Chapter One: The Blood of a Princess
The screaming had stopped.
In the hush that followed, only the rush of footsteps and the soft cry of a newborn filled the chamber. Pale morning light filtered through the tall glass windows of Blackstone Hall, gilding the edges of the chaos in gold. Princess Cassandra of Aragon lay still in the great birthing bed, drenched in silk, sweat, and blood. Her chest heaved faintly. Her lips parted. Her eyes, still bright, still fighting, searched the room with desperate urgency.
“Your Grace,” whispered the midwife, kneeling beside her, “it’s a girl.” The child was placed in her arms, wrapped in soft green cloth, the color of House Aragon. Damp curls clung to her small head. She had calmed down, she was now quiet, dignified, and calm, as if she already knew the weight of the world into which she’d been born.
Cassandra smiled. “Anastasia,” she murmured, her voice broken, “my little star…”
The name came not from any court-approved list, not from the King or her mother-in-law, the Duchess of Blackstone, but from a dream she’d had in her youth, of a sky full of falling stars, and a girl who would outshine them all.
“She’s beautiful,” Cassandra breathed, her words slipping through cracked lips.
But her arms were weakening. The warmth from her limbs was draining, dragged downward by the crimson soaking into the mattress, onto the floor, pooling like wine beneath her. The midwife called for help. Another screamed for the royal physician. Cassandra didn’t flinch. She never took her eyes off her daughter.
“Promise me,” she whispered, to no one and everyone, “that she will not be forgotten.” And then the light left her gaze, not swiftly, but softly, like a curtain drawn closed on the final act.
