Moira rushed through the corridors. Ever since she was a child, the stone walls had always felt safe and familiar, but now they loomed over her, burying her beneath their heavy shadows. The floating cliff below the castle had always seemed like a bird’s nest, where she could fly, rise and rest, but now it was her cage. Would this be her life? Drawn-out dinners with people she cared nothing about? Smiling and playing nice when she only wanted to scream?

Three weeks to her seventeenth birthday, when she would seal her fate as the country’s next ruler after her father.

Her Day of Age.

They kept asking her if she was looking forward to it. What was there to look forward to?

The evening air hit her like cold water. The warmth of the wine sank away. Her head buzzed lightly. Standing on the long walkway between the castle towers, she stared at the sky spreading out above, flaunting silvery dots against the deep blue background. Below, dark clouds had gathered, and gusts of wind tore at Moira’s dark curls. The clouds lit up in white, causing goosebumps on her skin, followed by a thunderous rumbling.

The faint rustle of fabric drew her attention away from the sky. An arm’s length away, the Duchess hovered. She was Moira’s self-proclaimed best friend because they both belonged to Aurora’s elite and were of the same age, so what else could they be? Moira snorted under her breath.

The Duchess' dress was a kaleidoscope of blue and purple. Large gold earrings pulled at her earlobes, and her neck was capped with a gaudy gold necklace. If not for the blue wings, she could’ve been the daughter of the Queen of Chim. With her petite frame, Moira would likely not be able to fly if she wore the same outfit.

The Duchess swooned dreamily, raising the back of her hand to her forehead, pretending to faint. “He’s a dream. Handsome. Rich.”

Moira wished the lull of the wine could return. She couldn’t cope with the Duchess on the best of days, and this was nowhere near her best day. Exhausted as she was, all she wanted was to be left alone.

“He’s skinny with bright red hair,” Moira said.

“Oh, it’s just—unique.”

“Have you talked to him?”

They were seated at different tables, and he seemed anything but social.

The Duchess waved her hand. “It’s overrated.”

“Overrated?”

“He’s a prince,” the Duchess said as if it explained everything. “I understand it doesn’t matter much to you, Your Highness”—she said ‘Your Highness’ as if it were a funny nickname rather than her rightful title—“but for the rest of us—”

“You should still have criteria other than ‘is a prince’.”

“Why?”

Moira stared at her, wishing she could hear the smallest trace of irony in the Duchess’ voice. “Do you have anything in common?”

The Duchess bit her lower lip and shrugged. “He’s a little difficult to talk to. I didn’t get much out of him during the mingle. But really, that’s kind of nice. Someone who doesn’t just babble all the time.” She seemed unaware of her own perpetual babbling and concluded with, “Good-looking and rich, the rest will solve itself.”

Irony shone with its absence.

“I thought you said he wasn’t handsome,” Moira said.

“I said his appearance is unique. He’s not ugly.”

The Duchess walked over and stood a little too close as if wanting to force Moira’s gaze towards her. Moira refused. The Duchess was one of the many fortune seekers who wanted to be near the Crown Princess. Nothing she said was genuine. The Duchess couldn’t care less about Moira, except her title and position—and her riches and future position as queen—that were most important. Moira had tried to find friends; ordinary friends, people not of royal blood, but the Queen found it inappropriate and always steered her back to this. Falsehood and intolerance.

The Duchess had yet to move on from the topic of the Prince. “He probably thought you were so beautiful that he didn’t dare talk to you. You weren’t exactly open and happy. Would it kill you to smile a little?”

Smile a little. Smile, be happy, content with your lot in life—it’s so much more than others have.

Moira had lost count of how often she’d heard those words. A fury, grown for so long, was uncoiling within her. Rage spat and hissed, swelling until it exploded out of her.

“Leave.”

The Duchess backed away. “But Your Highness, I was just trying—”

“Go. Away. You don’t know what you’re talking about, you fake, stupid harpy.”

Moira felt light and breathed deeply. Speaking her true emotions was a pleasure she rarely experienced.

The Duchess’ eyes were large, her mouth open—but then her face distorted into something different, something Moira had never seen before. Without meaning to, she’d evoked the real person behind the façade.

“You think you’re so special, just because you’re a princess,” snapped the Duchess. “But you’re nothing behind that title. You’re a coward, you’re haughty, and you don’t deserve to be a princess—”

“That is enough,” a voice from behind broke in.

Moira and the Duchess turned around, breaking their eye contact.

The Queen stared at them with her icy cold eyes. She kept her hands clasped in front of her long dress that wasn’t extravagant in any sense, except the Queen’s perfect simplicity. The crown on her head made her appear taller.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Miss, you can go.”

The Duchess stood still for a few seconds, her gaze on the Queen like a frightened squirrel before she zipped away.

The Queen walked forward. Her hair, as black as Moira’s own, was pulled into an elaborate knot of braids, and it didn’t move an inch in the breeze.

“You two are nobility, and you will act as such.”

Moira turned away from her mother, away from the hollow words, and stared out across the dark clouds instead. The air trembled with electricity from the storm below, and the Queen’s gaze burned into her neck.

“She started it,” Moira muttered, knowing that it was a childish thing to say.

“Moira Aislin Sarai Avan, you are the Crown Princess of Aurora, and you are above such immature statements.”

Moira wanted to speak in the same frigid tone the Queen used, but never nailed it.

“Apparently not,” she said in her best attempt.

“We’re returning to dinner, now,” the Queen said.

“I don’t want to.”

The Queen’s expression didn’t change. It was as though she hadn’t heard Moira’s response. “I want you to go in and converse with the Prince. You’re both royals. You must have something to discuss.”

Moira turned around. “I tried; he’s not very cooperative. Just like his mother.”

“Then try again. Our kingdoms need to get along.”

“She’s only interested in Dad. You may have to watch out.”

The Queen’s eyes turned even colder. “It’s your job to make sure she’s having a good time. That is our role as hosts.”

“She refused to even talk to me. What was I to do?”

“It is three weeks until your Day of Age. You need to learn to talk, to get people interested, like your—”

“Don’t compare me to Mari.”

“You should want to be like her. Like me. Like a queen.”

Moira snorted. “I may not want to be queen. I might skip my Day of Age.”

The words, which she’d never uttered before, slipped out of her quite easily with the wine in her body.

“Then you give up your family. Your legacy. Is that what you want?”

Yes! Moira wanted to shout, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. The only thing she could do was give her mother a defiant expression and make her believe that she might leave Aurora before her Day of Age. She knew she could never do that because if she did, she would never see Mari and dad and Mael again. At the moment, she was angry enough with Milton to be unbothered if she ever saw him again, but eventually, she would miss him too.

The Queen stepped closer and was about to say something when she stopped and raised her eyebrow. “Have you been drinking?”

Moira smiled crookedly, the alcohol pumping in her veins making her brave. “You’re so observant.”

“You’re sixteen years old—”

“Yes, which means I’m an adult soon enough. What does it matter if I have a glass of wine or two?” She tried to sound as insufferable as possible, tried to wind Mother up.

“Obviously, you can’t handle alcohol either.” Her eyes narrowed, and Moira knew, even before she said it, what was about to come. The Queen always thought things through. “Like father, like daughter.”

Moira balked, as though lashed by a whip. She almost lost her grip on the conversation. When she took a deep breath, the chilly evening air flowed in through her nostrils, waking her up. She had drunk three glasses of wine, but instantly, its effects had disappeared.

“And the other half of me comes from you,” she spat.

But everyone always said that she was more like her father. Though Moira often wished to be more like Mari, she simultaneously recoiled at the thought. She loved her father.

The Queen fumed, her eyes red with anger, and she grabbed Moira’s arm tightly, much like she used to when Moira was a kid. “You don’t think of anyone but yourself. You know we need our connections with other kingdoms. We can’t live on air, though it would serve you right to try.”

Furious energy pulsed through Moira, and she tore her arm out of the Queen’s grip. “As if you know about living any other way than among gold and jewels.”

“Before I met your father—”

“Before you met my father, you say you were nothing. But you won the top prize. A king. So you could become queen. Was it really dad you wanted, or was it the title?”

She’d never spoken to her mother like that, and for a split second, she felt satisfied—but then the Queen’s hand slashed through the air and her cheek burned hot. The slap echoed in her ears, a metallic taste in her mouth. The Queen stood shivering, her eyes alight with fury. For once, Moira noticed how Mother had to work to keep her voice under control.

“Never talk to me that way again. Everything I do is for your future.”

But Moira had had enough. She hated everything her mother the Queen stood for. The jewels hanging around her neck and the crown she proudly wore. Moira wanted to reach out and grab the crown, throw it over the edge, and watch it fall into the stormy clouds.

Instead, she screamed, “You’re not doing this for me! Perhaps for the kingdom, but only when it coincides with what you need. You. We must have ‘good connections’ with Chim so you can drape yourself in their gold and diamonds. That’s why you think I should sit and entertain a fat queen and her boring son!” She spat out the words as a rebellious fire raged within her.

The Queen’s face twisted into an ugly expression as she came at her, and Moira knew she would slap her again, so she spread her wings and soared up into the sky, away from her mother. The Queen’s eyes grew wild in a way Moira couldn’t have imagined. She’d never been the gentle, loving motherly figure from storybooks, but this was something else—rage, as close to hatred as Moira had ever fathomed.

“You’re a selfish little brat who refuses to think about anyone but yourself. You were born into this life. You know nothing about what it’s like to be anything but rich and spoiled.”

“Me?” Moira snorted. “I’m the one who is rich and spoiled? Have you looked in a mirror recently?” She backed away further with a few flaps of her ivory wings. The Queen followed.

Moira should have been afraid of what she saw in the Queen’s eyes. She knew she could still revert things to normal if she stopped talking, apologized, returned to dinner, and did everything the Queen wanted.

But she couldn’t.

“Come down here this second. The King and Queen of Chim must wonder where we are.”

“No. I won’t smile like a stupid doll anymore, not tonight. I refuse. You can do it. I don’t want to.”

She turned and flew away, leaving the castle behind, and embracing the darkness. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her body trembled, quivering in the cold. The Queen screamed, but the well-timed thunder drowned the words. Moira had no interest in what her mother had to say; she’d said enough.

The Queen’s newly unleashed wrath haunted her as she dove into the flashing clouds. The deadly thunderclouds appeared far more welcoming than her mother, and she flew further into their den, away from the Queen.

A strong wind seized her and tossed her into the eye of the storm. From one second to the next, she awoke from her fury, and a wave of fear washed over her. She couldn’t get up again. The winds tossed her back and forth, and for the first time in her life, her wings didn’t help—they hindered her attempts. Thunder blasted through her ears and lightning glazed through the sky.

Panic replaced rage.

She fought desperately against the winds, but she knew she stood no chance against nature’s wrath. The storm threw her around like a rag doll. Below her, the black sea roared. White streaks of foam appeared every time the waves crashed into each other, killing everything in their path. Moira hated the water. Icy, white fear spread through her body, and she struggled to breathe, to drag air into her burning lungs.

She wanted to cry for help but knew that no one would come. No one would hear her screams.

Rain hit her face hard, like a thousand small pebbles, washing away the tears on her cheeks. She was freezing, the dress soaking wet and heavy, dragging her down.

Then a flash lit the sky. Moira froze. The lightning came rushing towards her like a thin, sprawling arm…

It embraced her, surrounding her in dazzling white.

There was a warm glow, momentarily calming her senses. And then, she was falling down toward the crashing waves. She was on fire, every nerve in her body inflamed and roaring with pain. She tried to scream, but the sound never made it out.

The world faded into darkness.

She plunged into the sea.