Zaina woke to the soft creak of her door opening.
She did not sit up or speak.
She already knew who it was.
The Queen moved quietly, like someone who had learned long ago how not to startle wounded things. Her steps were careful, deliberate, almost rhythmic. She perched at the edge of Zaina's bed, smoothing the covers with hands that had learned the weight of patience.
"You did not sleep," her mother said softly.
Zaina's eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling. "I slept enough."
The Queen sighed, low and quiet, a sound that carried more weariness than disappointment.
"Your father believes stillness is the same as safety."
Zaina turned her head, meeting her mother's eyes. "Do you?"
For a moment, the Queen looked older than her crown, as if the weight of years pressed into the corners of her face.
She hesitated. "I believe," she said slowly, "that storms do not stop because we shout at them."
Zaina swallowed. "Will you talk to him?"
The Queen hesitated again. A careful pause, measured.
"Yes," she said at last. "But only if you give him no reason to harden further."
"So I should pretend."
The Queen did not correct her.
"Behave well," she said instead. "Let him believe you are listening."
Zaina's gaze dropped to the floor. "And then?"
"Then," the Queen said quietly, "I will speak."
She rose gracefully, adjusting the folds of her robe. At the door, she paused.
"You are still my daughter," she added. "Even when you are difficult."
The door closed with a soft click.
Zaina lay still for a long time.
Then she got up.
She dressed carefully. No sharp words or dramatic gestures. When the guard stationed outside her door greeted her, she inclined her head politely.
The performance had begun.
Her lessons followed their usual rhythm. Language. Strategy. Etiquette. Every movement measured. Every word observed. Corrected if necessary.
No one mentioned the council meeting. No one mentioned the echo of her father's voice through the palace halls.
By midday, a guard knocked once and announced, "History."
Zaina almost smiled.
The history room smelled of old paper and dust. Tall shelves lined the walls, filled with records bound in leather and cloth. It was one of the few places in the palace that still felt alive.
Imani was already there. She looked up and smiled, warm and easy.
"You survived."
Zaina dropped into the seat beside her.
"Barely."
"I heard voices last night," Imani said gently.
"The walls were loud."
Zaina shrugged. "Walls always listen."
Imani's smile softened. "I brought you dried figs."
Zaina took one without thinking. "You're bribing me."
"It works," Imani said.
Their teacher entered. She was thin, calm, with sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She nodded at them, then opened a large, worn book.
"Today," she said, "we continue the history of Amari's founding."
Zaina leaned back, listening as the teacher's voice softened with the turning of a fragile page.
"Long ago, when the world was young, the first rulers of Amari did not wear crowns or sit on thrones. Instead, they walked alongside the spirits of the forest—guardians who lent their strength to those chosen to protect the land.
Among these spirits, the Leopard was feared and respected. Its power was unmatched, but so was its fury. It was said that the first Leopard host ruled with fierce justice but could not always control the wildness inside.
When the anger of the Leopard burned too bright, it nearly consumed the village. To protect the people, the elders made a sacred vow to honor the Leopard's power but never let it rise unchecked again.
Since then, the Leopard has been silent, its shadow falling only in stories whispered at night…"
Imani followed along, her finger tracing the lines carefully.
Zaina leaned forward, frowning. "Wait."
The teacher paused. "Yes, Princess?"
Zaina pointed at the page. "That page is torn."
The room went still.
Imani blinked, leaning closer.
"Oh. I never noticed that."
"What was there?" Zaina pressed.
The teacher's smile was thin, polite. "Time damages many things."
"But this book is restored every season,"
Zaina said, her voice tight with frustration.
"What was written there?"
Imani glanced between them. "Maybe it was just a mistake?"
The teacher closed the book deliberately.
"We will move on."
Zaina's chest tightened. "Move on from what?"
The teacher's eyes hardened just slightly.
"From distractions."
Imani shifted, lowering her voice. "Zaina, it's probably nothing."
Zaina's gaze returned to the torn edge. She sat back slowly, feeling the pull of curiosity tighten in her chest.
"Of course," she said, her voice quiet but deliberate.
The lesson continued. The guardians were described as noble. Wise. Controlled. Some were praised more than others. One was barely mentioned at all.
When the bell finally sounded, Zaina rose without a word.
Imani touched her arm gently. "You okay?"
Zaina forced a smile. "Perfectly behaved."
As they left the room, Zaina glanced back once more.
At the shelf.
At the book.
At the torn page.
Somewhere between what was written and what was removed lay a truth no one wanted her to read.
And Zaina had never been good at leaving things unread.