The Exiled Princess

The guards did not escort me. They hauled me. Their hands clamped around my arms like iron clamps as they dragged me across the marble corridor, my heels scraping hard enough to leave streaks in the stone. Torches rattled in their brackets. Banners snapped overhead. My shoulder slammed into a pillar hard enough that I reconsidered all my life choices.

The double doors of the throne room swung open with a dramatic crash that suggested someone had rehearsed it.

They threw me inside.

My knees hit the floor so hard a noise escaped me that was absolutely not dignified. The sound echoed through the massive chamber. Gasps followed immediately. Robed nobles jerked backward as if I were contagious. Silk hems swished. Fans trembled in hands suddenly unsure. Someone dropped a goblet. Another person prayed loudly enough to compete with the acoustics.

My wrists were raw, bleeding in small, unhelpful drips. The ropes had bitten deep, carving angry red rings around my skin. My gown, once elegant, now looked like it had fought in a war, lost that war, and then been dragged behind a horse for good measure. Dirt, ash, and torn fabric clung to me in patches. Someone had ripped my crown off during the struggle, and one rebellious strand of hair fell over my eye in a way that felt offensively dramatic, as if even my appearance wanted to emphasize my downfall.

Then I saw the throne.

My father slumped in it, swallowed by shadows cast by the towering stained glass behind him. His eyes stared ahead without recognition, glassy and distant. His lips were pale. His skin had taken on a gray cast that absolutely did not belong on a living king. His posture sagged, as if invisible chains pinned him in place.

“Father,” I whispered. My voice cracked in a way that would have made every royal tutor faint and demand immediate speech training.

He did not look at me.

Lysandra sat beside him like a viper draped in jewels. Her jeweled hand rested on his arm in a performance of wifely devotion. She sobbed theatrically, loud enough to rattle every decorative shield along the walls, but her eyes glittered with delighted cruelty that she did not bother to hide fully.

Seraphine stood behind her, poised and graceful as always, because of course she was. Even in the middle of a political disaster, she maintained perfect posture. Tears shimmered in her eyes but refused to fall, which felt suspiciously convenient. Her lips were curved into the soft, tragic smile she probably practiced every morning, right after brushing her hair one hundred times and perfecting her look of innocent suffering.

A herald stepped forward, lifted his chin, and unrolled a scroll so long it could have doubled as a carpet.

“Aveline Asteria Laurel, princess of this realm, stands accused of treason.”

Gasps.

“She stands accused of conspiring to harm the queen.”

More gasps.

“She stands accused of attempting to destabilize the crown and endanger the royal family.”

My breath left me in a sharp exhale. “That is a lie. All of it. Every word. Especially the last one. I do not even like this family.”

Nobles recoiled.

“She speaks?”

“She dares?”

“She is unhinged.”

The whispers rose like a hive of offended bees.

The guard behind me yanked me upright, which did not help my mood.

“I am innocent,” I spat. “Someone framed me. Skillfully, I admit. But framed nonetheless.”

“Silence,” the herald barked.

“I will not be silent,” I roared. “Look at me. Do I look like someone who planned anything today? I cannot even plan breakfast.”

A gasp. A faint, impressed murmur.

Lysandra leaned toward my father and whispered something. Her lips barely moved. Her eyes gleamed with calculated malice. His shoulders twitched faintly, a tiny shudder that told me everything I needed to know and nothing I wanted to accept.

“Father,” I said louder, desperation slicing through my voice like a blade. “Please. Look at me. Say something. Anything.”

He did not blink. He did not even seem to breathe.

The herald continued, as if reading a grocery list. “Multiple witnesses report that the princess attempted to stab Her Majesty this evening.”

I laughed. Loudly. Wildly. It echoed through the throne room like I had finally snapped.

“Witnesses?” I asked. “Who? Seraphine? Her mother? The decorative fern they keep in the hallway? Shall we consult the drapes next?”

Shock rippled through the room. Several nobles stepped back as if my sarcasm were contagious.

Seraphine stepped forward, hands folded as if she were the portrait of grace. “Aveline, please. You are only hurting yourself. If you admit what you did, mercy can still be shown.”

I stared at her. “Seraphine, the only mercy that should be shown is sparing us all from your acting career. I have seen more believable performances from fruit vendors.”

Her lips tightened so sharply I thought they might disappear.

Lysandra’s sobbing intensified, louder and more dramatic. “She mocks us. She mocks justice. She mocks her dying father. How heartless can one girl be.”

I almost applauded the performance.

My head snapped toward her. “He is dying because of you.”

Gasps exploded like fireworks.

General Caelum stepped forward from the shadows. His armor gleamed. His expression was stone. But his eyes… his eyes wavered. He had trained me since childhood. He knew me.

“Princess,” he said quietly, “stand down. You cannot win this.”

“This is not a trial,” I said. “This is a puppet show with better costumes.”

Several nobles gasped. One fainted. Another pointed at me and said something about demons.

The herald raised his scroll. “By decree of the council, the princess shall stand trial at sunrise.”

“Sunrise?” I repeated. “What am I supposed to do until then? Reflect?”

The nobles whispered again.

“She is arrogant.”

“She is mocking the council.”

“She is finished.”

I ignored them. “There is no evidence,” I said. “None. Not one unbiased witness.”

“She attacked the queen,” someone shouted.

“She poisoned the king,” someone else cried.

“She was seen fleeing the upper hall.”

“You mean when guards broke into my chamber?” I snapped. “Yes, I ran. From men twice my size. How shocking.”

Chaos swelled again.

Seraphine lifted her chin sweetly. “Aveline, stop. You are making this worse.”

“Seraphine, the only thing worse is pretending you care.”

Gasps fluttered across the chamber like panicked birds.

Lysandra sobbed dramatically, clutching her pearls for extra effect. “She mocks her father’s suffering.”

“He suffers because you drugged him,” I said, loud enough for the carvings on the ceiling to hear.

The chamber exploded.

Guards stepped forward. Swords flashed. Nobles shrieked. Someone shouted for salt, which was disappointing but not surprising. Someone else asked if I was possessed. Another person accused me of cursing their cat last year, which was outrageous because I had never even seen their cat.

“Father,” I begged one last time. “Please. Look at me. Please tell them the truth.”

The herald lifted his voice. “His Majesty will speak.”

Silence slammed through the room so suddenly I felt it in my bones.

My father lifted his trembling hand. His fingers shook with such violent weakness I feared they would crumble. Lysandra leaned close, whispering something soft and poisonous into his ear with immaculate timing.

His lips parted.

“Aveline Asteria Laurel will stand trial at sunrise.”

The words echoed like a door slamming shut inside my skull.

My world tilted. The air thickened. The nobles erupted into chaos, a storm of shouts and accusations and fear. Guards hauled me backward as the throne room spun in and out of focus. My father stared ahead, hollow and trapped, his eyes empty as a ghost. His trembling hand hung frozen in the air, as if trying to reach for me but unable to disobey the poison that bound him.

And I was dragged into the darkness, condemned by the man who had once sworn to protect me.

Not his choice.

Not his voice.

Not his will.

I was being dragged into darkness for a crime I did not commit, condemned by the man who loved me… a man who no longer controlled his own mind.

Someone else did.

And that someone had just sentenced me to die.