The Princess Without Parents

“Welcome to Peridotia, Duchess Yuli, and honored guests. It is a pleasure to welcome you to our palace. I trust your journey was a safe one.”

Duchess Yuli, accompanied by her attendants and guards, returned the greeting. A young guard beside her faltered for a moment, captivated by the young princess’s poised beauty. Yuli gave a pointed cough, and he straightened immediately.

The grand hall was bathed in warm afternoon light, streaming through the stained-glass windows. Peridot green and gold, the royal colors of Peridotia, danced across the polished marble floor like forest leaves lit by the sun.

Peridotia—the kingdom of the evergreen. The ancient magic was the lifeblood of the land, and those born of the royal line carried the forest’s blessing; they were entrusted with its protection, and in turn, it protected them.

At the far end of the hall, beneath the crest of the royal family, stood Princess Charlotte de Peridotia.

Her golden hair seemed to melt the sunlight, and her eyes—peridots, true to their name—held a steady light. Yet behind that gleam was a stillness. Not the calm of peace, but the stillness of someone holding her breath for too long.

She wore nothing that made her feel like herself—not the soft, light dresses she favored, nor the red ribbon her mother had once gifted her. Instead, she stood draped in a heavy gown embroidered with solemn elegance, a deep green dress stitched more for ceremony than comfort. The braid that usually swayed freely down her back was now pulled tight, her head adorned with a glittery tiara.

She did her best to maintain her composure, to present herself with grace and dignity befitting a princess.

Before her stood Duchess Yuli of Bahharis, the desert kingdom to the west. Tall, with long silver hair bound in a ponytail, she wore not a soft gown but trousers and a tunic of cool blue silk, bearing the crest of Bahharis’s generals at her throat. The duchess carried herself with a grace forged through storms survived. Today’s visit was a mere formality, a renewal of goodwill before matters of trade.

“You resemble your mother more with each passing year,” Yuli said. “And your father’s kindness—yes, that too. I had my doubts about Peridotia’s future, but seeing you now . . . I am reassured.”

Charlotte forced a smile to keep up appearances.

Her parents, Queen Jeanne and her consort Wilbert, had been the guests of honor at a wedding in Bahharis. They had never made it home—the sandstorm had struck without warning. The caravan was gone, along with its escort. Yet, in the absence of wreckage, bodies, or even remnants of their carriage, hope refused to vanish entirely.

However, nearly five years had already passed. All but two had accepted their fate: Charlotte, their only daughter, and Jack, who served as both Knight Commander and mage of Peridotia.

But these were thoughts that belonged to quiet moments, not in the gilded light of a diplomatic hall.

“That is kind of you to say, Duchess Yuli,” she said with a practiced smile. “I am doing my best to honor their legacy.”

Yuli gave a solemn nod. “Your parents built this kingdom into a place strong and wise. I’ve no doubt you will grow into that strength.”

Charlotte nodded, but her stiff smile showed her doubt inside.

 . . . Will I? Can I?

Yuli studied her for a moment longer, then let out a knowing chuckle.

“You’re still young. In time, you’ll find your way. Just remember, you do not walk alone. Allies stand with you.” She gave the princess a soft gaze filled with something almost maternal. “And Bahharis will always strive to cooperate with our friendly nation, Peridotia, to protect each other.”

“It means a great deal to hear that.” Charlotte let out her breath softly, dipping her head in gratitude.

They moved from the hall to the drawing room. The room felt just right—large enough for dignity, small enough for discretion. One of its corners was adorned with freshly picked freesia in a glass vase.

Seated across a white table, the two engaged in conversation while sipping tea and enjoying jewel-like sugar confections. Amid their dialogue, the soft scratching of quills echoed as the attending scribe and his apprentice diligently transcribed every word onto paper.

Their talk drifted into safer waters: seasonal exports, tariffs on luxury goods, and invitations to the flower festival, The Moonblossom Gala.

“I’m hoping to attend personally. Without all this tedious official business, of course.” Yuli traced the silver-embossed decoration on the invitation with her finger, smiling.

“Oh, truly? Then we must ensure the festival lives up to your expectations,” Charlotte replied with genuine delight.

“I’ve heard that the princess performs a dance at the festival?”

“Yes, though I say so myself . . .” Charlotte smiled, her gaze dropping to her teacup.

“And your partner for this dance—has one been chosen?”

Charlotte blinked at the question. “It’s more ceremonial in nature, so I’ll either dance alone or with my dance instructor. Of course, there are events for couples and families to dance together, but I haven’t . . .” She sipped her tea. “Well, I don’t have anyone for such things yet.”

“I see . . .” Yuli stroked her chin thoughtfully, falling silent.

Charlotte tilted her head inwardly, puzzled, but Yuli’s diplomatic smile returned as she smoothly changed the subject.

As they began discussing imported weapons and the magical restrictions on enchanted items from the Eastern Isles, Yuli’s voice shifted.

“Speaking of enchanted items,” she said, setting her teacup down with a faint clink, “we’ve recently had issues at our southern border. Smugglers, yes, but not all of them acted on their own will.”

“Forgive me, but . . . what do you mean by that?” Charlotte asked.

Yuli’s expression shifted, shadowed. “There is a sorcerer.” The word fell like a crack in the light. “A phantom, some call him. No name, no face. Only his work. He rules from the dark, with a thousand puppets and a few living servants who carry out his will.”

Charlotte stiffened, but Yuli continued to speak.

“His creations are not men, but constructs. Puppets made of sand, controlled by strings no one can see. They do not bleed, they do not feel, they only obey. And once they have chosen a target, they do not stop.” Yuli’s voice lowered. “We liken him to the Nahas-Serqet, the desert serpent that never releases its prey.”

The name sent a chill down Charlotte’s spine. She’d heard stories as a child, tales of that serpent, how it moved without sound beneath the sands, waited for the heat of day to burn high, and then struck with impossible speed.

“That sounds . . .” She chose her words carefully. “ . . . like a dangerous foe. Are you not afraid to have such an unknown enemy out there?”

Yuli smiled. “Of course. But rulers do not have the luxury of fear. We must place trust in our people, and in those who will rise when we fall.”

Charlotte’s admiration stirred again—this woman spoke like the leaders she had grown up watching. “I’ll remember that,” she said.

Yuli gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “And if your magic is anything like your mother’s, I think Peridotia has little to fear.”

“Ah . . . well, that remains to be seen.” Charlotte deflected the compliment with a small laugh. But she touched her hand unconsciously.

Yes, she had magic. She had the blessing of the forest, like other royal blood of this kingdom—but she carried a secret few knew, a burden that cast a long shadow over her heart.

Doubt coiled inside her chest. This meeting, this entire performance—it was a dance she had learned well, but she could not shake the feeling that she was merely pretending to be the ruler her parents had once been, pretending she had all the answers.

Still, she could not afford to falter. She lifted her chin and said, “Shall we move on to the trade negotiations?”

Yuli smiled once more, and the conversation resumed.

But long after the hall fell quiet and the sunlight faded from the floor, the image of a snake slithering through sand lingered in Charlotte’s mind.

A nameless sorcerer. A thousand unfeeling puppets and obedient servants at their command.

And all the while, Peridotia waited—quietly, politely—for its next queen to stop pretending.