The drive to Grimwall Hollow feels shorter than it should.

Maybe it’s because the sun’s still out, bleeding soft gold across the glass, or maybe because the whole car smells like paper and soap—the faint clean scent of donation envelopes, of doing something good.

When the motorcade turns off the main road, the world shifts. The city’s edges give way to cobblestone, damp with rain, then to the orphanage itself: a squat old manor of weathered gray stone and flower boxes clinging stubbornly to the windowsills.

By the time the door opens, there are faces in the glass—tiny, wide-eyed ones pressed against the panes. Someone whispers “That’s her!” and another shushes them, and then—louder, squeaky—

“The Princess of Eversea!”

The sound does something strange to my chest. Not bad, exactly. Just heavy.

It’s the same every time. The title fits like someone else’s jacket—warm in the right moments, suffocating in others. I liked being invisible once, tucked behind glamours so thorough even I almost believed them. But that version of me doesn’t exist here.

Here, the anonymity’s gone, and all that’s left is a name that still feels too big in my mouth.

Cassie’s hand is the first thing I feel when I step out. Not her fingers, but the temperature of them—steady, human, real. She smiles at the kids with perfect practiced grace, the kind of effortless charm that smooths whole rooms into stillness.

I, on the other hand, am trying not to trip over my own feet as the head matron comes bustling forward, already bowing like we’re saints instead of donors.

“Your Highness, thank you for coming,” she gushes.

The title makes my stomach twist. “Mira’s fine,” I start, but she’s already gesturing toward the steps, calling for assistants, talking about schedules and paperwork.

Behind her, I catch sight of Rori and Kael exchanging looks that are far too smug for bodyguards. Rori mouths Your Highness with exaggerated reverence. Kael bows at the waist just enough to make me want to throw something at her.

I glare; they grin.

Cassie, the traitor, pretends not to see it and glides forward to handle the official part—the signing, the check, the explanations about where the money will go. I hover beside her, trying to look queenly and not like I want to crawl out of my own skin.

The adults keep calling me Your Highness, each time with a little more nervous precision, as if they’ll be struck by lightning if they slip. The kids, though—they don’t care. To them, I’m Mira, or the Princess of Eversea said with all the gravity of a fairy-tale name.

Every time one of them says it, something in me warms and aches at once.

The main hall smells like old wood polish and chalk dust, sunlight caught in the motes between high windows. My shoes squeak on the tile; too many people crowd close; the noise stacks in my brain until it hums. I rub the seam of my sleeve between my fingers—three beats, steady rhythm, grounding.

Cassie notices. She doesn’t say anything, just reaches back and finds my wrist, brushing her thumb once across the inside pulse. The air in my lungs loosens.

When the head matron gestures toward the front for a photo, I shake my head before she even finishes asking. “No photos. That was the condition,” I say gently. “The donation’s enough.”

Cassie backs me up with that professional smile of hers that somehow means don’t push it.

The matron hesitates, then nods. “Of course, Your—Cassie.”

It’s strange. All these eyes waiting for a gesture, a line, a signal of how to act.

I wish they understood that I’m still learning how to act too.

Cassie squeezes my hand once before letting go.

“All right,” she says brightly, “let’s make sure the rest of it’s ready.”

We step out into the cool air, and for the first time all day, I can breathe without the taste of tension sitting on my tongue.

Rori and Kael peel off toward the car, trading short, quiet words into their earpieces. The staff start to follow us, confused—probably wondering if the event’s already over.

Cassie only smiles, the kind that means trust me.

“We’ll be right back,” she says.

The matron blinks, uncertain. “Of course, Your—ah, Mira.”

Outside, the rain has stopped. The pavement still glistens, reflecting clouds and passing wings of pigeons, and the air smells clean in that post-storm way that always makes me want to fill my lungs until it hurts.

Cassie opens the trunk herself, ignoring the driver’s attempt to help.

Inside: boxes stacked high, glossy store bags stuffed with color and softness and promise.

Shoes.

Clothes.

Toys.

Art supplies.

Everything the kids had written in their wish lists and everything Cassie had insisted we add anyway.

She grins at me over her shoulder. “Operation royal raid on the toy aisle?”

I can’t help it; I snort. “More like foreign aid—Eversea edition.”

Kael mutters, “This is why our shipping reports never make sense.”

Rori hefts a box onto one shoulder, feigning martyrdom. “And people wonder why the Summer Court treasury has trust issues.”

Cassie rolls her eyes. “Less commentary, more carrying.”

I grab the nearest box; the cardboard scrapes my palms, rough and satisfying. The faint scent of new fabric and plastic wraps around me—synthetic and real all at once. It smells like childhood, like the world before duty.

Inside, chaos blooms.

Children swarm the doorway as we come back in, voices tripping over each other, excitement breaking like fireworks.

The noise should overwhelm me—it almost does—but this kind of noise is different. It’s alive.

Their joy hums in my bones until I can’t tell where the static in my head ends and theirs begins.

We set the boxes down; paper tears; a dozen small hands dive in.

A white-haired woman crouches beside one of the younger boys, helping him cut the tag off a pair of shoes. At first, I think she’s just one of the volunteers—small, sturdy, hair braided tight—but when she looks up, the illusion flickers at the edges.

Not human. Not quite.

A nocturne gnome under glamour.

She smiles, gentle, eyes bright as dew.

“Thank you for these,” she says. “They’ll last a long time.”

Her voice is soft, weighted with old magic that the others don’t hear. I nod once, silently promising not to give her away.

“Glad they’ll be put to good use,” I answer.

Cassie’s voice cuts through the noise. “Looks like we might need a bigger castle to store all this.”

One of the kids laughs. “You live in a castle?”

“Only part-time,” Cassie says smoothly, crouching to untangle ribbons from a pile of dolls.

Another chorus of giggles.

I realize I’m smiling so wide my cheeks ache. For the first time all day, the satisfaction isn’t forced. This—this—is what power’s for. Not crowns. Not politics. Just making the world a fraction less cruel for someone else.

The applause when the last box is opened makes me laugh out loud. My hands twitch; before I even think about it, I flap my fingers once in the air—tiny, reflexive, happy movement.

Cassie sees it. Of course she does. She hides her grin by adjusting her bracelet, the motion so casual no one would ever notice.

I mouth don’t start.

She mouths never would.

We both know she absolutely would.

Somewhere behind us, Kael’s dry voice drifts over the noise: “Royal raid complete. No survivors in the toy aisle.”

Rori chuckles. “And thus concludes another glorious campaign.”

I roll my eyes, but the sound of their laughter, the warmth of the room, the smell of sugar and soap and rain—it all settles into me until I can finally remember what peace feels like.

The room doesn’t quiet—it explodes.

Children dart between boxes, the floor turning into a carnival of color and noise. The matron tries to maintain order, fails spectacularly, and ends up laughing with the rest of them.

Somewhere near the art supplies, a little girl with curly brown hair and a glittery pink headband hovers at my elbow, a lip-gloss tube clutched like treasure.

“Princess?” she says, barely above a whisper. “Do you really wear sparkly lip gloss?”

I crouch so we’re eye level. Her eyes are huge, the kind that still believe in magic. I dig into my own bag, pull out my emergency gloss—rose-gold shimmer, faint vanilla scent. “Rule one,” I tell her, keeping my tone serious, “confidence, not color.”

Abby (she tells me her name like it’s a secret) copies the motion exactly, pressing her lips together with theatrical precision. I snap my fingers, mock-serious. “Now that’s queen energy.”

She giggles so hard she nearly drops the gloss. Cassie’s laugh follows from behind me—low, warm, unguarded. I glance back to see her hand over her heart, pretending she isn’t melting.

“Careful,” I warn, “you’ll start crying glitter.”

“Already am,” she murmurs, and the way she looks at me makes my pulse stumble.

I shake it off and stand, only to find a boy waving a skateboard like a flag.

“Can you do tricks?” he blurts. His name tag says Ben.

“I can fall dramatically. That count?”

He grins, missing a front tooth, and I know I’m doomed. Within minutes we’re outside on the cracked sidewalk. He hands me a battered board with a faded dragon decal. I test the wheels, then glance toward the shed. “Helmet. Pads. We set good examples in this monarchy.”

He rolls his eyes but obeys. Cassie’s already filming us in her mind, I can tell by the smirk she’s hiding. I fit the helmet strap under my chin, fingers drumming a three-beat rhythm against the plastic to steady myself. “Okay. Ollie basics. Bend, pop, jump. Like this.”

He copies me—bend, pop, jump—and the board actually leaves the ground. He lands it, barely, wobbling but upright. “I did it!”

“We did it,” I correct, whooping loud enough for the sound to bounce off the brick walls. The cheer that follows could raise the dead.

Across the yard, Cassie’s got her own audience. A boy named Crop—tiny, fierce, freckles for days—has a football half his size. Cassie kneels, showing him how to set his grip, then sends a perfect spiral down the lawn.

When the ball smacks into his hands, he yelps and jumps like he’s caught lightning.

“Careful!” I shout, grinning. “He’s coming for your title, Fairborn!”

Cassie glances over her shoulder, mock-offended. “Impossible. I have the better arm and the better hair.”

“Debatable!”

Rori, from somewhere near the steps, calls, “My money’s on the kid!”

Laughter ripples through the yard. The air smells of wet earth and chalk dust, sun warming my back, the kind of simple sensory mix that makes time slide sideways. For a little while, it feels like nothing bad exists beyond this fence.

Then Zach—one of the twins—decides to end peace treaties forever.

I’m helping him fill balloons at the outdoor tap when he fakes a throw and nails me square in the chest.

The splash is cold, shocking, glorious.

“Oh, you didn’t,” I gasp.

He grins, mischief incarnate. Another balloon sails through the air. I duck, grab ammunition, and retaliate.

Chaos follows.

Cassie gets ambushed first; her indignant shriek sets off half the kids. Rori and Kael, supposed professionals, abandon their posts entirely to join the fight. Within minutes the orphanage lawn turns into a battlefield of shrieks and laughter, technicolor water exploding in every direction.

Someone scores a hit square on my back; I spin and lob two in return, catching Cassie on the shoulder. Her gasp turns into a full laugh—deep, helpless, real.

By the end, every one of us is soaked. My hair sticks to my cheeks; Cassie’s shirt clings to her like second skin. The kids are howling with glee, puddles gleaming under the dying light.

I fall back onto the grass, chest heaving, water seeping through my jeans. The world smells like crushed clover and soap bubbles. Cassie drops beside me, grinning at the sky.

For a heartbeat, everything is still.

This, I think, is what peace should feel like—

Not silence. Not victory. Just laughter echoing through the hollow spaces until there’s no room left for fear.

The sun slides lower until the whole yard glows like honey poured over stone. The water balloons are gone, replaced by damp towels and sticky fingers clutching juice boxes. Cassie hands out the last of the cookies, her hair still dripping down her back, and the matron just shakes her head like she’s never seen anything like us before.

I wring out my braid, water spattering the grass. “Sorry about the flood,” I tell her.

She laughs. “It’s the best kind of mess.”

We help herd the kids toward the steps, wrapping them in oversized towels. Cassie kneels beside Abby, fixing a twisted bow. I move from group to group, tucking in loose blankets, handing out crackers, wiping stray drops from freckled noses. The smell of wet cotton, soap, and sugar clings to everything.

It’s almost quiet—just the hum of evening insects and the sound of small voices planning what they’ll do next time.

Because apparently there has to be a next time.

Abby insists we have to come back for a sleepover. Ben says I owe him a rematch on the skate ramp. Crop swears he’ll throw a football over the roof by then, and Zach vows revenge via supersoaker.

I laugh until my ribs ache.

Out of habit, my gaze drifts to the edge of the yard. A woman stands by the back fence—plain jacket, neutral smile, pretending to check her phone but not moving much.

Instinct tugs, but when I glance toward Rori and Kael, both have already clocked her. Kael gives the tiniest shake of her head. Rori’s hand stays relaxed at her side.

Cleared. Not a threat.

I let it go.

Cassie’s voice carries across the lawn, steady and sure as ever. She’s talking with the matron about setting up a repeating fund, something sustainable. That’s Cassie—thinking about tomorrow while I’m still stuck memorizing the color of the sky.

It’s a good color, though—gold turning to rose, windows catching the light until the whole orphanage seems to shimmer.

The kids finally wave their goodbyes, scattering like dandelion fluff. One of them slips a damp balloon remnant into my hand as a “souvenir.” I pocket it like it’s sacred.

Cassie rejoins me, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. “You’re grinning,” she says.

“I’m allowed.”

“You hate events.”

“I like this one.”

She bumps my shoulder with hers, eyes soft. “That’s because this one didn’t have a throne.”

She’s right. There’s no cameras, no speeches, no court to impress. Just the quiet satisfaction of doing something right without anyone watching.

I look back at the kids—barefoot, laughing, free—and realize I’m happier here than I’ve ever been in any glittering hall.

For once, I’m not performing.

For once, the mask isn’t necessary.

The sun dips fully behind the manor, and the air cools, the world settling into the soft hush that comes before night.

I breathe it in—grass, soap, sugar, rain—and think:

If this is what peace feels like, I could learn to stay human a little longer.