Is it easy to be a princess? To wear extravagant gowns, dazzling jewels, bathe in rose petal-infused water, and savor only the finest delicacies. Is it easy to be a princess? To be a role model, a paragon, a standard for everyone to admire. To dance at grand balls and spend evenings playing the piano and singing. To embroider with golden threads and dedicate yourself to charity. Is it easy to be a princess? To marry a fairy-tale prince and live happily ever after in a majestic palace. To await your coronation, to become a wise and just queen, respected by advisors and beloved by the people, and... well, no “and” needed. Are there really people who believe a princess’s life is such a fairy tale? Let’s take a peek behind the looking glass.
What does it mean to be a princess? To wear dresses you despise simply because your nanny—later replaced by a chief lady-in-waiting—decreed it so, her job being to fuss over you. And you must always be grateful, or else: “Your Highness, such behavior is unbecoming!” What does it mean to be a princess? To sit at a table laden with luxurious dishes, salivating yet unable to eat what tastes good, only what’s allowed, to preserve your figure. For a princess, her figure is sacred. If a princess gains weight, they’ll still tailor her dress several sizes too small, then cinch her into that cursed corset so tightly that for two weeks, she can’t eat a thing, only moisten her lips with a damp handkerchief. One of those handkerchiefs she embroidered herself, because what else is she supposed to do with so many of them? What does it mean to be a princess? To attend every mind-numbingly dull event, to spend hours conversing with people you can’t stand, and to flash a radiant smile when all you want to do is sob. To always wear a mask, never raise your voice, never look around, never fidget, dance better than everyone, sing better than everyone, have a perfect sense of humor, and yet stay silent to avoid any awkwardness. A princess is served by all, you say? Ha, ha, ha! Don’t be ridiculous! She’s the truest servant of all, just undercover, and a hostage to boot. They’ll betroth her to one of those repulsive suitors from the ball, and that’s if she’s lucky—she’ll at least have seen him before. If not, she’ll meet her husband the day before the wedding. Now do you understand what it means to be a princess? Your dreams are empty; you’re chasing a pretty wrapper, but inside, the candy is far from sweet. You think earning love and respect is easy? They’re all ready to drag themselves to the underworld just to pull you down with them! It’s a farce... Being a princess and being a despised slave are nearly the same thing. The only difference is that a princess looks elegant, and she has no choice in the matter...
“Oh, come on, Mom, enough already! You didn’t marry some awful stranger, so why all the drama? We’re not in a theater, after all,” I teased, my green eyes sparkling with mischief as I clutched the tiny tiara my uncle, the king, had given me for my tenth birthday. I didn’t believe a word of Mom’s warnings. And I shouldn’t have dismissed them so lightly. My mother, Ileria Wilson, is the younger sister of our monarch, his favorite, his heart, his guiding star, and the truest princess by birth among all true princesses. In the Portrait Hall of the kingdom, her image graces a massive wall. The painting depicts a grand throne upholstered in red velvet—a symbol of power, both the throne and the crimson hue—where a young King Leonard Martial sits proudly, a golden crown atop his wavy, blond hair. To his right stands my mother, then Ileria Martial, and after marriage, Duchess of Alwin, Ileria Wilson, in a stunning violet gown with a long chain draped across her chest. Mom always hated that chain, but the artist’s assistant insisted it completed the look. Honestly, I always agreed with the assistant, but Mom constantly grumbled about the wretched accessory. To the king’s left is another princess, still a young girl, their younger sister Palmira Martial, now Duchess of Ilain, Palmira Tillar, the mother of my best friend and cousin, Nikolina. As a member of the royal family, Mom knew all the perks and pitfalls of palace life. And now, hearing my sighs about being the king’s beloved niece but not an heir to the throne, she decided to enlighten me on the so-called charms of being a princess.
“Annie, sweetheart,” she said with a tender smile, gently stroking my curly head, so much like my uncle’s in the portrait. “I knew of your father’s existence before the wedding, but I saw him no more, no less, than once a year at the royal ball. He didn’t come more often. Not every year did we exchange even a couple of words, and we danced together only once before the wedding. When my father, your grandfather—may he rest in peace—told me about the marriage and mentioned Philip Wilson’s name, I had to rack my brain to remember who he was. Where’s the happiness in that?”
“But you’re happy now!” I countered, glancing involuntarily at my uncle’s gift. One of many, to be honest. Every year on my birthday, he threw a ball, hosted a reception, and practically buried me in presents. Last year, he gave me three purebred stallions and a sleigh. In the spring, no less. Thank heavens the craftsmen thought to add wheels, or I’d be dragging skis across the grass. The year before, for my eighth birthday, it was a pony. At seven, they built me a real miniature palace in the royal gardens. A playhouse, sure, but big enough for Nikolina and me to fit inside. I lived at court for a month just to play in it, and when Mom complained to the king that she hadn’t seen me in days because of the gift, they built another one in Alwin, at our home, at Her Majesty’s expense. She’s incredibly kind too. And now, for my tenth birthday, my uncle gave me a real tiara, adorned with a neat row of diamonds and shimmering pearls. With my chestnut hair, tinged reddish-black, it sparkles from a mile away. I’ve adored tiaras and crowns since I was a toddler, and His Majesty knew it. How could he not, when I’d shamelessly pluck the crown off his head while sitting in his lap—a frequent occurrence—and wear it myself? Often, it doubled as a necklace before finally staying on my head without slipping too much. My uncle would laugh, saying I was the only one in the family who resembled him (no one else paraded around the palace in his crown), and now he’d gone and gifted me my very own.
“I am happy, little one. But when? Now. After I got to know Philip and fell in love with him, after I gave birth to my beautiful daughter and my clever son. Now, I’m truly happy... But I’m no longer a princess,” she said with a smile, playfully pinching my upturned nose.
“Your Grace, the fund manager and her assistant are here to see you,” a servant interrupted our conversation.
“Invite them to the garden, to my favorite gazebo. I’ll be right there,” Mom replied promptly, giving me a gentle smile. “See? Always business. You don’t even have time to sit with your children. Those blessings you dream of, darling, they’re not there...”
She kissed my forehead tenderly and, rising gracefully from the sofa, left the room with regal poise.
“Oh, but they are,” I whispered, knowing Mom couldn’t hear me, as I pressed the tiara to my chest, imagining I wasn’t just some marquess but a real princess, dancing at a ball with a handsome prince, reflected as a beauty in his deep blue eyes.
***
Ten years passed in the blink of an eye. That sweet little marquess who dreamed of love grew into a mature lady, the pride of the dynasty and the hope of all Lantonia, our glorious kingdom! Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but whatever. I no longer dreamed of a prince with blue eyes or harbored hopes of a fairy-tale marriage. Honestly, I didn’t want to marry at all and was enjoying my carefree, happy life as the beloved niece of His Majesty.
But one spring day, everything changed.
“Annie, you cheated again! You didn’t play fair! I swear, you didn’t!” my younger brother’s voice rang with indignation. The sunlight streaming through the large window illuminated his round, handsome face, his long, almost feminine lashes casting shadows on his rosy cheeks. Oriane should’ve been born a girl; he’d have given me a run for my money as the kingdom’s most beautiful lady.
“Learn to lose with dignity,” I shot back, twirling the captured black chess queen between my fingers. The polished ivory piece caught the light, sending little sunbeams dancing across the walls of our cozy room.
“We’ve been playing since morning, and you haven’t lost once! You’re either a witch or a cheater, there’s no other explanation!” Oriane fumed, throwing the two pawns he’d managed to capture at me.
“Sleight of hand and no cheating,” I sang playfully, quickly resetting the elegant pieces on the monotonous board. Oriane rolled his eyes.
“Ugh, forget it. It’s impossible to play with you!”
“Learn to think, to see the moves in your head, to calculate ahead! I’m teaching you, but it’s no use. Anger is your biggest enemy,” I lectured, spouting obvious truths to the young marquess, who just shrugged and waved me off. Ugh, sixteen-year-olds—won’t learn a thing! “Nikolina, your turn then...”
I glanced at my cousin, who’d been watching us with interest, and patted the ottoman beside me.
“How could I compete with Your Highness?” she grinned, nudging my shoulder lightly. “You were taught by the king himself, privy to his secrets. Oriane and I only had tutors, so we’ve got to accept our fate as eternal underdogs...”
“Fine, I’ll play against myself then,” I said, waving off these traitors with a hand—and with it, the wide, lace-trimmed sleeve of my dress (ugh, court fashion: by the time I finish a meal, I’ll have tangled myself up three times and knocked over a goblet twice. Despite years of etiquette lessons, I’ve never gotten the hang of these impractical outfits).
“Are you already developing a split personality?” Nikolina snickered.
“Shall we glue you back together?” Oriane quipped, squinting at me. He’s always scheming something... quite the little inventor!
“Isn’t that what family’s for?”
Exchanging a look, the two troublemakers burst into laughter and pounced on me, knocking me onto the featherbed. I’m not sure what happened next, but I guess it was a test of endurance through laughter—a torture and assault on a member of the royal family known as tickling. It’s been my weakness since childhood. The slightest touch, and I’m in hysterics. So, naturally, my father and uncle loved to torment me with it. And now that I’m a young lady, my younger brother and cousin have taken up the task with gusto.
“Stop, please, I’m begging you!” I pleaded through tears and laughter, flailing to fend off my relatives. Our antics caused such a ruckus that we didn’t even notice Mom enter until her soft, velvety voice made the rascals let me go. Still stifling giggles, I sat up.
“Children, what’s going on?” the Duchess’s tone was calm and even, but one look at her emotionless, doll-like perfection told me something was wrong—something that had deeply unsettled her. She sat gracefully between Oriane and me, taking each of our hands in her delicate fingers. She forced a smile, as she always did when she had something crucial to say but couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Annie, Nikolina, Oriane, I have bad news to share,” she said, taking a deep breath and looking straight into my eyes, still brimming with laughter and tears but now frozen with dread. “Your uncle, my dear brother, His Majesty King Leonard Martial of Lantonia...”—my heart trembled in my chest; I wanted to stop time, to avoid hearing this “bad news.” Surely, it’s just some decree that upset Mom. Maybe they want to marry me off? I’m of age, but Uncle always said I should find love, so what’s this about?—“...has passed on. He’s with the heavens now.”
In the heavens? What’s he doing there? I hope it’s not for long—his birthday is coming up, and I just figured out what to get him. Plus, there’s business to attend to. Meetings, ambassadors... He’d better come back soon. Or what does she mean by “in the heavens”?
Nikolina let out a sharp gasp, holding her breath. Somewhere nearby, Oriane mumbled something incoherent. Mom couldn’t maintain her stoic mask, and hot tears streamed down her flushed cheeks.
The laughter I hadn’t fully released got stuck deep in my throat. The cheerful expression on my face slowly morphed into shock. Comprehending what Mom had said felt impossible. Nonsense... just utter nonsense...
“How?” was all I could manage, feeling Duchess Ileria squeeze my hand tighter. “He wasn’t sick. This is some kind of joke, right?”
“Annie, I... I don’t know. It happened over an hour ago. The queen sent a messenger. We need to pack and head to the palace; we’ll learn more there. Nikolina, your parents will be coming too. Get ready,” she whispered.
“A trick!” I declared stubbornly, yanking my hand from Mom’s grasp. “A lie! Uncle had many enemies; he was pushing new laws and reforms. They sent us false news to sow discord!”
“Annie...”
“You’ll see, I’m right!” I snapped, leaping up from the ottoman and bolting out of the room, racing through the corridors like a rocket. Servants scattered out of my way, some pressing themselves against the walls to let me pass. I kept running, as if trying to escape myself, repeating over and over that this was just an enemy plot. The tiny fragments of reason trying to break through to my consciousness slowly hinted that no one would dare announce the king’s death if it were a lie. Especially not Queen Clarissa. But I kept searching for loopholes. It was easier than accepting, understanding, or coming to terms with it...
“Annie!” Mom called, chasing after me through the estate’s hallways, her cries echoing off the crystal chandeliers. I kept running, not even sure where I was headed.
“Annie!” My father appeared ahead, blocking my path. His tall, lean frame was draped in a suit as black as night. I recoiled—from the suit and from the mournful expression on his face.
“It’s not true, so why are you dressed like that!?” I nearly shouted at Dad, but he just pulled me into a tight embrace despite my attempts to break free.
“Sweetheart, you have every right to grieve, but don’t deny it. This came as a shock to us all. Cry if you need to, but accept it...” Stroking my curly hair, Dad’s words ripped the last shreds of hope from my heart. My soul ignited with the fire of pain, and tears poured from my eyes without permission. Just minutes ago, I’d been crying from laughter; now, I didn’t know how to live on or cope with this loss.
Leonard Martial was an exceptional king, and he’d been in excellent health. Sure, he’d recently had a cold with some complications, so he coughed a bit. But people don’t die from a cough! Just earlier this week, I’d seen him at court; we’d raced on horseback. How could he have died so suddenly?
“What happens now?” I whispered into Dad’s coat, barely recognizing my own voice. Always bright and cheerful, it now sounded like a reflection from behind the looking glass. And I felt like a shadow of the former Marquess of Alwin.
“Change is coming, and we must be strong to face it with dignity,” the Duke replied quietly. Deep down, we all knew what awaited us, but no one wanted to say it aloud. My cousin, the only son of the late (my tongue can’t even form the word) king, Robert, would take the throne and continue his father’s work. In theory. In reality, the spoiled and self-centered crown prince had always been indifferent to state affairs: as long as his goblet was filled with wine and a half-naked beauty lay beside him, he was content. The advisors, including my father, would pick up the slack, and for most, nothing would change. After the official mourning period, we’d put on our smiles again. We’d have to. But what about a heart torn to pieces, shredded and crushed by loss? I was his favorite from the day I was born, his adopted daughter, his confidante. Of all the children in our sprawling dynasty, only I was held in his arms and rocked on his knee as a child. Only for me did he host lavish balls one after another. He shared secrets with me, taught me tricks, and tried to shield me from everything. He forgave my every misstep, never forced me into marriage, and urged me to find love when I grew up. He was my godfather, mentor, and friend. And in dying, he took a piece of me with him. I didn’t know how I’d go on as I sobbed hysterically into my father’s chest.
Then, just as suddenly, the hysteria passed. I surprised myself, but the tears seemed to run dry. In place of emotion came a sense of resolve. I had to fulfill my duty to my uncle and go to the palace for... for the funeral.
Finding a black dress in my wardrobe wasn’t easy. Amid the endless array of clothing, all I could see were bright, vibrant colors. I loved light and cheerful shades, couldn’t stand darkness. The maids eventually found a mourning outfit and helped me dress.
The journey to the palace was grueling. I clung tightly to Oriane and Nikolina’s hands, avoiding my parents’ faces. I’d never noticed before how much Mom resembled her older brother. I’d miss him terribly.
The days leading up to the funeral and farewell to the monarch passed in a haze. I accepted condolences and offered my own to the crown prince and the queen dowager, holding onto a mask of composure with my last ounce of strength. My heart burned. Mom, Aunt Palmira, Oriane, and Nikolina couldn’t come to terms with it either. The king’s death was like thunder in a clear sky. His personal physician informed us that His Majesty had been ill for months but hid it from everyone—even his wife and son. That news shattered us completely.
Yet, despite our grief, the kingdom’s laws compelled the advisors to fulfill their duty to the people—preparing for the coronation of the new monarch. The day after the funeral, all of us—members of the dynasty, nobility, dignitaries, the army, bishops, clergy, and common folk—gathered before the palace to hear the decree of succession. It was merely a formality we had to endure.
Black dress, black shawl, black gloves—even my hair seemed darker in solidarity, and my eyes, once sapphire, now dulled to a wilted greenish-brown, no longer sparkled but merely glinted like crystal in a chandelier. Only a necklace of blood-red rubies contrasted with this somber image. Here I was, Annie Wilson, standing before the mirror and, like a vampire, seeing no reflection. I, the kingdom’s greatest beauty and most sought-after bride, had merged with the darkness of my room.
“Your Grace, it’s time,” my loyal maid Lucenia—whom I’ve always called Lucy—whispered, careful not to disturb me as I sank once more into my inner thoughts, searching for the strength to show no weakness before the court. Thank heavens I’d be just part of the crowd, even if in the front row. But how would Robert endure it? All eyes would be on him today, and though he didn’t show it, I knew a storm raged in his heart. It couldn’t be otherwise...
“Yes,” I murmured, snapping out of it and slowly heading down the corridor to descend to the first floor and leave the palace. Today, as yesterday, the court gardens were opened to allow the people in. The royal guard had a tough job ensuring our safety; I could only sympathize with them.
No sooner had I thought this than Count Arron, head of the royal security service, rushed toward me, nearly knocking me over.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with piercing brown eyes and wavy, neck-length wheat-colored hair (the current fashion here), he was considered the kingdom’s most eligible bachelor, aside from the crown prince and my underage brother. Girls flocked to him in droves, and in his free time, he indulged in the company of sweet young things. As much as it might sound odd, I completely understood the ladies who swooned over Daniel. He was indeed an impressive young man and one of my uncle’s most loyal servants, devoted to him to the last drop of blood. And, I noticed just now, black suited him remarkably well.
“Your Grace,” Daniel said, bowing and quickly kissing my hand, clearly showing it was mere etiquette and nothing more, as if he wouldn’t waste a second on me otherwise—he was obviously in a hurry. “Please accept my condolences,” he added, and this time, it sounded far more sincere.
I nodded in response, spotting my family among the gathered crowd, and slowly moved past the count to join my relatives. The queen dowager and Robert were already there. For some reason, I doubted their grief. They seemed too self-assured, too dominant.
Finally, Cardinal Mastermal emerged from the palace in proud solitude—the kingdom’s chief spiritual figure, a recognized authority, and the late king’s sole confidant, best friend, spiritual guide, and first advisor. Until now, power had been concentrated in the hands of these two old comrades, which, unlike other realms, allowed us to live in harmony, free of internal conflicts or wars. But now, everything could change. The cardinal had long had a strained relationship with the crown prince, so the latter’s coronation might mark the beginning of discord.
The white sheet of paper clutched in the cleric’s right hand stood in stark contrast to his mourning attire. He—not the clothing—was among those whose heart today did not beat but merely quivered like jelly. I barely restrained myself from running to him for a hug; Mastermal had always been kind to me.
“Our kingdom of Lantonia mourns the sudden passing of our beloved monarch, His Majesty King Leonard Martial, may he rest in peace!” he announced loudly, unfurling the royal decree before him. Robert exchanged a glance with his mother, a faint smirk playing on his lips. A lump rose in my throat. Right now, I wanted nothing more than to smack the crown prince over his empty head with the heaviest object I could find. “Such is his fate, a tragic loss for us all. We must submit to the will of the Almighty and carry out His Majesty’s final command. Listen, all of you, and do not say you did not hear. I shall read!”
I lowered my gaze to the ground, barely holding back tears. It was strange that I still had any left. I thought I’d cried them all out yesterday.
“‘I, son of Their Majesties King Gilbert and Queen Michelina of the House of Martial, King of all Lantonia, Leonard the Third, by my royal decree establish the right of succession to my throne, crown, and kingdom. According to the law of birthright, the primary heir is deemed to be my son, Crown Prince Robert Martial. I respect the laws, but my paramount duty is to safeguard and protect our kingdom. I am not convinced that my son can bear the weight of the title. Therefore, by this decree, which is binding and must be executed, I strip Crown Prince Robert of the right to ascend the throne. Furthermore, upon my death, he is to depart the royal residence and the capital within three days and settle in the Duchy of Logan, without permission to leave its borders. I have always cared for our nation and will do so one final time. On the day I stand before the Almighty, all that was mine in life I bequeath to my eldest niece, daughter of my sister Princess Ileria and her husband, Duke Philip Wilson of Alwin, Marquess Annie Wilson, for she alone among all descendants of royal blood possesses the qualities that must be present in a ruler of the realm. By this decree, I name Her Grace, Marquess of Alwin, Annie Wilson, third in line to the throne, as my sole primary heir, Her Highness Crown Princess Annie, and I command my subjects to accept her as their queen. I believe only she can protect Lantonia and continue the path I have set forth. Such is my will, and no one is permitted to contest it.’ Signed and sealed by His Majesty, and I bear witness that this decree was written by King Leonard on the day he learned his time was short. Therefore, subjects of Lantonia, greet our young future queen, Her Highness Crown Princess Annie!”
A hush fell over the garden, and even the birds ceased their singing...
End of Prologue