Chapter 2 — The Weight of Rules
Kimberley
The delicate chiming of the breakfast bell reverberated through the marble halls, a sound Kimberley both despised and dreaded. It marked yet another day confined within the gilded cage of her life, with its suffocating expectations and unyielding rules. She adjusted the pale blue dress draped over her like a cage spun from silk, embroidered roses climbing the fabric like vines tightening around her ribs. Her fingers brushed over the ornate hairpin holding her auburn hair in place—a gift from Queen Ethel, its delicate gold rose and emerald leaves a stark reminder of the duality of her existence. Beauty and restraint.
The dining hall stretched endlessly before her, its high ceilings and glittering chandeliers imposing rather than inspiring. Kimberley sat stiffly at the long table, her hands folded in her lap, her movements as measured as the heavy stillness of the room. King Richard occupied the head of the table, his tall frame upright, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room as if every detail were part of a battle plan. The Sapphire Signet Ring glinted on his hand as he gripped his silverware with precision. He was always composed, always deliberate, but Kimberley couldn’t help noticing the subtle twist of the ring on his finger—a small crack in his impenetrable façade.
“Kimberley,” he said sharply, his voice slicing through the silence. “Your lessons begin at ten. This week’s focus will be international diplomacy. I trust you will be prepared.”
Her hand froze mid-stir, the silver spoon clinking softly against the delicate china teacup. Setting it down deliberately, she lifted her green eyes to meet his. Her expression remained composed, but beneath the surface, her frustration churned. The tension between them was palpable, like the taut string of a bow ready to snap.
“Perhaps we could consider a more… creative curriculum,” she said lightly, though the edge in her voice betrayed her. “Art history, for instance? Or perhaps something about the people beyond the palace gates?”
Richard’s expression was a masterclass in restraint, but Kimberley caught the brief tightening of his jaw. “Diplomacy is your duty as a princess. Understanding the needs of commoners is not your concern; that is for advisors and ministers to address.”
“And yet, how can one govern a people they’ve never truly known?” she countered, her voice soft but laced with challenge.
The king’s knife and fork clattered softly against his plate as he set them down, his movements deliberate, heavy with purpose. “Governance requires strategy, not sentiment. You would do well to remember that.”
Kimberley leaned back in her chair, her fingers curling against the embroidered vines on her lap. Her heart raced beneath her calm exterior, but she wouldn’t relent. “If strategy means building walls so high they block out the world, then perhaps I’m not suited to be a Blossom after all.”
The air seemed to freeze, the tension thick enough to taste. Across the table, Queen Ethel’s hand fluttered to her teacup, her hazel eyes darting nervously between father and daughter. “Kimberley,” she said gently, her voice like the soft trill of a bird trying to calm an impending storm, “your father only wants what is best for you. The world beyond these walls… it’s not as idyllic as you may think.”
Kimberley turned her gaze on her adoptive mother. Ethel’s words, though kind, carried a thread of patronizing caution that Kimberley had grown weary of. Still, she tempered her response, allowing a note of pleading to creep into her voice. “And how would any of us know that? Have either of you truly stepped beyond the palace gates without an entourage and a thousand safeguards?”
Ethel flinched, her composure faltering for a fleeting moment before she lowered her gaze to her tea. Kimberley’s heart twisted. She wanted to believe that Ethel shared some of her longing for freedom, but the queen’s silence cut just as deeply as Richard’s commands.
Richard’s voice sliced through the charged silence like a thunderclap. “Enough, Kimberley.”
Kimberley straightened in her chair, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. The embroidered roses on her dress seemed to constrict her further, their vines digging into her skin. She felt the weight of his authority pressing down on her, suffocating, but she refused to yield entirely.
“I only wish to understand,” she said, her voice trembling now despite herself. “Why are the gates always locked? Why do you keep the world at bay? What could possibly frighten a king so much that he locks up his own daughter?”
For the first time that morning, Richard faltered. His piercing blue eyes darkened, and for a fleeting moment, Kimberley thought she saw something raw and unguarded flicker across his face. Fear. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the unyielding mask he always wore. He reached for the Sapphire Signet Ring, twisting it absently as though grounding himself.
“This is not about fear,” he said finally, his voice colder now. “It is about protection. You are my daughter, Kimberley, and as long as you live under my roof, you will abide by my rules. That is final.”
The words struck her like a blow, and she felt herself shrinking under the weight of their finality. But the spark of rebellion within her refused to be extinguished entirely. Pushing her chair back from the table, she rose, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.
“If protection means living as a prisoner, then perhaps you’ve misunderstood what it means to be a father,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of defiance and heartbreak.
Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel and left the room, her footsteps echoing through the halls like the tolling of a bell.
---
Kimberley wandered the palace aimlessly, her thoughts swirling like storm clouds. The weight of Richard’s words pressed heavily on her chest, but beneath the ache of his authority lay something sharper: disappointment in Ethel’s silence. She passed gilded mirrors and towering tapestries without a glance, the opulence of her surroundings only deepening her sense of entrapment. Her hand brushed the hairpin tucked into her auburn locks, its gold edges catching faint light. It was beautiful, but it pressed uncomfortably against her scalp—much like her life within these walls.
Her feet carried her to the East Wing Library, the one place in the palace that offered her a semblance of solace. The towering shelves, lined with ancient books and faded maps, seemed to whisper secrets of a world long past. Kimberley ran her fingers along the spines, the scent of aged paper calming her frayed nerves.
She found her usual alcove, tucked away behind a heavy velvet curtain, and sank into the window seat. The lavender journal sat in her lap, its cover worn from years of use. She opened it, her fingers tracing the familiar scrawl of her own handwriting, and began to write.
*The weight of rules grows heavier each day. I am drowning beneath the expectations of a name that was thrust upon me like a shackle. They speak of duty, but what of dreams? They speak of protection, but what of freedom?*
Her quill froze mid-sentence as a shadow fell across her page. She looked up sharply, startled, and found herself face-to-face with one of the palace guards. Not just any guard—Grayson Fox.
He stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders framed by the dim light of the library. His sharp blue-gray eyes met hers, and for a moment, she noticed the faint scar along his jawline—a mark of a life far removed from the polished confines of the palace.
“Your Highness,” he said, bowing slightly. His voice was deep and steady, but devoid of the usual servility she had come to expect. “The king sent me to ensure you were… unharmed.”
Kimberley raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Unharmed? Am I to assume he believes the library to be a dangerous place?”
Grayson’s expression didn’t waver, though his gaze softened slightly. “His Majesty simply wishes to ensure your safety at all times.”
“Of course he does,” Kimberley said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And for that reason, I am to be followed everywhere I go, is that it?”
Grayson hesitated, his posture rigid but his tone measured. “It’s not my place to question orders, Your Highness. But if I may speak freely…”
Kimberley tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “Go on.”
He shifted slightly, as though weighing the consequences of his words. “Freedom,” he said carefully, “can carry a price. One that’s not always obvious at first.”
Kimberley’s green eyes narrowed, frustration bubbling to the surface. “And who are you to decide what I need, Mr. Fox? You don’t know me. You don’t know what it’s like to live here, trapped by walls and rules that make no sense.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. Then, to her surprise, Grayson’s expression softened further, and a flicker of understanding crossed his face. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what it’s like—to live here, I mean. But I do know what it’s like to feel trapped. To want something more.”
Kimberley blinked, caught off guard by his candor. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. Before she could find her voice again, Grayson straightened, his professional demeanor snapping back into place.
“If you require anything, Your Highness, I’ll be just outside,” he said, his tone brisk once more. Without waiting for a response, he turned and left, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Kimberley stared after him for a long moment, her heart racing for reasons she couldn’t quite name. Then she turned back to her journal, her thoughts swirling anew.
*Freedom is complex,* she wrote, the quill scratching furiously against the page. *But it is worth fighting for.*
As she closed the journal, her gaze drifted toward the window. Beyond the palace walls, the North Garden Maze stretched like a labyrinth of shadows. Somewhere out there, she knew, lay the answers she sought. And somewhere within her, the spark of rebellion burned brighter than ever.
