The Smiling Mask

Three weeks passed.

The palace no longer felt like a dream. It was still too big, too perfect, too quiet — but the fear had faded. The nightmare I once called life had dimmed, replaced with silver mornings and whispered winds.

I had a place now.

Even if small.
Even if forgotten.

I was the boy who repaired dresses. Who fetched thread. Who lingered in shadows — just far enough to not be noticed, just close enough to hear her voice when she sang alone.

Princess Annya.

She rarely spoke unless spoken to. Yet when she smiled — gods, when she smiled — it broke something in the silence. Like sunlight breaking through frost.

But no one else seemed to notice.

Everyone saw the curse. Floating behind her like death’s twin. Guarding her like a chained demon. They feared her. Even the maids, even the soldiers. They bowed — yes — but their eyes trembled.

Even Jonathan.

He loved her, I could tell. But sometimes, even he flinched when the shadow stirred.

And sometimes...
So did I.

It happened on the fourth full moon since I arrived.

A banquet was held in her honor — the "Dawnlight Ceremony," they called it. A ritual that marked her right as heir, passed down in silence by a court that didn’t want her, but couldn’t deny her.

I wasn’t supposed to be there. Servants like me didn’t attend royal ceremonies.

But Annya requested it.

“I want the boy who sews my dresses to be present,”
she said, simply.

The court murmured. Disapproved. But no one said no to the cursed princess.

So I stood there — against a marble pillar, dressed in borrowed silk, heart pounding louder than the orchestra.

And I saw them.

Nobles. Lords. Generals. Dignitaries from kingdoms I couldn’t pronounce. All smiling.

All fake.

Like masks painted gold.

Annya stood at the center — radiant, elegant, untouchable.

But I saw the way her hand trembled inside her sleeve.

I saw the flicker in her eyes when someone smiled too wide.

I saw the way the shadow behind her darkened with each lie that danced past a golden goblet.

Because that was its food, wasn’t it?

Lies. Fear. Rejection.

And this room was full of them.

Then came the moment.

A noble — tall, draped in red silk, with a voice like buttered poison — raised his glass.

“To the princess who bears our future…
and her charming little pet monster.”

Laughter followed.

Sharp. Cold.
Like glass cracking in winter.

The music faltered.

And then it began.

The lights dimmed — not by torch or candle, but by something wrong in the air. Like joy itself had been sucked out of the room.

The shadow stirred.

I felt it — like a scream pressed against the inside of my skull.
A soundless pressure. A growing hunger.

Then it rose.

Not like a ghost or a wisp, but like a tidal wave of darkness tearing free from a prison of silk.

It surged behind her like a great winged serpent, made of ink and anguish.
Eyes — too many eyes — opened within it, glowing faint red like coals smoldering in snow.

The chandelier flickered.

The wind vanished.

The room went still.

Annya’s smile cracked.
Her breath hitched.
Her knees buckled.

And no one moved.

Except me.

I didn’t think.
I ran.

Across polished marble. Past frozen guards. Past Jonathan’s wide-eyed stare.

I reached her just as she began to fall.

She collapsed into my arms, feather-light, cold as winter breath.

The shadow snarled — not in sound, but in sensation.
The air trembled.
The pressure became unbearable.

It towered above us now — a dark god made of grief and rage.
And every noble, every soldier, every polished puppet in that room — they all screamed.

Guards drew blades.

Jonathan shouted something. Too far. Too late.

And I…

I held her tighter.

“STOP!” I shouted, as the shadow curled like smoke about to strike.
“She’s not the one losing control — you are!”

It froze.

Then it looked at me.

No — into me.

I saw my fire again.
My parents’ voices swallowed by flame.
The yokai I had ignored.
The faces of everyone who looked through me like I was ash.

The shadow showed me everything I had buried.

But I didn’t let go.

I didn’t blink.

I whispered, even as my hands trembled, “I’m not afraid of you.”

And somehow…
That mattered.

The monster’s gaze softened — or maybe it blinked.
The swirling darkness paused, uncertain.
And then…

A laugh.

Not cruel.
Not evil.

Hers.

“…You’re shaking,” Annya murmured, her voice barely audible.

“I’m still holding you, aren’t I?”

Her breath caught.
Then she laughed again — tired, small, but real.

The shadow sighed — a soundless wind — and folded back into its chain, curling like smoke around her shoulders. It became still again.

People didn’t cheer. They didn’t speak.

They watched.
And feared.

But we… we were still there.

Together.

That night, I was summoned to Jonathan’s chamber.

He didn’t speak for a long time. Just poured tea and handed me a cup.

Then he said:

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

“…I did.”

“And you didn’t run.”

“…No.”

He studied me. Silent.
Then said:

“She’s stronger than you think. But even strength has its limits.”

I didn’t argue.

“I’m not here to save her,” I said.

He raised a brow.

“I’m just… staying by her side.”

Silence.

Then… a smile.

Faint. But warm.

“She’ll need that more than a sword,” he said.

And this time…

I believed him.