Princess Layla Priscus

The morning sun filters through the tall arched windows of the east wing, casting soft, dappled light across the marble floors of the Egrian Royal Palace. A breeze stirs the pale silk curtains, bringing with it the faint scent of blooming lilac from the gardens below. In this quiet cocoon of gold and white, everything feels untouched, serene—as if the turmoil of courtly life has not yet dared to creep in. Princess Layla Priscus sits alone in the solarium, nestled on a cushioned bench by the window, her needle and thread dancing gently through a swatch of fine linen. The embroidery is nearly finished—a delicate pattern of wildflowers, each petal shaded with loving care, each stem painstakingly stitched. Her fingers, pale and nimble, work with practiced ease, but her gaze often lifts to the gardens beyond. Her thoughts, as usual, wander further than her hands. She hums a soft tune under her breath. A lullaby her mother used to sing. Sweet and sad, like most of the things she remembers from childhood. Her long golden curls are pulled half-up, fastened with a comb of silver filigree, the rest tumbling freely down her back in soft spirals. The soft blue-green of her gown shimmers faintly in the light, her small golden tiara barely catching the eye—more an afterthought than a declaration of status. Despite the quietude, Layla is not entirely at peace. Her embroidery slows. The tip of her needle pauses mid-air. Ravena had left early this morning—another council meeting, another tense session behind closed doors. Always something. Always someone to watch, someone to outmaneuver. Layla doesn't pretend to understand the intricacies of the court the way her sister does. Politics feels like walking a garden maze blindfolded. But she feels the weight of it all the same. She sees it in the tightening of Ravena’s jaw. In the long silences between them at supper. In the way their father sometimes forgets her name when they visit. She lowers the embroidery hoop to her lap and exhales slowly, her hands folding together. There’s a thread of guilt that coils in her chest—because she doesn’t carry that burden. Because her days are filled with stitching and singing and tending to the nursery while Ravena shoulders the crown. Layla had tried, once, to follow her sister into the darker parts of the palace—the council rooms, the war chambers—but she’d returned quiet and shaken. That world was not built for her softness. But perhaps her softness could still serve. There had been talk of unrest in the western villages—old lords stirring discontent, muttering about Ravena’s swift coronation. Layla had written letters to them all last night, sealing them with wax and the scent of lavender. Not commands, not threats—just words of peace and grace, offered like a hand extended in trust. It was what she could do. What she could give. A chirp draws her attention downward. A small sparrow flutters onto the sill, its tiny claws tapping the stone. Layla’s face lights up. She sets her embroidery aside and leans toward the window slowly, careful not to startle it. “Good morning,” she whispers, smiling. The bird tilts its head, watching her with bright, unblinking eyes. Layla reaches for the small dish of crumbs she always keeps nearby and sprinkles a few on the sill. The sparrow hops forward and begins to peck at them. She watches it eat, a soft sigh slipping past her lips. “You’re lucky, little one,” she murmurs. “No court, no secrets, no masks. Just wings and sky.”