Priscila's favorite days had arrived: Wednesdays. Those days when, far from protocols and pompous dresses, she could just be a girl with a sword in her hands.

  Like every week, she left the palace accompanied by Coral, who covered her absence with a different excuse each time. They took the road to the lower part of the kingdom, between markets and cobbled streets. At that hour, no one suspected a young woman dressed in a dark cape with her hair simply tied back.

  They arrived at the academy. Priscila got out of the carriage and adjusted her leather gloves, hiding the rings and the glitz of her royal status. She entered with a determined stride, even though her heart was beating with the contained excitement of a double life.

  —Laurent! — exclaimed the teacher as soon as he saw her enter. — You're just in time for warm-up.

  Priscila smiled slightly. The name already sounded natural to her, almost like a part of her that only lived within those walls. There, she was not a princess. There, she was just another student, disciplined and quick with the sword.

  —Are you going to challenge me again today, Laurent? — asked the instructor defiantly.

  —Only if you're ready to lose. — she replied, letting her voice take on a firmer, less refined tone than usual.

  She prepared herself in silence, focused, grateful for every second she could move without the rules imposed by the court. There, in that space stolen from duty, she was free.

  The training room smelled of old wood and leather, with the lingering echo of swords crossing. Priscilla put on her fencing mask and walked to the center of the tatami mat. The teacher was already waiting for her with his foil in hand, evaluating her with a slightly raised eyebrow.

  —You've gotten faster, Laurent. — he commented in a neutral tone as he took his position. — But remember: speed without control doesn't win duels.

  —And control without surprise is predictable. — she replied with a slight smile hidden beneath her mask.

  The instructor let out a brief laugh. That quiet young man, “Laurent,” had a distinct style. Combative, elegant, unpredictable. That's why she enjoyed training with him so much. She never asked too many questions about his background: he paid on time, was respectful, and was committed to fencing. What else did she need to know?

  The duel began with rapid movements. Priscilla advanced with determination, dodging and attacking with precision. Her body seemed to find relief with each thrust, as if the tensions of the outside world dissolved as soon as her feet touched the tatami. There, she was not Priscilla, the queen's granddaughter. She was just someone fighting to feel alive.

  A feint from the instructor caught her arm. Priscila immediately stepped back, clenching her jaw. She responded with a series of quick, well-aimed attacks. One of them finally touched the instructor's torso.

  —Point for you! — he said, breathing heavily as he removed his mask. — That lunge was clean.

  Priscilla also removed her mask, her face slightly flushed from the effort, but with a quiet satisfaction in her eyes.

  —I warned you. — she joked, wiping the sweat from her forehead with a cloth she kept in her bag.

  —You fought with your heart today. Everything okay, Laurent?

  —Yes. I just... needed this more than usual. — he replied softly.

  —Well, I'm glad you came. Not all young people understand the value of this art. — he said as he began to put away the equipment. — Will you come next week?

  —Without fail. — Priscilla assured him, before bowing respectfully.

  The teacher returned the gesture and turned to organize the swords.

  Priscila left through the back door of the building, wrapping herself in the gray cloak she wore to go unnoticed in the lower part of the kingdom. A few meters away, next to a stone fountain, Coral pretended to read a book while keeping an eye on her surroundings.

  —Everything okay, Laurent? — she joked in a low voice when she saw her approaching.

  —Perfect. — replied Priscila, her pulse still racing. — I can almost defeat him without blinking.

  —Don't be so cocky. If he ever finds out who you really are...

  —He won't. He doesn't ask questions, and I don't stop. — she said as she smoothed her hair under her hood.

  Coral closed the book and stood up.

  —Then let's go back before someone notices you're gone.

  They walked away without haste, fading into the routine of the village. Just another shadow in the city. Just a young woman who, for a few hours, could be someone else.

  The walk back to the palace was quick and quiet. As soon as they crossed the secret entrance, they ran into Amadeo, who was leaning against the wall, carefully observing Priscilla's fencing outfit.

  —Princess. — Amadeo greeted her with an appraising look. — I see you're ready for battle.

  —Perfect, now you. — Priscilla replied ironically, crossing her arms.

  Coral immediately stood in front of Priscilla, shielding her with her presence.

  —Mr. Amadeo, you are not authorized to be here. — she warned firmly.

  —And she is? — he asked, looking at Priscilla over Coral's shoulder with a crooked smile.

  —I can be wherever I want, Amadeo. I am the next queen. — said Priscilla in an authoritative voice, without looking away. —Now leave, before I have to call the guards to remove you against your will.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Amadeo sighed resignedly, but before leaving, he took one last look and commented:

  —Nice fencing outfit.

  Then he walked away silently, leaving a shadow of menace in the air.

  —Damn... this guy knows something and... — Priscilla stopped herself in time, aware that her thoughts were beginning to drift into dangerous territory.

  —Let's get you changed, miss. Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. — said Coral, gently but firmly urging her on.

  Priscila nodded, leaving the tension behind as they headed for her chambers.

  In the afternoon, Priscila decided to skip lunch and went into the palace gardens, seeking a little peace among the flowers and the murmur of the wind. But that tranquility vanished when, like a persistent shadow, Amadeo appeared.

  —How did your secret lessons go today, princess? — he asked condescendingly, tilting his head.

  —Is there ever a time when you'll leave me alone? — Priscilla replied, clearly irritated, without stopping in her tracks.

  —I wouldn't want to give you that pleasure. — he laughed mockingly. “Does the queen know about this?”

  —Do you ever stop meddling in things that are none of your business? — Priscilla retorted, sending a warning glance to the nearby guards.

  As if reading her mind, the guards went on alert and moved a little closer, watching for any movement.

  —I'm just saying, because... that's not a sport for young ladies. — Amadeo commented with a hint of contempt.

  Priscilla let out a sarcastic laugh but didn't respond.

  —What else are you doing behind your grandmother's back, Priscilla? Kissing your little friend Máximo? — he said suddenly, with a veiled threat. What if the next queen was doing things she shouldn't?

  Suddenly, in one swift movement, Priscilla turned around and pulled a knife from her thigh, the same one that had wounded her weeks earlier during the dagger dance. Firmly, she advanced until Amadeo had his back against a tree, and pressed the blade gently against his neck.

  —Tell me, Amadeo. What are you hiding? Because you're a pain in the ass, and my patience isn't very long. — she said in a cold, authoritative voice.

  Amadeo maintained a defiant smile, which infuriated Priscilla even more. Without hesitation, she punched him in the stomach, causing him to writhe in pain.

  —Spit it out. — she ordered, her eyes flashing with fury and determination.

  The silence that followed was heavy, as if the very air was waiting for Amadeo's answer.

  Amadeo, gasping for breath, tried to catch his breath as his eyes locked with Priscilla's, measuring each word before speaking.

  —Don't you think this is... dangerous, princess? — he muttered hoarsely. — There are forces at play that you don't understand. Not just because of your crown, but because of the decisions made by others. I'm just... following orders.

  Priscila tightened her grip on the knife a little more, making it clear that she would not tolerate evasiveness.

  —Orders? From whom? — she asked in a low, firm voice. — I don't care who you associate with, but I do care that you leave me alone and stop messing with my family.

  Amadeo looked down for a moment, as if weighing the consequences of his words.

  — I'm just saying don't trust everyone around you. Not everyone is what they seem, not even your own flesh and blood. And it's not just your grandmother who has secrets...

  Priscila felt a chill run down her spine, but she held the knife steady, staring at him without blinking.

  —Stop talking in riddles and leave, Amadeo.

  With a resigned growl, Amadeo slowly backed away, still watching her.

  —This isn't over, princess. And it won't end well if you keep thinking you're alone.

  Before she could respond, he turned and disappeared into the bushes, leaving Priscilla with her heart racing, her breath labored, and a heavier certainty in her chest: the dangers surrounding her were greater than she had imagined.

  Amadeo raised his hands in surrender, but a crooked smile spread across his face, as if he knew something Priscilla was not yet able to understand.

  —All right... — she whispered, her breathing still ragged. — Just remember this, princess: when your father last traveled outside the kingdom... he did not do so out of duty, as everyone believes.

  Priscila narrowed her eyes, the knife trembling slightly in her hand.

  —What are you saying?

  —What I'm saying. — he continued, his voice lower, almost as if he feared the shadows themselves might hear him. — is that sometimes those who claim to protect the throne... are actually clearing the way. And sometimes, to clear the way... you have to get your hands dirty with blood.

  Priscilla's eyes widened with anger and confusion.

  —Are you implying that my father's death was not an accident?

  Amadeo let out a harsh, humorless laugh.

  —I'm not implying anything. I'm just advising you to look into the records of that trip, if they still exist. But if you decide to do so... make sure you don't trust anyone who tells you to forget about it. Your mother also knew too much. That's why they silenced her first.

  —Who silenced my mother, Amadeo? — she said, anger in her voice. — Speak! — she shouted.

  Amadeo stopped. He didn't turn around. He just tilted his head slightly, as if Priscilla's voice had pierced something deeper than his skin.

  —There are names that burn the tongue, princess... — he muttered cryptically. —But if you really want to know who silenced your mother's voice... ask the one who mourned her the least.

  Priscila frowned, taking a step toward him.

  —What the hell does that mean?

  But Amadeo was already disappearing into the bushes, losing himself in the shadows of the garden, limping slightly, like a specter who had come only to leave an open wound. His last words faded away with the sound of the leaves:

  —Not everyone who carries your blood... is family.

  And then, silence. Only the wind, the rustling of branches... and Priscilla's racing heartbeat.

  Priscilla hurried back to her room, almost tripping over the rug. Coral, who noticed the tension on her face, didn't hesitate to follow her quickly.

  —My lady, what's wrong? — she asked, concerned to see her so upset.

  —Send someone for Maximus... tell him to come, now. — Priscilla ordered, her voice breaking, barely able to contain the tremor in her lips.

  Coral needed no further instruction. Seeing the desperation in her eyes, she turned on her heel and hurried out.

  Fifteen minutes later, Maximus appeared at the door. As soon as he crossed the threshold, his gaze met that of a completely different Priscilla. She was agitated, her face pale and her hands clenched.

  —Pri...? — he said softly, advancing cautiously.

  She looked up and, without thinking, ran to take refuge in his arms. She buried her head in his chest as if she could escape the world there. As if only in him could she breathe.

  Her hands trembled uncontrollably. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and each breath was a thin thread about to break. Máximo sensed that something terrible had happened.

  Suddenly, Priscila's body seemed to give up and she collapsed to the floor. Máximo held her carefully, kneeling beside her. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as if he wanted to keep her whole despite her collapse.

  —I'm here... — he whispered in her ear, with an almost inaudible sweetness, as if he feared that the slightest sound would break her even more.

  Several minutes passed in silence, broken only by Priscila's ragged breathing and Máximo's firm embrace, which never left her as if his mere presence could calm the trembling of her soul. When she seemed to stabilize a little, Máximo carefully lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. He lay down beside her, wrapping his body around hers, protecting her from the world outside that continued to burn.

  Without saying another word, the two fell asleep, exhausted by the tension of the day, by the weight of the silence, by the truth that still dared not be spoken aloud.

  The night covered them with its cloak, silent and thick.

  Hours later, the door opened softly. Coral tiptoed in, but didn't hesitate to raise her voice just enough to wake her mistress.

  —My lady... — she called in a firm but respectful tone. — There is an urgent message.

  Priscila sat up slowly, still sleepy, her eyelids heavy and her body weak.

  —What's wrong? — she asked hoarsely.

  Coral looked down for a second, choosing each word carefully.

  —The queen is ill... and... it's serious. — she said at last, almost fearfully slowly.

  Priscila stood still, as if she didn't quite understand, but when she turned to Máximo and met his gaze, a silent thought passed between them. No words were necessary. They got up immediately and ran out of the room.

  The cold of the corridors contrasted with the tension that enveloped their chests.

  When they reached the royal chambers, the air felt thicker. There, in the middle of her majestic bed, lay Queen Edesia. Her skin, once smooth and haughty, looked ashen. Her breathing was weak, like a thread about to break.