Roseline stood by the window. Again.
She didn't even think about it anymore—it's just where her feet always took her. The hills outside the palace rolled on and on, soft and green under the morning sun. The light made everything glow, like a painting. But it didn't touch her. Not on the inside.
Everyone said she had everything. A beautiful room. Dresses made of silk. Servants who bowed when she passed. But what was the point of having it all if it never felt real?
She placed her fingers against the glass. Cold. Like the palace. Like most of the people in it. Everyone acted nice, said the right things—but there was always something fake under their smiles. She saw it in their eyes. Heard it in their whispers when they thought she couldn't hear.
"The maid's daughter."
That's what they called her. Never to her face. Never loud. But the words still found her, soft and sharp like thorns. Her mother had been a servant. A maid who died after Roseline was born. The king—her father—had claimed her as his, but the rest of the court never forgot. And they made sure she didn't forget either.
She was a princess in name. But in their eyes? She didn't belong.
The queen, Illyra, barely looked at her. And when she did, it was always cold. Like Roseline was a mistake someone forgot to erase. Her half-brother, Prince Dorian, was better—at least he was polite. But there was no warmth there either. Just duty. Like he had to be decent, but didn't want to get too close.
Roseline had learned early: keep quiet. Keep your head down. Don't give them more reasons to hate you.
So she did. She smiled when she was supposed to. She danced at royal events. She wore the dresses, said the polite things, bowed to visiting lords.
But inside, it hurt. All the time.
Sometimes she would sneak away to the library. That was the only place that felt safe. She'd curl up near the window with a book in her lap and pretend the world was different. The books were full of stories—heroes, adventure, love. Real love. Not like what she saw in the palace, full of power and lies. But love that saw people. Love that saved people.
She wanted that. More than anything.
Her 18th birthday had passed not long ago. The ball was beautiful. The music. The lights. The food. But it wasn't for her. It was for the kingdom. A show. Suits and gowns, strangers bowing and smiling, looking her over like she was something to be traded. A piece on a chessboard.
She danced, like she was supposed to. Spoke sweetly, like they taught her. And all the while, she was screaming inside.
Later that night, she stood at the window, her crown still on her head, her feet aching, her chest hollow.
"Is this it?" she whispered. "Is this all I'm meant to be?"
The stars didn't answer. But she looked at them anyway. Long and hard, like they might blink or speak or fall.
And when one streaked across the sky, her heart jumped. She closed her eyes.
"I wish," she said softly, "I wish for something more."
She didn't know what exactly. Love, maybe. A place to belong. Someone who saw her—not the crown, not her blood, just her.
She didn't know it yet, but something was already changing. Something small and quiet, waiting just around the corner.
She just had to hold on a little longer.
And maybe, just maybe, the stars had listened.