Year: AP 925

  Planet: Kennel

  The sun spilled through the grand stained-glass windows of the Royal Palace of Kennel, shattering into a thousand hues that danced upon the marble floor. Crimson, violet, and gold bled together in a living tapestry that painted the corridor leading toward the King’s Throneroom. Parting through that river of radiance walked Princess Jemma Stuart of Kennel.

  Elegant.

  Unique.

  Fragile.

  Her gown of white lace whispered against the floor, its hem gliding like mist. Her steps were so soft they seemed ethereal. Each motion was slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial, as though she feared her own legs might shatter if she moved too quickly.

  Beside her strode Dane Samantha Zander — tall, composed, and sharp as the blade at her hip. The crimson of her uniform cleaved through the prismatic light with a focused purpose. Behind them followed three attendants in sapphire blue, their pace perfectly measured, their eyes lowered, each bearing the silent reverence and unwavering readiness.

  The palace was alive with motion and murmurs — servants rushing, couriers calling, banners unfurled. The air trembled with anticipation, a current of energy building toward the impromptu royal event scheduled to transpire within the next hour.

  Today, the King would name his heir.

  A thousand hearts in the palace beat to that rhythm.

  All except Jemma’s.

  Her pace slowed. A sigh — soft as snowfall — escaped her lips. The soundless expression seemed to ripple through the air just enough for the watchful Royal Knight to take note.

  “What troubles you, Princess?” came the Dane’s voice, calm yet edged with concern.

  Jemma did not answer immediately. She tilted her head upward — for Samantha towered over her, nearly a foot and a half taller — and cast her a sidelong glance. The height difference had always irked her, though she’d never admit it aloud. Samantha’s presence was almost too perfect: straight posture, amber hair bound in a flawless bun, the ruby-inlaid honor blade at her side seemed to gleam with a life all of its own.

  Jemma exhaled again, lifting her hands with deliberate ease. Her fingers flowed like a dancer’s — a silent voice born of grace and discipline.

  I simply don’t understand, she signed, her pale fingers weaving thought into motion. Why would Father move the ceremony forward? Why such haste?

  Samantha’s gaze softened, though her tone remained even. “I have already told you, Your Highness. I do not know. The King’s will is not for me to question — only to fulfill. My duty is your safety and preparedness.”

  The Princess raised an eyebrow — a tiny rebellion. The faintest quirk of her lips portrayed amusement. Her hands flickered once more, lazily. You’re so serious all the time.

  That hint of mischief was all it took to shatter the stillness of formality.

  Jemma’s shoulders trembled.

  And then — a laugh.

  Not a sound, but a motion. A voiceless laugh that shimmered in her eyes, her mouth parting just enough for joy to bloom without voice. It was strange, silent, yet utterly contagious.

  Samantha frowned in mock irritation. “What could possibly be amusing, Your Highness?”

  Jemma’s reply came swiftly, her fingers darting like playful dragonflies.

  You. Do you not remember? When we were young — the night the royal physician forbade me sweets?

  Samantha blinked. “I… recall something of the sort.”

  You snuck into the kitchens, Jemma signed, her gestures quick and animated now, and stole cakes. You climbed the palace wall to my window — at midnight! I awoke to scratching at the glass and found you dangling outside, your uniform torn, covered in soot and dirt, hair sticking out like a bird’s nest!

  The attendants gasped softly — scandalized, curious, and secretly delighted. Samantha’s stoic mask cracked for half a heartbeat.

  You looked ridiculous! Jemma’s signs were trembling now from suppressed laughter. And yet you did it for me — you brought me the forbidden cakes of rebellion!

  Samantha exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That was a long time ago,” she muttered, though a faint flushing of her cheeks betrayed her composure.

  Jemma’s laughter — shimmering, yet silent — radiated from her like mute sunlight, and for an instant, time itself seemed to pause. The stained-glass shone brighter, sending streams of light through her golden hair like a halo. The attendants’ sapphire gowns caught the rays, adding their own hues to the ever-changing illumination that painted the hallway.

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  And for that single, fragile heartbeat, there was no crown, no ceremony, no sickness — only two girls, long ago, sharing laughter and cakes beneath a forbidden night sky.

  The laughter between them faded as the two continued down the radiant corridor. The colors of the stained glass shifted from warm golds to deeper blues as the sun climbed higher — as if the palace itself sensed the change in the Princess’s thoughts.

  Her expression softened into quiet pondering. Then, with graceful hands, she signed again, Who do you think Father will choose?

  Samantha glanced down at her charge. Jemma’s movements grew faster, her signs more urgent now.

  It must be one of them — either Lucas or Curtis. Curtis is strong, fierce, and he won the Tournament this year… Which was all the easier with Marcus gone… but I— she hesitated, eyes lowering —I hope Father chooses Lucas. He’s kind. Always has been. He was the only one who never looked at me like I am… The Princess’s hands stiffened, then dropped to her sides.

  The hallway hummed with distant voices, servants passing beyond sight, which helped to fill the sudden silence. When Dane Samantha did reply, it was as controlled as ever, the tone of a woman who had trained her emotions into a form of emotional armor. A defense she created not for her own well-being, but for the betterment of one she was sworn to protect, even from dangers that were not always physical.

  “Either one will make a fine heir, Your Highness. The King has weighed this decision for years. Without a direct son, his choice is… complex.” She paused. “If Marcus had truly been of royal blood, perhaps even he would have been considered.”

  The name hung in the air like a shadow.

  Jemma’s delicate hands trembled slightly before she continued, signing slower now.

  I miss Marcus. He was funny. He made me laugh. Do you think he passed the Trial of Entry?

  Samantha said nothing. Her eyes — sharp and unreadable — fixed ahead. But her silence was answer enough.

  Jemma caught it, her heart tightening. The rhythm of the palace felt suddenly heavier — the shuffling feet of attendants, the creak of banners, even the glint of sunlight seemed to dim. She looked away, pretending to study the mosaic tiles beneath her feet.

  The weariness crept in quietly. The long hall, the colors, the conversations — even signing took effort when her energy waned. Her breath came soft and uneven, her delicate frame beginning to sway.

  Down the corridor, she spotted one of the marble benches set into an alcove beneath a window awash in more violet light. Samantha’s eyes followed hers immediately.

  “Your Highness,” she said quietly, already anticipating her charge’s need. “Let us rest a moment.”

  Jemma offered a grateful nod. She lowered herself gracefully onto the bench, her gown folding around her like the blossom of a white flower. Samantha remained standing, ever the sentinel, her hand resting lightly on the ruby-pommeled hilt at her hip. The three attendants took their usual positions along the wall, perfectly still — sapphire shadows watching their mistress’s every movement.

  Jemma raised her hands again, fingers flowing with practiced elegance.

  Allison, she signed, Please, fetch me a glass of water.

  Marie, — she rubbed her shoulders gently — a shawl, if you would. It’s grown cold.

  Jennifer, her lips curved faintly in a sheepish grin, perhaps a biscuit? I need a bit of energy.

  The maids bowed and scattered like bluebirds released from their cages, their dresses flashing hues of indigo in the shifting sunlight.

  As the last disappeared, Samantha finally allowed herself a quiet breath. She turned toward her princess, her own hands now moving in graceful, silent language.

  All right, Princess. They’re gone. What did you wish to say?

  Jemma hesitated before answering.

  I don’t know what you mean.

  A knowing smile crossed the Dane’s lips. She said nothing more — only waited, patient as a statue. The silence pressed like a weight.

  Finally, Jemma signed slowly.

  Father’s sending me away.

  The words hung in the air.

  Samantha’s hand froze halfway through a gesture. Then, measured and calm, she signed back.

  What do you mean?

  Jemma’s eyes drifted toward the light spilling through the window — soft, fractured, almost dreamlike.

  I heard him, she signed, her movements small and trembling. He was speaking with Mother. Late at night. I… I snuck out for cakes.

  That earned a faint exhale from Samantha — amusement mixed with frustration — but she didn’t interrupt.

  On my way to the kitchen, I passed Father’s study. The door was open. Mother was crying. He said it was the only way. The only way to heal me. He said they were sending me away.

  Jemma’s hands slowed, each sign heavier than the last.

  I don’t know where. But he said… far away. Mother argued. Said I wasn’t strong enough.

  The last words faltered, fading into stillness. The colors through the glass shifted again — now a melancholy blue.

  Samantha closed her eyes for a moment, the faintest crease appearing between her brows. When she opened them, she signed with steady hands.

  Your Highness. I know nothing of this.

  Jemma’s next sign came sharp, urgent.

  If Father commanded you not to tell me — would you still obey him?

  The knight hesitated, then replied with solemn grace. I would. Then, after a pause, she continued. But I can tell you this: I genuinely do not know of this matter.

  Jemma looked away. The light painted her face with fractured colors.

  I don’t want to leave Kennel, she signed softly. I don’t want to leave home.

  Her fingers slowed mid-motion, as if her thoughts were somewhere else — a distant dream pulling her gaze toward the far horizon beyond the palace walls.

  Samantha watched her for a moment. Then she knelt, her crimson cape brushing the floor, and her signs were steady, reassuring.

  Wherever you go, Princess, I will go with you. The King will see to that. You will not be alone. And if His Majesty believes this path can heal you… Then trust him. Trust your father.

  A faint glimmer shimmered in the air — the unseen pulse reacting to Jemma’s emotions.

  Heat!

  Not violent or uncomfortable, but soothing and inviting, like a brief ripple of warmth that fluttered the edge of Samantha’s cape.

  Now, the Royal Knight finished, we must attend the ceremony.

  Jemma exhaled, her lips pressing into a small, reluctant smile. Very well, she signed. Let’s get on with it.

  She stood — slowly, gracefully — just as the three attendants returned: one carrying a glass of glimmering water, another draping a soft white shawl around her shoulders, the third balancing a silver tray with golden biscuits.

  “Your Highness,” they said in unison, bowing deeply.

  Jemma looked at them, then at Samantha — and for a fleeting instant, despite the heaviness in her chest, she smiled.

  The light through the stained glass brightened again, gilding her hair in gold. The Princess of Kennel stood tall beneath that living mosaic.

  Elegant.

  Unique.

  Fragile.

  And, yet...

  Radiant — a snowflake refusing to melt.