Violet
The silence of the palace was almost unbearable. Not the calm, comforting kind, but a thick silence that clung to the walls and whispered old memories from dark corners. Without my father around—he had left three days ago to inspect the eastern borders—and without the usual bustle of advisors, tutors, and guards, time seemed to stagnate within those cold white stone walls and faded ancestral tapestries.
The midday light streamed through the tall, narrow windows, casting golden beams across the marble floor. I had been in my room since dawn, watching the shifting shadows, swaying as if the palace itself were breathing. The carved ceiling, with its dark wood and floral motifs, no longer inspired awe, only impatience.
The boredom was suffocating—not the kind cured by books or music. It was a restless boredom, itching beneath the skin. Something inside me stirred, a premonition, a nameless anxiety. I needed to get out.
I stood up, feeling the cold floor beneath my feet. I put on a light linen robe and stepped out of my room. My footsteps echoed through the corridors as if invading a sacred tomb, breaking the silence with each touch on the floor. The tapestries told stories of ancient kings and forgotten wars, but today, they offered no comfort.
My feet carried me without my deciding where to go. I crossed the great columned hall, descended two staircases, passed through the atrium of statues... and then stopped before a door I had avoided since the day it last closed.
My sister's room.
My hand hovered over the doorknob for a long moment. The air there felt heavier. The simple act of turning the knob took all my courage. I entered.
The room was as she had left it. As if she were merely playing in the garden and would return any moment. Toys rested neatly on light wooden shelves. Rag dolls, a wooden horse, building blocks. The books she loved so much were stacked beside the bed, colorful bookmarks between the pages. The quilt, embroidered with tiny blue stars, remained carefully stretched.
The scent was still hers. Soft lavender and vanilla. A wave of memories struck me violently.
I saw her hairbrush on the vanity and felt my chest tighten. I had helped braid her hair so many times there, while she chattered about dreams and imaginary adventures. I remembered her laughter, so free, so pure. She ran through the corridors with her hair loose in the wind, as if nothing could stop her.
My legs gave way. I sat on the floor beside the bed. The tears came silently, running down my face like an ancient river finding its course again. It wasn't just longing. It was guilt. Guilt for not saving her. For not being strong enough. For obeying instead of questioning.
The door creaked softly, and a maid entered with cautious steps. It was Maela, one of the oldest in the palace, who had cared for my sister and me since we were little.
"Lady Violet…" she murmured, kneeling beside me. Her voice was sweet but firm. "She loved you more than anything in this world. She knew you tried. We all knew."
I hugged her tightly, feeling her warmth and the shared weight of loss. When she stood, her teary eyes met mine.
"Take the time you need," she said before leaving, gently closing the door.
I stayed there for a few more minutes until something on the desk caught my attention. A painting. I recognized it immediately.
It was one of my mother's works—soft brushstrokes forming the image of an enchanting forest, with towering trees and lush canopies, a small stream cutting through the scene, and a stone cabin at the center, covered in moss and wildflowers. The sky was an ethereal blue, almost dreamlike. There was something magical about that image, a promise of peace and refuge.
I carefully picked up the painting. On the back, a faded ink inscription read:"Where the soul rests, beyond the sound of waters."
I shivered. It was more than art. It was a message.
Driven by a sudden urgency, I left and made my way to the old royal quarters—my mother's room, locked since her death. The door creaked as I pushed it open. The scent of aged wood and lavender enveloped me, and for a moment, I thought I might hear her voice.
I searched the room with careful reverence. Every drawer, every box held small fragments of who she had been. I found letters addressed to old friends, delicately embroidered handkerchiefs, nearly empty perfume bottles. Beneath a pile of books, hidden at the back of a wardrobe, was a heavy chest.
My trembling fingers forced the old lock until it opened with a snap. Inside, memories slept.
Old family photos. Laughter frozen in time. My father with dark hair still, my mother with flowers in her hair, embracing my sister and me as little girls. Other images showed picnics in flowered fields, walks by the river, dances in the grand hall.
Among the objects, small scrolls with handwritten phrases:
"Peace is not on the throne, but in the freedom of the heart.""Listen to the forest—it holds more secrets than men."
And then, at the bottom, I found the diary. Her diary.
I sat on the rug and opened it, heart racing. The pages were filled with memories: of her youth before meeting the king, of the pain of losing her own mother, of our births, of the doubts she felt even as queen. The delicate handwriting grew firmer in the passages about the forest in the painting.
Then I found what I was looking for:
"Beyond the veil of mist, where the waterfall bends west, there is a path of stones, seven in all. Follow with the heart, not the eyes. The cabin awaits."
It was a riddle. But to me, it made perfect sense.
The only waterfall near Cardan lay beyond the forest to the west, shrouded in near-constant mist. Mother used to go there alone in the summers, saying she needed to "breathe." Now I understood why. That cabin was a refuge, a secret of hers. Perhaps more than that.
That night, while everyone slept, I dressed in a dark hooded cloak, hid my face, and slipped out. My steps were light, rehearsed by guilt and curiosity. I avoided the main corridors, used forgotten paths in the walled garden, and reached the secondary gates, which I managed to unlock with an old key hidden in a flowerpot.
The moonlight lit my way. The forest felt alive, breathing with me. The sounds of owls and nocturnal insects surrounded me, but the clearest sound was that of running water. The stream guided me like a familiar song.
After more than an hour walking through branches and roots, I saw the waterfall. The mist was dense, ethereal. The water flowed in soft curves, just as described. I approached and saw the seven stones—aligned like ancient sentinels. I stepped on the first, then the second. Each step felt like crossing an invisible threshold.
The mist enveloped me. The world behind me disappeared.
And then, on the other side, there it was.
The cabin.
Covered in moss, with small windows and a slanted roof adorned with white flowers. It was exactly like in the painting. A place suspended in time. Birds chirped softly, even at night. A sweet aroma of herbs hung in the air.
I approached, heart racing. Inside that house, perhaps lay the answers to so many questions.
But before my hand touched the doorknob, the sharp sound of a branch snapping made me freeze.
I turned.
Someone was there.
I was not alone.