The court was quieter than usual.

  Not because fewer people had gathered, but because they were listening more carefully than they ever had before.

  “Princess Elowen.”

  The name carried across the chamber with practiced reverence, spoken by a court herald whose voice trembled just enough to betray his nerves.

  Elowen turned at the sound of it, already smiling, already certain of the attention that followed her everywhere.

  “Yes?” she said lightly, lifting her chin. “You may speak.”

  The herald swallowed and spoke shakily. “Queen Maribel requests your presence.”

  A ripple moved through the court. Whispers slid from ear to ear like mice through grain.

  Elowen laughed softly. “Requests?” she echoed. “How polite.”

  Her gaze drifted to the far end of the hall, where Queen Maribel stood in dark stillness near the high windows. She did not return the smile. She did not acknowledge the laughter. She simply watched.

  Beside the throne, armored in travel-worn steel rather than ceremonial polish, stood Elowen’s half-brother. He did not laugh. He never did when matters of the court were involved.

  His eyes met Elowen’s for only a moment.

  There was no warmth in them.

  Only warning.

  “You will come,” Maribel said, her voice calm enough to frighten the room into silence.

  The court obeyed without understanding why.

  They always did.

  The doors closed behind them with a weight that felt deliberate.

  Elowen rolled her shoulders as if shedding an inconvenience. “If this is about the petitions again, I truly don’t see why—”

  “You will listen,” Queen Maribel said.

  Elowen stopped walking.

  That alone unsettled her.

  No one told her to listen.

  “I have listened,” Elowen replied sharply. “I listen all day. I listen to complaints and demands and endless problems that never seem to end no matter how much is given.”

  “You only hear,” Maribel corrected. “You do not listen.”

  Elowen scoffed. “And what wisdom would you offer me today? Another lesson in restraint? Another warning about responsibility?”

  “Yes,” Maribel said simply.

  Elowen laughed again, but it rang hollow in the high chamber. “You speak as though I have failed. Look around you—the palace still stands, the halls are full, and the people gather for feasts. Perhaps I should pass a law to remind those peasants of their place.”

  A chill climbed Maribel’s spine.

  She had heard those words before.

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  From her father.

  She stepped closer, her voice cold. “You speak as though the crown exists to praise you. As though people will follow simply because you expect them to.”

  Silence pressed in around them.

  “You were not born to be adored,” Maribel continued. “You were born to endure. To be questioned. To be blamed. To be tired when others sleep.”

  Elowen’s smile faded. “You speak as if you know what it is to be loved.”

  Maribel did not react.

  That was worse.

  Later, when Elowen stormed back into the public chambers, her composure cracked just enough for the court to notice.

  She waved away attendants. She dismissed advisors mid-sentence. She laughed too loudly at nothing at all.

  Mockery followed confusion.

  Confusion gave way to irritation.

  Only her brother remained where he was, silent as stone.

  “You see it too,” he said quietly as she passed him.

  Elowen barely slowed. “You always see disasters where there are none,” she replied. “You spend too much time in mud and blood. It makes you dramatic.”

  “It makes me honest,” he said.

  She did not answer.

  She never did.

  Elowen paused before a polished silver basin meant for washing hands before supper.

  Her reflection blinked a moment too late.

  She frowned. “How tiresome,” she muttered, touching the surface of the water.

  The ripples spread farther than they should have.

  She pulled her hand back sharply.

  Across the hall, a goblet rattled against a table.

  No one spoke of it.

  They never did.

  That night, Elowen dreamed of water.

  Not drowning.

  Not swimming.

  Listening.

  She woke with her heart racing and the strange certainty that someone—something—had called her name without using words.

  Queen Maribel stood before the mirror long after the palace slept.

  “You assured me this would be controlled,” she said quietly.

  The glass shimmered, dark and deep, and many voices answered as one.

  “It has begun.”

  Maribel’s jaw tightened. “It is misaligned.”

  “It is revealing.”

  “She is not meant to suffer,” Maribel said. “She is meant to learn.”

  The mirror’s surface rippled.

  “Lessons do not ask permission.”

  Maribel looked away, for the first time since uncovering the glass.

  “I set the conditions,” she said. “When they are met, the curse will be undone.”

  “If they are met.”

  Maribel did not answer.

  The next morning, Elowen woke up cold.

  Not chilled by air or stone, but by something deeper—something that had settled beneath her skin.

  Her voice echoed oddly when she spoke.

  Water trembled when she passed.

  And when she stood alone at her window and looked down at the distant lake beyond the trees, she felt an ache she could not name.

  Below, in the training yards, her brother prepared patrols for the day. He gave orders quietly, efficiently, already redirecting men toward flooded villages and broken roads.

  People watched him.

  Some with hope.

  Some with longing.

  Some with the unspoken question of when duty would finally outweigh birthright.

  Elowen did not see them.

  She only felt the pull of the lake beyond the trees.

  Somewhere far below the surface of that dark water, something answered.

  Not a voice.

  A sound.

  Low.

  Wavering.

  Unfinished.

  Elowen pressed her hand to the glass.

  For the first time in her life, the reflection looking back at her did not feel entirely human.

  Alone in her chamber, Queen Maribel pressed her fingers to her temples.

  I made the right choice, she told herself. I know I did.

  The words rang hollow.

  She straightened, jaw tightening.

  No, she insisted. I did make the right choice.

  She needs to learn.

  How much of leadership is taught—and how much is learned through failure?