Shattered Crown

A Bitter Feast

The soft hum of the early morning breeze swept through the palace gardens, carrying with it the scent of freshly turned earth and blooming roses. Lira knelt by the flowerbeds, her fingers stained with soil as she carefully tended to the plants. The garden was one of the few places she found peace in the palace, away from the sharp-tongued servants and the constant presence of her stepsister, Anya.

The flowers didn't judge her. They didn't care if she had no magical powers or if she wasn't part of the royal family. Here, among the roses and wildflowers, she could lose herself in the simplicity of the work and momentarily forget the life of servitude she lived under Queen Isolde's watchful eye.

"Lira!"

Her mother's voice sliced through the tranquility like a blade, and Lira immediately tensed. She stood, wiping her dirty hands on her apron, and turned to see the familiar figure of Queen Isolde standing at the garden's edge. The queen's expression was as cold and calculating as ever, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"There you are," Isolde said, her tone laced with disdain. "We have important guests arriving today. You're to cook for them."

Lira blinked, surprised. "But... the palace has plenty of servants and cooks—"

"I don't care about the servants," the queen interrupted, her voice sharp. "I want you to cook. You'll prepare the meal, and it better be perfect. Our guests are nobility, and I won't have them complaining about the food."

Lira's heart sank. There were dozens of cooks and servants in the palace, trained professionals who had been preparing meals for years. But Queen Isolde had always found a way to make Lira's life more difficult, to remind her of her place.

"Yes, Mother," Lira said quietly, biting back the resentment that threatened to bubble up. It was always like this—any task that could demean or humiliate her was given to her without a second thought.

"Good," Isolde said, her eyes narrowing. "Make sure everything is ready by sundown. And don't embarrass us."

With that, the queen turned on her heel and left the garden, her royal robes trailing behind her like a shadow. Lira watched her go, feeling the familiar weight of helplessness settle in her chest. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she obeyed, it was never enough for Isolde.

Sighing, Lira gathered her tools and made her way toward the palace kitchens. The heat of the stoves hit her the moment she stepped inside, and the bustling servants cast her sympathetic glances. They all knew what it meant when Lira was forced into the kitchens. She wasn't like them, yet she was treated worse than the lowest servant.

She stood at the long wooden table, ingredients spread out before her, and began preparing the meal. Her hands moved automatically, chopping vegetables, kneading dough, and stirring pots, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't stop thinking about the academy and how different her life was compared to the other students—especially Anya.

While Anya would be sitting with the guests, charming them with her beauty and power, Lira would be hidden in the kitchen, cooking for people who would never even know her name.

As she worked, the other servants murmured quietly around her, occasionally throwing curious glances her way. Lira knew they pitied her, but pity was the last thing she wanted. She wanted respect. She wanted freedom.

As the hours passed, the dishes slowly came together—a feast fit for royalty. The smell of roasting meats and freshly baked bread filled the kitchen, and the tension in the air grew as the time for the guests' arrival drew near.

Lira wiped her brow and stepped back to admire her work. She had done it. The meal was ready, and everything was perfect, just as the queen had demanded. But there was no satisfaction in the accomplishment. Only the hollow feeling of having completed yet another thankless task.

Just as she was about to leave the kitchen, Anya swept in, her eyes glittering with amusement. "Mother says the guests are arriving," she said, glancing at the spread of food with a smirk. "I see you've been busy. How fitting."

Lira said nothing, but her grip tightened on the edge of the table.

Anya picked up a small pastry, inspecting it with mock curiosity. "I hope you didn't mess this up. You know how Mother is when things aren't perfect." She tossed the pastry back onto the plate carelessly, as if even the food Lira made was beneath her.

Then, with a sickly sweet smile, Anya leaned in close and whispered, "You're lucky, Lira. At least you get to contribute something, even if it's just as the palace cook."

Lira's jaw clenched, but she forced herself to remain silent. Anya had always been like this—constantly finding ways to belittle her, to remind her that she would never be equal.

As Anya sauntered out of the kitchen, Lira took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions brewing inside her. She wouldn't give Anya or the queen the satisfaction of seeing her break.

But as she stared at the feast laid out before her, a bitter truth settled in her heart. No matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she obeyed, she would always be nothing more than a servant in her own home. A powerless girl in a world that valued power above all else.

But something deep inside her whispered that her time would come. One day, she would no longer be the girl in the shadows. She would find the truth, about herself and her past. And when that day came, everything would change.