The Room With No Doors

Clara stormed into her chambers, her footsteps loud against the marble floor. The moment the door closed behind her, she let go. Her fists slammed against the polished table by the window, sending a vase crashing to the ground. Shards of porcelain scattered like her thoughts—sharp, chaotic, and impossible to piece back together.

Her breath came in short gasps. Rage. Betrayal. Helplessness. It was all too much.

Married. To the Crown. To Alaric.

Her mother had signed her life away, and the ink had dried long before Clara even knew what was at stake.

She paced the room like a caged animal. "Bound by blood," she muttered under her breath. "Like I'm some cursed relic passed down through generations."

The knock on her door was so soft she almost missed it.

Clara froze. "Who is it?" she snapped.

"It's me," came a voice—low, steady, unmistakably Alaric's.

She almost laughed. Of course. Of course, it had to be him.

"I don't want to see you," she said through gritted teeth.

Silence.

Then his voice came again, softer this time. "I know."

She didn't move. A full minute passed before the door clicked open.

He entered anyway.

Alaric stood just inside the threshold, his expression unreadable as always, but there was something different in his eyes. A flicker of hesitation? Regret? Clara wasn't sure. And she didn't care.

"You have no right," she said coldly.

"I'm not here to fight."

"Then why are you here?"

Alaric took a step forward. Clara didn't back away.

"Because I need you to understand something," he said.

She crossed her arms. "That I'm nothing but a tool to the royal family? That I should smile and curtsy while my freedom gets signed away in secret contracts?"

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper.

"What's that?"

"Your mother's letter," he said quietly. "The one she left behind after signing the blood pact. I didn't show it earlier... because I wasn't sure you'd want to see it."

Clara's throat tightened. Her hand trembled slightly as she took the paper.

She hesitated—then opened it.

"My dearest Clara,

If you're reading this, it means the truth has finally found you. I didn't want this for you—not this way. But the crown's enemies were closing in, and your life was in danger. This marriage was the only way to protect you. It was never meant to feel like a cage... but a shield.

Forgive me."

The ink was smudged in places, as if her mother had cried while writing it.

Clara's eyes stung. She turned away from Alaric.

"She still should've told me," she whispered.

"She should have," he agreed.

For once, he didn't sound like a prince. Just... a boy who had also lost control over his life.

"I didn't ask for this either, Clara," Alaric added, his voice low. "But we're both here now. And whether we like it or not, we have to play this game. Unless..."

She turned to him sharply. "Unless what?"

He paused, as if weighing the risk of saying too much. "Unless we rewrite the rules."

Clara narrowed her eyes. "You're speaking in riddles again."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Maybe. But I'll give you one truth—you're not powerless. Not if you learn how this palace works. Not if you learn how they think."

Her anger simmered into something more dangerous: curiosity.

"You're saying you'll teach me?"

"I'm saying I'll help you survive it," he said. "But the rest... you'll have to figure out for yourself."

He turned to leave, but paused at the door.

"When the High Council names you crown princess, they'll expect a puppet," he said without looking back. "Shock them."

And then he was gone.

Clara stared at the letter again. Her heart still felt bruised, but somewhere inside that pain was the flicker of something new—resolve.

If she was to be a queen, she would not be the quiet kind.

She'd learn their rules. And then she'd break them.

[To be continued…]