Stitching the Kingdom

No doting princes, no idle chitchat over sugary delicacies, no twirling in glittering dresses across gilded halls.

There was simply too much to do. Too much to learn. Too many people depended on her. She studied not just for herself, but for a country that had lost its queen.

Each morning, before the sun had fully kissed the palace’s high towers, she was already up, washing her face with brisk, practiced movements.

She dried herself with a soft towel, then turned to the dresses laid out for her.

“Which dress shall it be today, Your Highness?” Nina, her faithful lady's maid, asked. Her voice was warm and patient.

Today, Nina had chosen two options: one, a dignified gown in a calm shade of Persian green and peacock green; the other, a bright, lively dress embroidered with colorful flowers and tied with an eye-catching Icterine-yellow ribbon. It reminded Charlotte of the gardens, where blooms were beginning to wake with the spring.

“I’ll take the yellow one,” she said, smiling.

Once she slipped into the soft dress, Nina dusted her face lightly with powder and helped arrange her hair. Instead of the elaborate, intricate styles she wore for formal audiences, Nina simply braided her hair into a neat ponytail with a bright red ribbon. For a princess, it was a surprisingly simple, innocent look.

Yet this had become her symbol—an emblem of her free spirit. Though there was a deeper reason she clung to this style, she rarely spoke of it.

Ready now, Charlotte and Nina headed toward the castle's heart—the sacred Chamber of Life—for morning prayers. As they walked, castle workers greeted them warmly: maids with fresh linens, laborers polishing windows, cooks with baskets of produce, knights on patrol.

"Good morning, everyone. It's finally warming up, isn't it?" she called out.

"Yes, Your Highness! Please visit the gardens later. The head gardener has been boasting about the blooms all morning!" one worker replied.

"Thank you—I'll be sure to take a look."

Though she chatted easily, her steps never faltered. Palace schedules moved like clockwork, and she had no wish to disrupt their rhythm.

Down a flight of stone steps, they entered the heart of the castle—a vast, circular courtyard carved into the building itself. The Chamber of Life was open to the sky, with no roof and no glass in its windows. Rain and sun alike fell freely within.

At its center grew the sacred tree—a living offshoot from the original Mother Tree, a remnant of the world’s ancient magic. Around it, other trees and wildflowers had been carefully planted, creating a vivid, living tapestry of greens and colors. The great tree’s branches were heavy with spring’s first buds, tiny explosions of green unfurling into tender leaves.

Nina spread a beautiful carpet embroidered with motifs of forests and spells at the tree’s root. Charlotte knelt there, closing her eyes and folding her hands. She offered thanks for the gifts of the forest and the blessing of life itself, then prayed for those who were not here.

The ancient tree, as always, offered no reply. It only watched, patient and eternal.

After the prayer, they headed to the Royal Breakfast Room. Unlike the winter months, when preserved foods were common, spring through autumn brought an abundance of fresh produce to Peridotia’s tables.

She didn’t eat heavily in the mornings. Usually just a fresh-baked roll, a bowl of warm vegetable soup, and a few bites of salad or fruit. Yet the scent of butter melting over the bread, the snap of fresh herbs between her teeth—it made her glad that spring had returned. She’d never been fond of pickled vegetables, truth be told.

Once the meal ended, duty called. Charlotte sat upright in one of the study rooms, pen ready, shoulders squared. Tall shelves lined the stone walls, packed with ancient books whose faded titles spoke of forgotten times.

The door creaked open. In walked Edmund—chancellor, historian, and her ever-patient, if slightly pompous, tutor.

He was short and round, with slicked-back hair streaked with white, always fussing with his mustache or glasses whenever he got dramatic.

He dropped a battered old book onto the table with a thud and cleared his throat. 

"Today, Princess," he said with a small bow, touching his mustache, "let us review the rise and fall of the Northern Empire of Sorcery you studied earlier, along with what tends to befall lands struck by great calamity."

Charlotte nodded. The flourishing of magical culture, the rot of power, and the literal collapse that followed. Whether three hundred years ago or thirty, human history seemed to repeat itself.

"Not only magic," Edmund continued, "but storms, earthquakes, tidal waves, famine... After a disaster, survivors often hide their origins. Many believe that such misfortunes cling to people like a curse—claiming the survivors bring with them death, misfortune, or even the reek of stagnant Od."

He gave a slight shrug. "Of course, such beliefs are little more than superstition."

Charlotte lowered her eyes, pained. Surely those who lost everything—their homes, their loved ones—must carry sorrow too heavy to bear. And she knew: few communities could truly open their hearts to strangers who brought with them tales of grief and ruin.

"And even if they are not shunned," Edmund said, voice growing softer, "there are always those who would seek to exploit them. It is not unreasonable to think that some survivors remain—but few would openly speak of their past."

Charlotte hesitated, then asked, "I understand about commoners and lesser nobles. But what of the royal family of that empire? Or the magi who served them?"

At her question, Edmund fell silent for a long time, pondering carefully.

"...Corruption had festered among the rulers for generations," he said at last. "It would not be surprising if some—disgusted by the decay—had fled before the empire’s collapse. Runaways, hidden among the scattered survivors."

So, survivors might still exist, yet their identities remained veiled by necessity. Charlotte quietly drew her own conclusion.

Still, Edmund wasn’t finished. He gave a slow, almost mischievous smile.

"Why, Princess," he said, "for all we know, one of them might even be living among us today."

Charlotte blinked in surprise, then gave a soft, delighted laugh.

"That would be rather wonderful, wouldn't it?"

Edmund chuckled but soon grew serious once more.

"Your power, Princess, exists to protect. But remember—power great enough to save can just as easily destroy."

"...I understand," she answered, folding her hands solemnly over her chest.

Yet Edmund, ever warm, added, "Though I say this, we harbor no worries about you. It is difficult to imagine you ever falling prey to greed or ambition."

Charlotte smiled, touched by his faith in her—though inwardly she squirmed a little, recalling the times she had ‘sampled’ treats from market stalls during royal inspections.

…That’s not an abuse of power… is it?

The subjects she had to master were endless: history, mathematics, diplomacy, economics… She wasn’t expected to become a scholar in each field. But for royalty, knowledge was as vital as any sword. A princess without armor would be devoured before she even understood the danger.

With her parents missing, she had no choice but to become strong on her own. She approached her lessons with fierce determination, refusing to be left defenseless.

Beyond academics, there was cultural knowledge to acquire—art, music, and dance. Her daily schedule was stitched tighter than the embroidery hoops she still struggled to master.

She stared down at her latest project. She was supposed to be stitching an image of the sacred Mother Tree… yet what she had created looked more like a crooked stick with droopy leaves.

Eleonora, her aunt by marriage and embroidery tutor, peered over her glasses and sighed. “Your Highness… you’re trying very hard, I know. But even so, this is…”

Charlotte groaned and flopped over the embroidery frame. “I know.”

But even crooked trees kept growing toward the sky.

She picked up her needle again.