My chamber feels smaller tonight, as if the walls themselves sense my departure. The ice carvings that adorn them—delicate swirls and crystalline patterns I've traced with my fingertips since childhood—seem to pulse with a faint blue glow, responding to the rapid beat of my heart. I stand before the ornate mirror, royal gown heavy on my shoulders, and begin to undo the intricate lacing that binds me to a life I can no longer endure.

  The silver inlays catch the moonlight streaming through my narrow window, casting splintered reflections across the sparsely furnished room. Seventeen years in this gilded cage, and I've never accumulated much. A princess should want for nothing, they said. A princess should be nothing but what she is told to be.

  My fingers work deftly at the bindings of my gown, each loosened knot a small rebellion. The fabric sighs as it falls away from my body, pooling at my feet like discarded expectations. The weight lifts from my shoulders in more ways than one.

  "Not tonight," I whisper to the ghost of my royal self in the mirror. "Tonight, I am just Lyra."

  Not Princess Lyra Starweaver of the Holy Capital, heir to the throne of Aurora's Crest, but simply Lyra—a woman with ice in her veins and music in her soul.

  A chill breeze sneaks through the window, carrying with it the faint melody of the night. It stirs the delicate ice formations that have grown, unbidden, along my windowsill—evidence of the power I've tried so hard to hide. The frost patterns respond to my emotions, expanding slightly as I exhale a shaky breath. Another reason I must leave. The ice witches' legacy flows through me, growing stronger each day, impossible to suppress beneath formal smiles and courtly manners.

  I reach for the simple garments laid out on my bed—clothes stolen piece by piece from the servants' quarters over months of careful planning. The rough fabric feels foreign against my skin, accustomed as it is to silks and fine wools, but the sensation is oddly freeing. I move more easily without layers of propriety weighing me down.

  My gaze falls upon the wooden stand beside my bed, where my flute rests—the one possession I cannot bear to leave behind. Unlike the gaudy, jewel-encrusted instruments gifted to me by visiting dignitaries, this flute is simple, carved from pale wood that seems to glow with an inner light. My fingers hover over it, almost afraid to touch it, as if the act of taking it will make my decision irrevocable.

  "Come," I whisper to it. "We have waited long enough."

  I lift the flute gently, feeling its familiar weight. When I first discovered it hidden in the palace library, tucked between ancient tomes of forgotten magic, I knew it was meant for me. The first time I played it, frost spiraled from my fingertips and ice crystals danced in the air. The librarian who witnessed this—a wizened old man with knowing eyes—simply nodded and told me of the Ice Witches, of their connection to music and frost, before making me promise never to play where others could see.

  Three assassination attempts in the past month have made it clear that someone knows my secret. The ice magic that flows through me is seen as a threat to the established order, to the sanctioned Light Magic of the church and the controllable Mana Magic favored by the court. The ministers whisper of heresy and dangerous powers behind cupped hands, not realizing I can hear their voices carried on the cold drafts that seek me out in every room.

  I wrap a thin cloak around my shoulders, the fabric a deep blue that might help me blend with the shadows. It offers little warmth, but I have never truly felt the cold anyway—another inheritance from my Ice Witch ancestors, I suppose. Under the cloak, I secure a small pouch containing the few essentials I've managed to gather: a handful of Resonance Coins that sing softly against each other, a small knife, a map marked with the location of Harmonious—the village where I hope to find refuge.

  The rumors say a nameless Rhythm Knight hero once retired there, that musical magic still thrives in its secluded valley. Perhaps there, I can learn to control what flows within me, to understand the strange connection between the ice at my fingertips and the melodies that spill from my flute.

  My heart stutters as I take one final look around the chamber that has been both sanctuary and prison. The moonlight catches on a small portrait—my parents, the king and queen, their faces stern and unyielding even in paint. They love the idea of me, the perfect princess I've pretended to be, but would they still claim me if they knew what I truly am? The portrait's eyes seem to follow me, judging my betrayal, and guilt flickers briefly in my chest before I extinguish it.

  "I'm sorry," I tell the painted faces, "but I cannot die for your comfort."

  The incident three nights ago made that clear enough. I'd awoken to the scratch of a lockpick at my door, had barely enough time to summon a wall of ice before the blade found my bed. The would-be assassin fled, but not before I glimpsed the insignia on his sleeve—one of the duke's men, carrying out orders from those who fear what they cannot control.

  I take a deep breath and approach the ornate door that leads to the corridor beyond. My bare feet make no sound on the cold stone floor—another small advantage. I've memorized the guards' rotations, know exactly which passages to take, which shadows to hide in. The palace that has constrained me for so long has also taught me its secrets.

  With trembling fingers that betray my resolve, I push open the door. It swings inward with a soft groan, and I wince at the sound, loud as thunder in the midnight silence. The narrow corridor beyond stretches dark and empty—for now. I know I have perhaps five minutes before the guard returns to this wing.

  I step through the doorway, my body crossing the threshold between princess and fugitive. The weight of my decision presses against my chest, making it hard to breathe. For a moment, I glance back at the dimly lit interior of my chamber, at the life I'm abandoning.

  "I must go," I whisper, the words a spell that breaks the final chains holding me back.

  Then I turn forward and slip into the darkness, carrying nothing but my flute and the ice magic humming in my veins. Whatever awaits me beyond these walls, it must be better than dying slowly in a gilded cage, my true nature denied and feared. Tonight, Lyra Starweaver reclaims herself, one careful step at a time.

  The corridor stretches before me like the throat of some ancient beast, its stone walls slick with frost that forms wherever I linger too long. Torches flicker in their sconces, casting long shadows that dance and twist across the floor—shadows that could hide a blade, a poisoned dart, a silent assassin. I press my back against the wall, feeling the cold seep through my thin cloak, and force my breathing to slow despite the frantic drumming of my heart.

  Ice-coated columns line the passageway, their surfaces etched with the history of my ancestors. In daylight, they tell tales of glorious conquest and benevolent rule. Now, in the half-dark, they seem to whisper accusations of treachery. The eyes of carved kings and queens follow my progress, their stone gazes knowing and judgmental.

  A sudden draft sends the torch flames into a frenzy, and for a heartbeat, I imagine it's the collective sigh of my forebears, disappointed in the daughter who chooses to flee rather than face her fate. The thought sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold—I've never felt cold, not truly, not like others do.

  I move forward with deliberate steps, each footfall placed with careful precision. The stone floor beneath my bare feet is smooth from centuries of use, polished by the passage of royalty and servants alike. How many before me have crept through these halls in the dead of night, I wonder? How many have succeeded in their escape?

  Snowflakes drift lazily through a high window, catching the meager light before settling on the floor. They don't melt near me; instead, they seem to gather, as if drawn to the winter that flows through my veins. I brush them from my shoulder with an impatient hand. Even the weather conspires to mark me as different, as other.

  The junction ahead leads to my planned escape route—down the servants' stairwell, through the kitchens, and out via the delivery entrance where the guards are known to doze in the predawn hours. Ten more steps and I'll be there. Nine. Eight. Seven—

  Voices. Low and male, coming from around the corner ahead. My heart leaps into my throat, choking off my breath. I freeze, caught in indecision for one dangerous moment, then duck behind the nearest column just as shadows stretch across the floor from beyond the corner.

  The column is massive, a relic from when this palace floated in the sky, held aloft by song magic now long forgotten. Its circumference barely conceals me, and I press myself against it, feeling the rough patterns carved into its surface dig into my back through the thin fabric of my cloak. My fingers splay against the stone, and beneath them, a thin layer of frost spreads unbidden, betraying my fear.

  I clamp down on the magic threatening to spill from my fingertips, focusing on controlling my breathing instead. In and out. Slow and silent. The frost stops spreading but doesn't recede.

  "—checked her chambers. Empty." The voice is gruff, professional, devoid of emotion.

  "She can't have gone far. The little ice witch doesn't know the secret passages like we do." This voice is smoother, almost amused, and I recognize it with a jolt of terror—Vizier Krane, my father's most trusted advisor. Not so trusted after all, it seems.

  "You're certain the king doesn't suspect?" asks the first voice.

  "His Majesty is too concerned with the border disputes to notice what happens under his own roof. By morning, we'll have eliminated the threat, and he'll never know his precious daughter was anything but what a princess should be." Krane's voice drips with disdain. "The Silent Circle has waited too long already. The girl's power grows daily."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The Silent Circle. The name slides like an icicle into my heart. I've heard whispers of them—sworn enemies of harmony and song magic, seekers of discord and chaos. Why would they want me dead? My ice magic is not song magic, is it? Unless...

  My fingers tighten around my flute, hidden beneath my cloak. The connection I feel when I play, the way the ice responds to the melodies—could it be more than simple ice witch heritage? Could I somehow be channeling the ancient powers of the Rhythm Knights and Songstresses?

  The footsteps draw closer, and I hold my breath. Five figures round the corner—four guards in dark cloaks that partially conceal their armor, and Vizier Krane in his official robes, a sickly green that always reminded me of pond scum. His thin face is set in lines of determination, his normally obsequious smile replaced by a hard, flat line.

  The clinking sound of their armor echoes off the polished floor as they stride past my hiding spot. They move with purpose toward my chambers, unaware that their quarry observes them from mere feet away. A cold draft stirs the air, sending more snowflakes dancing around them. One lands on Krane's shoulder, and he brushes it away with an irritated gesture.

  "I don't understand why we can't simply discredit her," says one of the guards, a hulking man with a scar tracing a path from temple to jaw. "Claim she's mad or afflicted. The king might banish her rather than—"

  "Fool," Krane hisses. "You think madness would be enough? The prophecy is clear—music and ice combined lead to the renewal of song magic. The Silent Circle has worked for centuries to ensure such power remains buried. We cannot risk even the slightest chance."

  Prophecy? What prophecy? Questions whirl through my mind like a snowstorm, but I dare not move, dare not even breathe as they pass my column. One of the guards glances in my direction, and I press myself harder against the stone, willing myself to become one with the shadows.

  For a heart-stopping moment, his gaze lingers near my hiding place. I feel a drop of sweat—or is it melted frost?—trickle down my spine despite the chill. Then his attention is called forward by Krane's impatient command, and the moment passes.

  "Fan out when we reach her chambers," Krane instructs. "Check behind every tapestry, under the bed, in the wardrobe. She's clever, this one."

  Their voices fade as they continue down the corridor, and only when I can no longer hear the clinking of their armor do I allow myself to exhale. My legs tremble with the strain of remaining still for so long, and I slump against the column, the stone cool against my forehead.

  I have less time than I thought. They'll discover my absence within minutes, and then the entire palace will be searching for me. I must move now, but my original route is compromised—they'll expect me to head for the obvious exits.

  My mind races through alternatives. The north tower? Too many guards. The postern gate? Locked at sunset. The... My thoughts stutter to a halt as I remember a detail from my childhood explorations—a servants' passage, long disused, that leads from the old library to a courtyard near the outer wall. Few remember it exists; it was sealed off after a fire decades ago, but I found a way in once while hiding from my tutors.

  Decision made, I push away from the pillar and chance a quick glance around its circumference. The corridor is empty, the assassins now out of sight around the distant corner. I take a deep breath and dart across the open space to a side passage—a narrow, less ornate hallway used primarily by servants.

  My bare feet make no sound as I run, swift and silent as the snowflakes that still drift through the high windows. The passage is dimly lit, with fewer torches and more shadows—perfect for remaining unseen. I pass storerooms and linen closets, servants' quarters and empty chambers once used for visiting dignitaries in grander times.

  A stitch forms in my side, but I dare not slow my pace. Every second counts. I catch glimpses through windows of the palace grounds below, of gardens dusted with snow and fountains frozen in graceful curves. Soon, shouts will echo across those grounds as my absence is discovered. I imagine Krane's face contorting with rage, the guards scrambling to lock down every exit.

  The thought spurs me to run faster, my breaths deep and rapid in the silent urgency of my flight. The flute bounces against my hip with each step, a physical reminder of why I flee—not just to save my life, but to discover the truth of what I am.

  The old library door appears ahead, half-hidden behind a dusty tapestry depicting the founding of the Holy Capital—a floating city held aloft by the song magic of ancient practitioners. I slip behind the heavy fabric, the dust tickling my nose and threatening a betraying sneeze that I desperately suppress.

  The door is sealed with wax bearing an official stamp—warning against entry, presumably due to structural damage from the long-ago fire. I hesitate only a moment before breaking the seal with my thumbnail. Another crime to add to my growing list of transgressions.

  The door opens with a protesting creak that sounds thunderous in the quiet corridor. I freeze, listening for responding footsteps, but hear nothing. Emboldened, I push the door wider and slip through into the musty darkness beyond.

  The air is thick with the scent of old paper and ash, preserved these many years in the sealed room. I can barely make out the shadowy outlines of collapsed shelves and burnt tables. Moving by memory and feel, I make my way across the room toward where I know the hidden passage begins behind a false wall.

  My fingers brush the trigger mechanism—a particular book spine that acts as a lever—and with a soft rumble, a section of the wall slides aside to reveal a narrow stairway leading downward. A draft of fresher air wafts up from below, carrying with it the promise of freedom.

  I cast one final glance over my shoulder at the palace that has been my home and prison. For a heartbeat, doubt assails me—am I doing the right thing? Am I abandoning my duty, my family? Then I remember Krane's words: "The girl's power grows daily." They fear what I might become, what I might discover about myself. That fear has turned to deadly intent.

  My path is clear. I slip into the passage, pulling the false wall closed behind me, and descend the stairs toward the courtyard—and hopefully, my escape from the Holy Capital.

  The hidden passage spits me out into a narrow courtyard, a forgotten space ringed by frosted hedges that stand like silent sentinels against the night sky. Moonlight spills across the scene, turning everything to silver and shadow, catching on the edges of shimmering statues whose faces have been worn smooth by time and weather. At the center stands a frozen fountain, its waters caught mid-cascade like a moment suspended in time, waiting for something—or someone—to set it free again.

  I pause, drinking in the sight of open sky above me. How long has it been since I've stood outdoors without an entourage of guards and ladies-in-waiting? Without the weight of a crown or the scrutiny of courtiers? The air tastes different here—fresher, untainted by palace intrigues and whispered threats.

  Stepping fully into the courtyard, I become aware of how exposed I am. The walls surrounding this space are lower than those of the inner palace, designed more for decoration than defense. Beyond them lies the outer bailey, and beyond that, the city proper, with its winding streets and shadowed alleys where a runaway princess might disappear.

  But first, I must cross this open ground. The courtyard is not large, but crossing it feels dangerous, like stepping onto a frozen lake of uncertain thickness. I scan the area, noting the positions of the statues—ancient heroes of Aurora's Crest, their stone faces turned skyward as if searching for the floating cities of legend. There are shadows between them where I might hide if needed.

  Movement catches my eye—a pair of figures seated on the courtyard steps that lead to the eastern wing. My breath catches, and I shrink back against the hedge, but they show no sign of having noticed me. As my eyes adjust further to the moonlight, I recognize them as palace servants, a young man and woman taking an illicit moment of rest during their night duties. They sit close, heads bent together in intimate conversation, oblivious to the fugitive princess in their midst.

  I could try to slip past them, hugging the shadows, but even in the dim light, my blue hair might catch attention. I need a distraction, or better yet, a way to ensure they don't look too closely at me if they do notice my passage.

  My fingers close around my flute, and an idea forms. Not just a distraction, but a test—a chance to see what my power can truly do when I choose to unleash it rather than suppress it.

  I step toward the frozen fountain at the courtyard's center, my bare feet crunching softly on fresh snow. The sound causes the female servant to glance up briefly, but she looks away again, dismissing me as perhaps another servant on an errand. Their position on the far side of the courtyard gives me a moment's breathing room.

  The fountain beckons—an ornate structure of carved stone depicting the Melodic Deities in their aspect as bestowers of harmony. Water frozen in its upward journey creates a crystalline sculpture more beautiful than any artisan could craft. I place my palm against its surface, feeling the cold that doesn't bite me as it would others. The ice seems to vibrate beneath my touch, recognizing something kindred.

  I raise my flute to my lips, hesitating only a moment. Once I play—once I deliberately call upon the power that flows within me—there will be no pretending anymore. No hiding behind the fa?ade of a perfect, ordinary princess. I will become what I truly am, whatever that might be.

  Drawing a deep breath that clouds before me in the cold air, I close my eyes and play a single, clear note.

  The sound cuts through the night like a silver blade, pure and unwavering. It hangs in the air for a heartbeat, then two—and then I feel it. A response, a resonance from within the ice of the fountain, as if the frozen water recognizes the call of the note and yearns to answer.

  I open my eyes to see a thin layer of frost rippling across the fountain's surface, spreading outward from where my fingers had touched it moments before. The frost forms delicate patterns—not random ice crystals, but deliberate designs like musical notations written in a language I somehow understand without having been taught.

  The servants on the steps have noticed now. They stand, their faces turned toward me, expressions of wonder rather than alarm crossing their features. In the moonlight, with my hair unbound and my simple cloak replacing royal regalia, they likely don't recognize their princess—they see only a mysterious woman playing music that makes the very ice dance.

  Emboldened by their reaction—fascination rather than fear—I continue playing. A second note joins the first, then a third, forming a simple melody that feels as natural as breathing. Each note seems to draw power from somewhere deep within me, channeling it through the flute and into the world.

  The nearby icicles begin to vibrate in harmony with my song, creating a crystalline counterpoint that enhances the melody. More frost spreads from the fountain, forming intricate filigree patterns along its edges and down its base. The ice seems alive, responsive, as if it has been waiting for this moment—for my music—to awaken it.

  As the melody grows more complex, I feel something shift within me. A door unlocking, a wall crumbling—some barrier I never knew existed suddenly dissolving away. Power floods through me, not overwhelming but clarifying, like suddenly seeing colors after a lifetime of gray.

  The frozen water in the fountain begins to shimmer with an inner light, ghostly blues and purples that pulse in time with my music. Small ice crystals form in the air around me, catching the moonlight and refracting it into hundreds of tiny rainbows that dance and spin with each new note.

  I am no longer playing the flute; we are playing together, instrument and musician becoming one channel for something ancient and powerful. This is not just the heritage of Ice Witches—this is something more. The way the ice responds to the music, the harmony between frozen water and melodic notes... this must be what Krane fears. This must be Song Magic, or some variation of it.

  The two servants watch, transfixed. The woman's eyes are wide with wonder, her hand clutching her companion's sleeve. The man makes a gesture—a circle followed by a vertical line—that I recognize as a ward against magic. Not hostile, but cautious. Respectful.

  "Look," I hear the woman whisper, loud enough to carry across the courtyard. "The ice... it's forming patterns like music notes."

  She's right. The frost spreading across the courtyard stones has taken the shape of musical notation—staffs and notes, crescendos and rests, a visual representation of the song I play. It's as if my music is writing itself into the world, making itself tangible through ice.

  For the first time in my life, I don't feel afraid of what I am. This power, this harmony between music and ice—it doesn't feel wrong or dangerous. It feels like finding a piece of myself I never knew was missing, like finally speaking a language I was born to speak.

  A sound from the palace behind me breaks the spell—shouting, the clatter of armor. They've discovered my absence. Soon, guards will flood these courtyards, searching for the missing princess. My time is running out.

  With reluctance, I lower the flute, letting the final note linger in the air before fading into silence. The glow within the ice dims but doesn't disappear entirely, as if some essence of the music remains trapped within the frozen water. The frost patterns remain etched across the fountain and courtyard stones, a testament to what transpired here.

  The servants still stare, but make no move toward me. The woman takes a half-step forward, her expression questioning.

  "Who are you?" she calls softly.

  I don't answer. Can't answer. Instead, I offer her a small smile and a bow of my head—acknowledgment of a shared moment of wonder—before turning toward the outer wall.

  With one last glance over my shoulder at the looming palace silhouette, I contemplate all I'm leaving behind. My parents, who may truly believe they were protecting me by keeping me isolated. My title and position, the luxury and privilege I've known all my life. The future that was mapped out for me before I was born.

  None of it matters compared to what I might find. Who I might become. What I might learn about the power that flows through me.

  Beyond these walls lies Harmonious—a village where, if the rumors are true, a Rhythm Knight once lived, where musical magic still exists in some form. It's a slim hope, but it's all I have—the possibility that someone there might understand what I am, might help me learn to control and channel this power that seems to grow stronger each day.

  The shouts from the palace grow louder. I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders and move toward the small postern gate that leads to the outer bailey. It's locked, of course, but as I press my hand against the iron, frost spreads from my fingertips, seeping into the lock mechanism. A gentle tap, and the metal becomes brittle, shattering with a sound no louder than breaking glass.

  The gate swings open, revealing a narrow alley between the palace wall and the buildings of the upper city. Freedom beckons, terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

  I step through the gateway, my bare feet crunching in fresh snow. The sound of my music still seems to linger in the air, mingling with the crunch of snow underfoot as I move forward into the night. Behind me, the palace grows smaller, its imposing presence diminishing with each step I take toward my own destiny.

  The weight of the flute against my hip feels like a promise now rather than a burden. Whatever awaits me in Harmonious—whatever truth I may discover about my connection to the mythical Rhythm Knights or the legacy of the Ice Witches—I face it not as Princess Lyra Starweaver, but simply as Lyra: a woman with frost in her veins and music in her soul, finally free to discover her own melody.