solstice [k.mikaelson 1]

ii.

The weight of two years had settled heavily upon the Château de Fontainebleau. Since the death of Philip IV, the once-vibrant royal court of France had become a tense and fractured place, ruled by whispers and veiled glances. The air inside the castle, though filled with the sweet scent of lavender and polished marble, felt suffocating to Margaret. At fourteen, the princess had come to know loneliness in a way she never had before. The court, her brothers, and most painfully, her mother—all had distanced themselves from her.

Margaret walked silently through the grand hallways, her footfalls muffled by the thick, ornately woven rugs beneath her feet. The grand chandeliers above cast golden light onto the stone walls, reflecting the elegance of the royal life she was expected to embrace. But all Margaret felt was suffocation. The rigid expectations of the crown pressed in on her from every direction—demure smiles, graceful curtsies, and a future that seemed already written in ink by the very people who mocked her behind her back.

"Failed princess," they whispered when they thought she wasn't listening. Their words cut deep, and though Margaret had learned to hide her hurt, the sting lingered. She was the daughter of Philip IV, but unlike her brothers, she didn't belong here. Her discomfort had become more visible over the years—her distaste for the pomp and the endless royal engagements was something that her courtiers seized upon. And Joan, her mother, had taken notice as well.

Lady Joan of Navarre had always been a distant figure in Margaret's life, but since the king's death, her coldness had hardened into something far more bitter. The queen's eyes, sharp as glass, now rarely rested on her daughter without a flicker of disappointment or worse—fear.

The more Joan watched her daughter, the more paranoid she became. The siphoner abilities that Margaret unknowingly possessed were a source of deep-seated anxiety for Joan, who had known their truth from the moment Margaret was born. Joan, of all people, knew what power lurked within Margaret, and it terrified her. The court thought the queen's disapproval stemmed from Margaret's rebellious streak, her refusal to adhere to royal decorum, but Margaret had begun to sense it went deeper than that. It wasn't just her refusal to behave like a princess that angered her mother—it was something she couldn't yet name.

The queen's restrictions grew with each passing month. Margaret's outings were limited, her freedom curtailed at every turn. She was rarely allowed beyond the castle walls and was watched constantly by guards under Joan's orders. But this only made Margaret's yearning for escape grow stronger.

And there was one place left untouched by Joan's control: the forest.

Margaret's hand trailed along the cold stone walls as she moved through the castle, making her way toward the side entrance that led to the stables. The narrow passageways echoed with the muted sounds of the bustling court beyond, but Margaret barely heard them. She moved with purpose, her chest tightening as she neared her sanctuary.

The forest was the only place that still felt like home. It was a place where her father's memory lingered, where the weight of the crown didn't reach. Years ago, her father had taken her and her brothers into the woods, teaching them how to build their little fort—an escape from royal life, even then. It was simple, made from rough-hewn wood and stone, but to Margaret, it was sacred.

Slipping out of the castle unseen had become a skill she had perfected over the years, and now, as she reached the edge of the forest, Margaret finally felt the tight grip of the court begin to loosen. The cool breeze rustled through the tall trees, filling the air with the earthy smell of pine and damp soil. Margaret inhaled deeply, her shoulders relaxing for the first time in days.

Here, in the woods, she wasn't a princess. She wasn't the "failed" daughter or the subject of her mother's paranoia. She was simply Margaret.

As she made her way to the fort, hidden deep within the forest, her thoughts drifted to her mother. Joan's disapproval had grown sharper in recent months. The queen's watchful gaze followed Margaret wherever she went, scrutinising her every movement. It was as though Joan was waiting for something—for Margaret to slip up, to reveal some hidden truth that the queen already knew.