The Queen's Curriculum

The world expected many things from a princess, but they expected even more from the so-called "Ice Princess."

I could feel the weight of that nickname pressing against my spine as I walked the length of the corridor, steps echoing on marble polished to a cold, surgical shine.

The palace's royal academy wing felt different now—not smaller, exactly, but sharper, filled with the scent of ink, old paper, and the subtle chill of ambition.

Here, I was no longer just a student but a specimen: observed, measured, prodded for cracks.

Gone were the younger years of shared desks and sun-warmed windows, of pranks and pastries and half-finished notes passed beneath the table. Now, everything was formal, structured, and watched.

This was the Queen's Curriculum. There were only twelve of us in the room: the heirs to all the thrones that mattered, each with the weight of their line on their shoulders, every one of us sculpted for duty since birth.

I took my seat by the window—always the same spot, always with my back straight and my eyes forward. Sunlight filtered through the tall panes, throwing long lines across the slate boards and dust motes that spun like snow.

I kept my face perfectly still, practiced over years. Cool, composed, unreadable. I was good at it now; no one saw the nerves writhing beneath my ribs.

The instructor swept in, robes whispering across the floor, her hair braided into a silver crown atop her head.

Madame Elayne had taught every royal for twenty years, her voice was velvet and steel, her eyes capable of silencing a riot.

She nodded to each of us in turn: princes and princesses of every neighboring realm, all arranged in silent, resentful symmetry.

"Welcome," she said, her voice carrying with effortless command. "I trust you all enjoyed your summer. I trust you are ready to put away childish things."

Her gaze paused on me, lingered just long enough for the others to notice. "Let us begin."

The first lesson was always the same—an overview of the year, but also a test: who was listening, who was drifting, who would stumble and betray a weakness.

I listened, or pretended to, while my mind ran in tight, anxious circles.

The Queen's Curriculum was relentless: diplomacy, history, languages, statecraft, accounting, the delicate art of appearing gracious while giving away nothing at all.

It included etiquette, but also the politics of power how to make allies, how to manage enemies, how to survive scandals and betrayals and, if one was unlucky enough, attempted coups.

All of it under the endless, merciless gaze of teachers who'd watched too many bright hopes burn out before the crown was ever placed.

Madame Elayne's chalk tapped out the structure of the year on the board, each subject a stone in the tower we were meant to build.

"You will each be assigned a mentor. You will attend diplomatic dinners, even if you detest small talk. You will learn to read a ledger, to recite trade routes from memory, to write laws that will last after you are dead."

A low, brittle laughter rippled through the room. I recognized it: the sound of heirs pretending they weren't already tired.

Seraphina sat three seats away, her posture so flawless it looked painful. She caught my eye, offered the faintest nod, and returned her gaze to the front.

She had always excelled at this—discipline, composure, duty as lifeblood. Even before she'd abdicated her claim, she'd fit the part of queen as if born for it.

It was a strange comfort to have her here, but it was also a stinging reminder of the expectations that had passed to me.

Madame Elayne moved on, outlining the year's major events: the autumn diplomatic summit, the winter charity ball, the spring coronation rehearsals—"in case, of course, any of your parents decide it is time to retire," she added, to polite, nervous laughter.

A few seats down, Prince Edric of the West scribbled notes with frantic precision, as if the future could be tamed by sheer will.

Across from me, Lady Solenne of the Isles toyed with her jeweled pen, eyes flickering toward her rivals. We were all being measured, all being ranked, no matter what the official record said.

The morning wore on. We reviewed the code of laws, the principles of royal justice. "Mercy," Madame Elayne intoned, "is not weakness. But neither is it an excuse for indecision. Learn the difference."

We recited names—of past monarchs, of rebels and saints, of the fallen and the legendary.

There were so many. I wondered how many had hated their role, how many had yearned for another life, how many had found a way out. Most, I suspected, had simply learned to carry the crown until it broke them.

When the lunch bell sounded, there was no rush. Everyone gathered their things in careful silence, masks firmly in place.

I waited for the others to leave before rising, pausing to gather my thoughts, steadying the chill that wanted to creep into my limbs.

I ate in the smaller, private dining hall set aside for royalty-in-training. The food was excellent, fresh bread, delicate fish, summer fruit sliced in jeweled rings—but I barely tasted any of it.

Conversation was polite but distant. I exchanged a few words with Seraphina about the curriculum, some barbed pleasantries with Solenne, nothing that would linger.

If anyone noticed the empty seat that had once belonged to Lyra (not a royal, not ever, but a constant shadow in this world), they didn't mention it.

I tried not to think of her. The palace felt different without her a little too quiet, a little too easy, like a chessboard missing its only unpredictable piece.

The afternoon session was more practical, if such a thing could be said of royal life. We were led to the diplomatic salon, where we were instructed on how to enter a room, how to command attention without arrogance.

Madame Elayne made us practice greetings and measured our words for hidden meanings.

We discussed etiquette for duels, for marriages of state, for feasts and funerals and, in a rare moment of dark humor, the correct behavior if ever kidnapped by pirates.

"Remember," Madame Elayne said, "the world is always watching. It watches for cracks. It waits for you to break."

She paused before me, eyes keen. "Princess Isolde, you will demonstrate."

I stood, smoothing my uniform, feeling every eye on me. The room stilled, the sunlight cold on my cheek. I offered a perfect curtsy—precise, elegant, absolutely indifferent.

"Good," she said, the faintest approval in her voice. "Now, imagine you are facing a council of enemies. They expect you to beg. What do you do?"

I held her gaze, let the ice show. "I remind them who I am. And I never, ever beg."

A flicker of something—satisfaction?—in her eyes. "Excellent. Again."

When the last bell of the day rang, it felt almost like an escape. My mind was numb, my body tired from hours of vigilance.

I gathered my books and quills, filed out with the others, head high. In the corridor, Seraphina waited, leaning against the sunlit wall, arms folded in mock impatience.

"You survived," she remarked, lips quirking in a rare, private smile.

"Barely," I muttered. "They should make a curriculum for people who don't want to rule."

She arched a brow, amusement softening her features. "They did. It's called 'running away.' You're not very good at it."

I scowled, but it was half-hearted. "How did you stand it all those years?"

Seraphina shrugged, falling into step beside me. "You get used to it. Or you find ways to make it bearable. A friend, a secret, a promise to yourself."

A pause, then: "I wish you'd talk to me more, Isolde. About the real things."

I hesitated, shifting my books. "Maybe I will. Maybe when I figure out what the real things are."

We stopped at the doors, the palace gardens spread before us, golden in the late afternoon. For a long moment, Seraphina just looked at me—really looked, as if searching for someone she'd lost.

"Good luck for the future, Queen Isolde," she said softly, her words tinged with both affection and regret.