Days slipped by with a deceptive calm through the palace hallways. Priscila, having exhausted every last volume in the royal library, found no better refuge than wandering the corridors. Sending for new books implied an eternal wait that her patience could not afford, so she dedicated herself to roaming the domains she knew by heart, greeting the servants and guards with whom, in essence, she had been raised.

  —The south wing is a fright. I could swear a giant spider lives there —joked one of the servant girls as she dried the dishes and handed them to Coral.

  —I can’t even remember the last time those doors were opened —Coral responded, shrugging with total indifference.

  Priscila stopped dead at the edge of the kitchen, captured by the comment. Despite having lived there her entire life, she had always been too busy outdoors or in her training to notice which rooms remained under lock and key. She leaned against the doorframe and joined the chatter with her usual naturalness.

  —The South Wing? —she asked curiously.

  Both nodded without interrupting their work. —I know it’s packed with boxes and old furniture, but I’ve never set foot in there —Coral added.

  —Maybe there’s a three-headed dog guarding a secret trapdoor —Priscila joked, approaching the cook who, at that very moment, was pulling a tray of steaming biscuits from the oven.

  —I suppose it must be hiding something, though I doubt it's anything sinister, don't you think? —the other young woman commented.

  —If Priscila has so many doubts, she should ask her grandmother, girls —the cook intervened, casting an affectionate look at the princess—. Do you want a piece, sweetheart?

  —Of course. I’ll go for some cocoa too —Priscila replied excitedly. However, while she looked for the ground cocoa, the idea of the south wing lodged in her mind like a splinter she couldn't remove.

  She left the kitchen with her biscuit in hand, heading toward the south wing, right where the stairs connected to the northeast, near the royal quarters. As she ate, her imagination soared: would it be forbidden relics, priceless furniture, or secrets of her lineage?

  —Priscila. — The Queen’s voice resonated like an authoritative echo that snatched her from her thoughts. Priscila gave a small start and smiled.

  —Grandmother.

  —What are you doing here? You should eat while seated, as befits your rank —the Queen approached, placing a soft but firm hand on her shoulder.

  —I’m here to investigate what’s in the South Wing. I heard the servants talking and I want to discover what mystical creature you have hidden there —Priscila responded, trying to keep a light tone.

  However, the Queen’s reaction was immediate. She began to walk in the opposite direction, forcing Priscila to follow her through the pressure of her hand, which now felt strangely tense on her shoulder.

  —There is no mystical animal —Edesia declared with unusual coldness—. Only furniture I detest and paintings that lost their color long ago.

  Priscila frowned. The urgency with which her grandmother was leading her away from that hallway was palpable, almost desperate. She could feel the Queen’s fingers digging slightly into her skin.

  —Alright... —Priscila murmured, sensing that something didn't fit—. Could I go see it one day?

  —We can go one day, when my schedule allows me the time —the Queen responded with rehearsed speed, as if she had anticipated the question and had the refusal ready to fire.

  Priscila remained silent, but as she walked away with her grandmother, the taste of the biscuit turned to ash in her mouth. She knew the Queen wasn't just hiding old furniture behind those doors; she was hiding a truth that the South Wing was not ready to reveal.

  Despite her doubts, Priscila had no choice but to follow her grandmother to the ground floor, where they finally parted ways as the Queen left to attend to her official business. Alone, Priscila dropped onto the grass of the great royal courtyard, letting her body sink into the coolness of the earth as she watched the sky.

  Above, the firmament was a divided work of art: one half burned in a fiery orange, while the other plunged into a deep blue, revealing the first stars. Priscila tried to organize her thoughts. She felt strange harboring suspicions about her grandmother; the woman had raised her, protected her. She wouldn't hide anything important, Priscila told herself. The South Wing was probably, as she said, a graveyard of insignificant junk. With a sigh of relief, she concluded she must trust her.

  She stood up, shaking out her dress and scanning the garden. It was a vast place full of life: a central fountain presided over by a statue of Aphrodite, who held a perfect pearl in the palm of her hand. The landscape was usually dominated by white and pink flowers, with shrubs carved with circular precision and a greenhouse whose vines fell from the ceiling like a lush green waterfall. That corner of the world was beautiful and extensive; the stage where she had spent hours running, painting, and even getting lost in games of hide-and-seek.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  It was precisely in that garden where her parents announced their journey. She remembered the exact moment inside the greenhouse, surrounded by the scent of fruit, while a much smaller Priscila tried to master archery, more out of childhood whim than lack of talent.

  A nostalgic smile curved her lips. Those memories of her childhood always acted as a balm, filling her chest with a comforting warmth that transformed her uncertainty into courage. I will find them, she promised herself in a low voice. With that renewed conviction, she turned around and walked toward her room, letting the peace of the garden guard her hopes.

  The night became a labyrinth of parchment and ink. Priscila reviewed every clue, every figure, and every word spoken by the Pythia, trying to make the chaos make sense. Amidst that solitude, the figure of her brother Leandro emerged in her thoughts like a necessary anchor. She wasn't certain of his exact location, but urgency prompted her to draft the same message over and over again, willing to saturate the ports and messaging posts just to reach him.

  "Dear Leandro. We miss you very much in the kingdom. Someone suspicious arrived a few weeks ago: a Spanish Duke who, to be honest, left me with more questions than answers. Don't worry, I put him in his place, but... what is happening, Leandro? It seems more and more clues appear, but as if they were a riddle; they come to me, but never directly. Be very careful, I want you to be here when we discover the truth. Please, take care of yourself. Love, Pri."

  As she set the last quill aside, with the promise to replicate the letter tirelessly the next day, the candle on her desk extinguished in a sigh of smoke. It was then that a flash outside her balcony caught her eye.

  From her position to the southeast, Priscila had a privileged, though usually ignored, view of one of the windows in the East Wing. Behind a dark fabric that seemed to try to suffocate any trace of clarity, a faint and erratic light pulsed within. It was not the static glow of a candelabra; the light moved, intensifying at certain points and fading in others, as if someone were traversing the forbidden room searching for something among the shadows.

  Priscila remained motionless, watching as that ghostly glow played with the darkness until, finally, it vanished completely. For years, her eyes had preferably drifted toward the freedom of the forest, toward the mountains and the birds that crowned the palace's pointed roofs, ignoring the mystery that throbbed just a few meters from her own room.

  Confused and with her heart beating at an irregular rhythm, she decided to surrender to sleep. What else could she do? The lights were gone, but the seed of suspicion had already germinated, reminding her that in this palace, even the silence had something to tell.

  The next day, Priscila found herself lost among the same shelves as always. There were books that felt comforting, like old friends, and others that simply seemed mediocre. The library was vast, with spiral staircases leading to a second floor plunged in shadow, where the volumes were older, heavier, and covered by a layer of dust that seemed to protect millenary secrets.

  While roaming that upper level, she picked a book at random. As she shook it to clean its surface, a sheet of paper slipped from between its pages, falling to the floor with the lightness of a dry leaf. The paper was so darkened by time it looked as if it had been dipped in strong coffee.

  "Treatise on the Primal Fire," the cover read in silver letters that contrasted with the worn green leather. Priscila froze. She could recite the inventory of that library by heart and she was sure that book had never been there. Upon unfolding the yellowish paper, she discovered a meticulous map. After turning it —for she was holding it upside down— comprehension struck her: it was the South Wing.

  "Maybe Amadeo put it there," she told herself in an attempt to calm her nerves. But instinct screamed at her that this was important, and she knew that asking her grandmother would only bring more silences.

  When night fell, she slipped away. She knew the guards' surveillance focused on the outer perimeter; the palace interior was her territory. Following the map, she arrived two floors below the mysterious room, in front of a massive dark wood wardrobe. Priscila had to struggle against the weight of the furniture until, with superhuman effort, she managed to move it. Behind it, a narrow, black staircase was revealed.

  With her candle held high, she began the ascent. The heat of the flame licked her face as she moved hunched through the suffocating passage. The map indicated the last door. After several failed attempts, Priscila lunged with her shoulder in a desperate tackle that sent her rolling across the dusty floor on the other side. Her candle went out with the impact. In the total darkness, she lit it again, and what she saw left her breathless.

  The place was packed with forgotten objects, covered by white sheets that looked like ghosts under the candlelight. Lifting some of the fabrics, she found furniture carved with her mother's name. The floor was marked by heavy thuds and strange black spots that looked like ancient burns.

  In the center of the room, she found what appeared to be an altar: half-consumed candles, a withered vase, and a frame with a photograph that seemed to have been devoured by fire. The objects formed a half-moon and, on the central axis, a disturbing symbol stood out: |< They were two overlapping strokes, creating a figure similar to a "K" that enclosed a small triangle. Priscila backed away, bewildered; she had never seen that emblem in heraldry books.

  Suddenly, the echo of footsteps broke the silence. A visceral, electric instinct ran through Priscila’s body. Almost without feeling her own feet, she flew toward the trapdoor. Her candle was extinguished by the sudden movement, but to her surprise, her eyes adjusted instantaneously: she could see in absolute darkness with supernatural clarity.

  She hid just in time. A faint light filtered into the room while someone prowled among the furniture, searching for something urgently. Then, a voice broke the air. Priscila felt her heart skip a beat; it was Leandro’s voice, but with a deeper, darker nuance. —It’s still there... I’ll let Amelia know.

  The doors closed with a sharp thud that echoed in her ears.

  Priscila returned to her room at a breakneck speed, moving the heavy wardrobe with a strength she didn't know she possessed. Once safe, she felt hyperventilated. Was it really her brother? And who was Amelia? The name resonated in her mind like a stinging déjà vu, a shadow of a memory she couldn't quite catch. Before fear could erase the details, she took a sheet of paper and drew the symbol with a trembling hand, hiding it where no one could find it.