly. "He's been restless. Or perhaps I am."
She helps me sit, bathing my hands, then my feet, whispering prayers under her breath as she does. I don't ask what they mean. I already know. It's the same prayer she's been muttering since the first day I told her I was pregnant. The same one my mother says whenever she calls. The same one I now carry on the tip of my own heart.
Let him live. Let him be safe.
"I'll have the palace cook send something light. Fruit and cinnamon bread?"
I nod. "That sounds nice. And tea, please. Mint."
She places a shawl around my shoulders and walks me to the window seat. The courtyard is washed in soft morning light, but something about it feels unreal, like a painting. Too perfect. Too quiet.
Cassian's scent lingers faintly in the room, even though he left before dawn to prepare for his brief diplomatic journey. I remember the way he kissed my belly just before he left, whispering something only our child could hear.
"I'll be back before you miss me," he had said, touching his forehead to mine.
He didn't see the shadow that crossed my face. I didn't let him.
I watch the breeze touch the petals of the royal magnolias lining the garden below, but they don't sway. They just… remain still, as if the air itself is frozen in reverence. Or warning.
Esther brings my tea, but pauses before setting it down.
"Something feels off today," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
I turn to her, my fingers pressed lightly against the curve of my womb. "It's just nerves," I whisper. "He'll be here soon. Maybe he knows I'm afraid."
She looks at me then — properly. Her gaze is soft, but her throat moves with a nervous swallow.
"You're stronger than you think, Celeste."
But even as she says it, her eyes flick toward the doors… the windows… the world outside. Watching.
Waiting.
***
The halls of the palace stretch out like a maze; familiar, yet heavy with the scent of something I can't quite name. I walk slowly, my steps padded by soft velvet slippers, the same ones Cassian insisted I wear when my ankles began to swell.
Esther walks half a step behind me, holding a tray of dried fruits and my favorite herbal biscuits. She tries to engage me with light chatter, a recipe she wants the cook to try, a strange bird she saw outside the Queen's window, but even her voice sounds thinner today.
As we pass a tall glass windowpane, I pause to catch my reflection; pale, rounded, glowing. I look like someone who should be joyful, someone whose days are filled with songs and names for cribs. But inside, there's a quiet throb of restlessness. Of waiting.
Ahead, I hear soft voices. Two maids; girls I vaguely recognize… talking in hushed tones.
"…she still walks around like nothing ever happened."
"Be careful. You know what happened to the last girl who talked too much."
A quick, nervous giggle. Then silence as they see me.
Their faces shift instantly; plastered smiles, shallow curtsies. "My Lady," one of them says with a nervous bow. They hurry past without waiting for a response.
I don't look at Esther. I don't need to. She heard it too.
We keep walking.
A few turns later, another maid; much younger, barely sixteen, approaches from a side hall, almost bumping into us. Her face is flushed, her eyes darting. She clutches something in her hands.
"I…I brought these for the Lady…" she stammers, and thrusts the small bouquet into my hands.
White lilies. Fresh, soft. Fragrant.
I blink at her. "Thank you. What's your name?"
But she doesn't answer. She bows quickly, almost trembling, and scurries away like a shadow melting into the walls.
I glance at the flowers, breathing them in. Then I freeze.
Nestled among the stems is something dark. A thread; thin, coarse, and black as soot, coiled neatly around the base of one lily.
Esther notices at the same time I do. Her hand reaches out but I pull the flowers closer, inspecting the strange binding.
"What is that?" she murmurs, stepping closer.
My voice is low. "I've seen this before. In old village rites… it's used to bind misfortune to a person. A curse."
Esther gently takes the bouquet from my hands and snaps the black thread away with steady fingers.
"Trash," she says flatly. "I'll burn it myself."
I don't stop her. I only stare down the corridor where the girl disappeared, heart pounding softly; like footsteps behind a closed door.
We say nothing more as we turn toward my chambers. But I know something now.
This quiet is not peace.
It's a warning.