She had cursed the duchess until her very last breath–and the duchess could do nothing but watch. 

It was too late.

If she had held the Crown Princess as she died like she had so desperately desired… Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered if she had succumbed to her impulse just once. Yet, in some cruel twist of fate, when the princess had finally slipped away, the duchess was, at long last, able to hold her close for the very first–and last–time.

But there was no joy in this moment; the stolen princess, the broken Crown Princess, of the Grandeltas Empire was forever gone.

No one would mourn the princess as profoundly as she would. They never cared for the pitiful girl from another land–an outsider who had struggled for even a scrap of acceptance from the people she was to one day lead.

They didn’t see the way her long lashes fluttered delicately with each unconscious blink, or how her lips formed words in a mesmerizing dance, releasing the loveliest of sounds even when she was upset. They had never admired the light bronze of her skin, nor the way her gloriously colorful gowns always vividly popped against it. They would never know the nearly imperceptible shift in her practiced smiles when she spoke of things she truly loved, how the hollowness of her perfected facade would momentarily fill with substance and light. Every last memory, every fine detail, and every rare moment the princess had expressed genuine joy would all be hers, and hers alone, to cherish.

The duchess sank to her knees, cradling the fragile, crumpled form within her trembling embrace. She yearned to cry, but the tears remained stubbornly locked within her eyes, stifled by a searing rage that slowly ignited. Sadness and anger. The war of two emotions battled savagely within her, each one threatening to completely engulf her, though neither fully able to take control. 

A shaky sigh escaped her lips, a broken breath laden with an insurmountable depth of emotion. She noticed how the princess’ features seemed to glow with a morbid serenity, and so the duchess laughed to herself–a dark and bitter sound. Here she was, absolutely devastated, but for the first time in years, the Crown Princess seemed at peace–free from the burden of the crown and from the expectations that had suffocated her spirit. 

With nothing left to lose, the duchess gave in to her selfish need to touch the princess, tracing her darkened eyelids whilst yearning to see those fierce eyes of glittering gold one last time shining against the backdrop of her long auburn mane. Her callused fingertips brushed the dark lashes, tracing a gentle line down to the jaw. Here, the duchess paused, fearing the roughness of her touch would somehow taint her soft skin.

Because she was one of few women who practiced swordsmanship, her hands had grown coarse over the years. Coupled with a slender stature taller than most ladies, her interests and height had always been a target of gossip and veiled mockery, judgments devised by arrogant young lords and noblemen, who deemed her unladylike. “Practicing swordsmanship will make you bulky,” they’d said, or “You’re already abnormally tall for a lady. Must you be ‘muscular’ as well?” Her favorite, and one she heard frequently, was always, ““What man wants a wife that’s stronger than him?”

Then, one day, a lonely girl with hair the color of blood arrived in the capital. Her smooth skin was shades darker than her own frosty hue, an exquisite color she had never seen before in her life. The first time her heart had nearly leapt from her chest, she’d been accompanying the duke to the imperial palace for something she could now no longer recall. She’d passed the time in the training yard, surrounded by the whispers of the royal knights that had gathered to watch. 

Until their attention had been caught by something else.

The knights’ whispered aversion quickly morphed into ridicule, their slanderous murmurs directed at the sad yet beautiful figure that glided past them. Accompanied by attendants, the new Crown Princess had set out for an afternoon stroll. There was something hauntingly familiar about the emptiness in the sunglow of her sultry gaze, and the duchess found herself unable to look away. 

As if sensing the weight of her scrutiny, the princess halted abruptly, their eyes locking in an unforgettably intense moment. The duchess would forever remember the striking essence of the princess–her hair ablaze like ruby-colored flames under the sunlight. Would she, too, join in the mockery of a woman practicing swordsmanship, just like the others?

The princess appeared deeply troubled, her frustrations simmering just beneath the lovely surface. Yet, there was also an abyss of sadness reflected in her eyes, as if the very core of her soul had been violently siphoned from her being. The longer the duchess stared, the further she perceived the depths of the princess’ weariness. Her sultry, cat-like eyes, devoid of vitality, seemed to carry the burden of exhaustion, barely managing to fixate on the duchess as she spoke.

“I wish,” she started, the gentleness of her elegant lilt dripping with fatigue,  “I could be strong like you.”

It was all the princess had said. And from that moment onward, everything changed.

The duchess blinked, untangling herself from her wandering thoughts as she caressed the drying ruby stains along the princess’ jawline. She’d always embodied the illusion of perfection, not a single strand of hair out of place. She had always carried herself with such elegance, each step measured, each breath controlled. Yet, now her vulnerability was starkly exposed, shattering the mold of her pristine exterior. Fire exploded in the duchess’ chest as her anger flared, realizing what the princess had been reduced to.

“I–” she spat through gritted teeth, seething from every pore on her body. Then, as quickly as her rage had come on, her throat began to swell as sorrow washed over her. Words she could never say to the princess bubbled at the back of her throat. Words she had been too scared to say before–and ones she now wished she had been brave enough to utter just once.

If she had told her how she felt, would it have made a difference? 

“Would you have loved me,” the duchess whispered as she leaned forward, tresses of white falling gently upon the princess’ face like snowflakes, “if I was born a man? Would you have looked my way, even once? Or had your heart been too damaged for you to ever love again?”

A sudden tremor spasmed through her, and she sniffled, unable to stop the violent sobs erupting from her lips. They wracked her entire being with an anguished force that seemed to tear at her very soul.

“Wake up,” the duchess wailed. “Wake up…and look…at me. Only me.”

She could feel the warmth of the princess fading, yet she couldn’t bring herself to let go–not just yet. Instead, the duchess clung tighter, resting her face against the princess’ still chest. The essence of lavender filled her nose, a haunting scent mingling with the chill of the princess’ skin. The duchess felt herself teetering on the edge of madness, ensnared by the relentless tide of her own tumultuous emotions that continued to shift from agony to anger in an uncontrollable cycle.

Her breath hitched as she choked on another sob. She hugged the princess close once more. For the last time. Then, she threw her head back as she wept to the night sky, hoping the princess could hear her even in the unreachable heights of the eternal Highlands. 

“Because I truly, have only ever, always”–she coughed violently, choking on her tears and words as the weight of her grief threatened to crush her beneath the veil of glittering stars–”ever loved you.”