EPISODE 4: The Grand Hall Day

The memory lived inside Rubella like a splinter—small, hidden, but impossible to forget.

She had been nine years old the day the grand hall opened for the Winter Solstice. Snow fell in silent curtains beyond the high windows, and every corridor of the castle gleamed with gold and evergreen garlands. Servants hurried through the marble passageways, their arms heavy with candles and silver platters. The entire kingdom was arriving to celebrate.

Rubella had watched the bustle from the shadows of the east wing, her curiosity burning like a secret flame. Normally she was kept to the schoolroom during such events, far from the eyes of the court. But that evening the scent of pine and music drew her forward. She wanted only a glimpse.

She crept along the narrow stair and into the grand hall.

The sight stole her breath.

Chandeliers dripped crystal light over velvet banners. A sea of nobles shimmered in silks and jewels. And at the center of it all—her father, King Morven—stood regal and unmoving, the dark crown sharp against his silver-streaked hair. Rubella’s heart leapt. For a moment she forgot the lessons of silence and invisibility. She stepped into the glow.

A hush followed.

It happened so quickly she barely understood: heads turning, voices softening, eyes catching on her small figure. She felt their stares like a sudden wind. Not at her worn winter gown, not at the child herself, but at something deeper. A whisper rippled through the crowd.

“She looks just like Lady Sophia…”

Her mother’s name. The mother she barely remembered—Lady Sophia of the Rose Court, whose beauty the kingdom still mourned.

Rubella felt it too. The musicians faltered; conversation died. Even Eva and Emma, dressed in matching ivory, were momentarily forgotten. Rubella saw the envy flash across their faces before they masked it with false smiles.

Then she saw Queen Agusta.

Across the room, Agusta’s gaze locked on her like a blade. The queen stood beside the king, flawless in midnight velvet, but her eyes burned cold steel. Rubella felt the heat of that fury even from across the hall.

King Morven’s jaw tightened, yet he said nothing. His silence was a wall.

A courtier murmured, “It is as if Sophia walks again.”

The words broke the spell. Agusta’s lips curved into a perfect, poisonous smile, and the musicians struck up the next song. Conversation resumed, but the damage was done: for those few moments, all eyes had been on Rubella—the child who carried her dead mother’s face.

Later that night, the storm arrived.

Agusta found her in the shadowed antechamber near the servants’ quarters. The queen’s steps were soundless; only the scent of winter roses announced her. When Rubella turned, the candlelight caught Agusta’s eyes—gray, glacial, merciless.

“Did you enjoy your performance?” the queen asked softly.

Rubella’s mouth went dry. “I—I only wished to look—”

“Look?” Agusta stepped closer. “You dared to stand before the court unbidden. You knew what you were doing. You wanted them to see her in you.”

“No,” Rubella whispered. “I didn’t—”

The slap came swift and shocking. A sharp crack echoed off the stone walls. Pain blossomed across her cheek, bright and hot.

Rubella staggered, the world tilting. Agusta’s face remained composed, almost serene, but her voice cut like ice.

“You are my daughter now, not hers. You will not parade that face like a weapon against me. Do you understand?”

Tears burned, but Rubella held them back. Agusta’s lessons had taught her well. She nodded once.

“Again,” Agusta commanded.

“Yes…Mother,” Rubella forced out, the word like ash on her tongue.

Another blow followed, not with the palm this time but with the back of a jeweled hand. The ring sliced a thin line along Rubella’s jaw. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron, refusing to cry out.

From the corridor beyond, the faint strains of music continued as if nothing had happened. No servant came. No guard intervened. The castle walls themselves seemed to conspire in silence.

Agusta gripped Rubella’s chin, tilting her face to the light. “Remember this,” she said. “Your likeness to that woman is not a blessing. It is a burden. Hide it. Bury it. If the court forgets her, I will remain queen. If they remember, you will suffer.”

She released her with a small, deliberate shove. Rubella sank to the floor, the cold stone biting her knees.

The queen straightened her gown, every movement precise, as though nothing had occurred. “Clean yourself before you return to your chamber. And tell no one. A princess who whines of shadows loses the love of her people.”

Then Agusta was gone, her steps dissolving into the music of the distant celebration.

Rubella remained in the dark, cheek throbbing, blood warm against her skin. The ringing in her ears mingled with the faint laughter drifting from the hall where Eva and Emma surely danced beneath the chandeliers.

They had seen the way the court looked at her.

They had seen their mother’s fury.

And they would say nothing.

No one would.

The candle beside her guttered, casting the chamber into deeper shadow. Rubella pressed a sleeve to her cheek, feeling the sting where the ring had cut her. Anger trembled beneath the pain, small but fierce, like a spark waiting for air.

She thought of her mother—Lady Sophia, the woman she barely remembered. A soft face in half-formed dreams. Was it a curse to look like her, or a hidden strength? If her resemblance could silence a hall of nobles, perhaps it was power. And power, Agusta herself had said, belonged to those who endured.

Rubella rose slowly. She wiped the blood from her skin, lifted her chin, and walked back toward her chamber. The music swelled again, bright and careless, but she no longer cared. Each step was a quiet promise to herself:

I will not forget.

I will not break.

One day, this hall will fall silent for me—and not because I look like anyone else.

The echo of her own footsteps was the only answer, steady and unafraid.

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