The morning sun had barely begun to spill its pale gold across the spires of Eryndor Palace when the castle stirred with quiet ritual. Servants moved like shadows along the marble corridors, their slippers whispering against polished floors, carrying trays of steaming tea, bowls of fresh fruit, and the fragile breath of morning incense. The air was cool and fragrant with lilac from the palace gardens, and the occasional tinkle of a bell hinted at someone tending to the outer stables or the drawbridge gates. But the heart of the palace, its towering clocktower chiming just once at dawn, belonged to the princess, and a tension lingered there, subtle as a tremor under glass.

The Princess lay within her chamber, draped beneath layers of silk and embroidered velvet that no one had touched since the previous night. She was said to be sleeping, though those who had seen her in daylight knew she had never truly slept in the ordinary sense. Her skin was pale as porcelain, almost luminous, framed by dark hair that tumbled across the pillow like a river of ink. Candles, long unlit, stood at intervals around the room, their wicks twisted in silver holders, hinting at old rituals and the weight of superstition. Windows were flung wide, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of the garden’s early blooms, yet she remained still, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only sign of life.

Some whispered that a curse had been laid upon her as a child. The story was half-feared, half-romanticized: that anyone who dared awaken her with a kiss of affection would find themselves trapped within the palace walls, their heart bound to hers in ways neither could unmake. Others insisted the curse was protective, a charm of the old magics designed to shield her from suitors’ greed or political schemes. But the truth, known only to a handful of servants and whispered in careful tones among the court scholars, was that the princess herself had somehow woven the spell, a precaution of her own, invisible threads she could not yet control. The enchantment had grown with her, a delicate lattice of magic and willpower, stretching across every inch of the royal chambers.

Within this quiet, deliberate chaos, the court alchemist moved. She was a shadow herself, unseen by most but present in every corner of the chambers. Bottles clinked softly in her satchel as she made her way along the polished floors, eyes trained on the faint shimmer in the air, noting the subtle patterns of magic that wove themselves across the room. She knelt by the table, inspecting the herbs and powders, her fingers lingering over labels and etchings. She could feel the pulse of the enchantment, gentle and insistent, like a living thing breathing beneath the surface. Her lips pressed into a thin line of concentration; one wrong touch, one careless movement, could disrupt the fragile lattice that held the princess in her peculiar sleep.