The tower had never been kind, but today it felt like it was turning into a coffin.

Leila sat at the table with a piece of fruit in her hand, the skin already softening to rot. She chewed slowly, forcing it down, though her stomach twisted with hunger that fruit alone could not satisfy. For years there had been servants to prepare her meals, bland and repetitive though they were. Now, those faces were gone. The silence was heavier than the stone walls.

By evening she waited, restless, near the iron gates for the usual delivery. When at last the sound of footsteps echoed in the courtyard, only one man appeared. He carried a bundle of wrapped goods — flour, dried meat, vegetables, jars of oil and vinegar — enough to last, but his eyes flickered away from hers as if ashamed to be the one delivering them.

“This will be sufficient for you, Your Highness,” he said, voice flat with duty. Then, after a pause, “From now on, I will come only once a week. Not daily.”

Leila’s fingers tightened around the bundle. A hundred questions rose in her throat, but she swallowed them all and only nodded. To protest would be useless. To beg would be humiliating.

The man bowed awkwardly and left without another word. His footsteps faded, swallowed by the darkening courtyard.

Leila carried the ingredients to the kitchen herself. It had been years since she had stood before the old stone hearth, years since she had stirred pots or chopped vegetables. The silence of the kitchen stung — no warm humming of her nanny, no laughter over spilled flour, no gentle scolding when she cut the carrots unevenly. Only the scrape of her knife against the board, only her breath.

She chose to make chicken corn soup, the way her nanny had once taught her. She took her time, cutting the meat into small cubes, stirring slowly so the broth grew thick and golden. The smell filled the chamber and for a fleeting moment it almost felt like she was not alone.

When the soup was ready, she sat by the narrow window and ate in silence. Each spoonful warmed her, but also hollowed her. The taste carried memories — her nanny’s hand resting over hers to guide her, her laughter bubbling over the pot. Those days were gone. What remained was only her.

Afterward, she climbed the narrow stairs to the rooftop. The wind brushed her hair loose, cool against her cheeks. From here, she could see the distant glow of the capital. The air trembled faintly with drums, laughter, and the howls of werewolves celebrating their King’s mate. The sound was muffled by distance but pierced her all the same.

She hugged her knees, chin pressed to them, and stared up at the stars. So many, scattered across the night like jewels she could never touch. She whispered small questions into the wind — questions with no answers.

“Will anyone ever see me?”

“Will this always be my life?”

The stars gave no reply.

Eventually, the night grew colder, and she descended back into the tower. Her steps echoed in the stairwell, a hollow sound that chased her into her chamber. She slipped under the blankets, though they held no warmth, and closed her eyes.

Sleep came heavy.

And with it, the dream.

At first, she thought she was awake. The castle spread around her, vast and silent, its stone corridors endless. But when she lifted her hands, they were not her hands. They were older — pale, veins stark beneath thin skin, fingers swollen. Her body ached with a heaviness she had never known.

Her gaze dropped to her belly. Round. Swollen. Her skin stretched taut. She staggered a step, gasping under the weight. A child grew inside her.

Panic swelled. She turned in circles, searching for someone — anyone. A maid, a knight, a nanny’s warm smile. But the corridors were empty, cold drafts sweeping through them like whispers.

The silence pressed against her ears until it roared.

She placed a trembling hand on her stomach. A flutter answered her, faint but real. Her child moved within her. A sharp ache shot up her back, and she buckled against the wall, clutching her belly. Sweat drenched her temples.

“No,” she whispered. “Not alone. Not like this.”

But no one came.

Time shifted. She was on the floor, her body wracked with pain. Her screams echoed against the stone ceiling, raw and ragged, but the castle swallowed them whole. She pushed, nails digging into the floor, tears streaking her face. The pain ripped her apart.

And then—

A cry. A thin, trembling wail that pierced the silence.

Her newborn lay in her arms, tiny and warm, its fists clenching as it sobbed into the emptiness. She gathered the child to her chest, rocking desperately, but the tears did not stop. They spilled down her cheeks onto the infant’s skin.

It should have been joy. It should have been light. But all she felt was despair.

The vast hall was silent except for her child’s cries and her own broken whispers.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

Her arms trembled. Her vision blurred. She pressed her lips to the baby’s damp forehead, tasting salt and sorrow.

The silence grew heavier, pressing her down into darkness.

Leila jolted awake.

Her breath tore from her lungs, wild and uneven. Her hands clutched at her stomach, but it was flat, untouched. Sweat soaked her nightdress, plastering it to her trembling skin. She stared into the dark, her chest heaving, her throat raw as though she had truly screamed.

The dream clung to her like a curse, every detail vivid — the swollen belly, the cries of her child, the ache of giving birth alone. She could still feel the weight of the baby in her arms. She could still hear its wails echoing through the empty halls.

Her heart pounded against her ribs. She dragged her knees to her chest, rocking herself in the silence of her chamber.

The tower had never been so cold.