The Silent Kingdom

The art of silence is the first lesson every royal learns. Even now, standing before my mirror, I practice the careful movements my mother taught me - how to walk without a whisper, how to breathe without a sound, how to exist as nothing more than a shadow in our soundless world. My hands move unconsciously in the familiar patterns of court-sign, fingers dancing through the traditional morning blessing. But tonight, for the first time in my life I want to scream.

My chambers overlook the palace gardens, where the twilight mist clings to the silent roses like spirits reluctant to fade. Below, guards patrol in paired formations, their hands flickering with quick signs -all clear, west tower, shift change.Even the fountains have been enchanted to flow without the sound of water, their streams catching the last remnants of daylight in muted arcs. Montvernia Palace is designed to honor the silence - to remember the price our ancestors paid for salvation.

I press my palm against the cold glass, watching my breath create a small cloud of fog. In its center, I trace the ancient symbol for voice - a single vertical line crossed by three waves. It’s everywhere in the old texts, though no one signs of its meaning anymore. Like so many things in our kingdom, it’s been buried beneath centuries of silence.

Marion appears in the reflection behind me, her presence in my mind as familiar as my own thoughts. Her hands move in the more intricate patterns of private-sign, meant for close conversations.Your Highness, it’s time.She follows the signs with a gentle mental touch, using both forms of communication as is proper for formal occasions.

I don’t turn. Instead, I watch her reflection adjust the silver diadem nestled in my dark hair, its crystals catching the lamplight like trapped stars.Tell me again about the first Veils, Marion.My hands form the signs automatically, though I know we could simply use our mental connection.

Her fingers still against my hair, Your Highness, your father-

Please.I let her feel my unease through our mental connection, something I rarely allow myself to do. My fingers tremble slightly as I sign the word.

Her shoulders drop slightly in resignation, but her thought-voice takes on the lilting quality of a storyteller as her hands dance through the ancient tale.When the silence fell, the kingdom fell with it. For three days and three nights, chaos reigned as people discovered they could no longer speak, no longer cry out, no longer whisper their children to sleep. But then the first Veils emerged-those blessed by the old magic with the ability to bridge the void between minds. They taught the others to speak with their hands, creating the signs we use today. They became the threads that held our fractured world together.

And now we’re the only ones who can communicate using sign and our minds,I finish, watching a night bird glide silently past my window. The irony doesn’t escape me. The very gifts that make us special also set us apart, mark us as different. While everyone in the kingdom learns sign language from birth, only Veils can bridge the gap between minds, sharing thoughts and emotions that hands alone cannot convey. There are so few of us left now - perhaps fifty in the entire kingdom, and most of them within the palace walls.

It’s a great responsibility,Marion nods, her mental voice gentle as her hands move in circles on my back.And tonight-

Tonight I officially become heir to a kingdom of silence.I turn from the window, the heavy silk of my gown shifting like smoke around my feet. It’s the color of midnight, embroidered with silver threads that trace constellation patterns across the bodice. The wide sleeves are carefully designed to showcase the intricate hand movements of court-sign, another reminder of my duty sewn into the very fabric I wear.

The significance of this night weighs on me like chains. My eighteenth birthday marks more than just my official presentation as heir - it marks the age when most Veils come into their full power. When our mental voices grow strong enough to reach beyond the usual constraints of distance and connection.

But there’s something else, something I haven’t told anyone. For weeks now, I’ve been feeling... different. There’s a pressure building in my throat, like words trying to claw their way out. Real words, not just thoughts. Sometimes I wake from dreams of singing, my throat burning with phantom sounds that terrify me more than any nightmare could.

Marion must sense some of my turmoil because her fingers weave gentle, reassuring patterns, forming the intimate signs we developed as children, followed by her thought-voice:Your mother would be proud.

The mention of my mother sends a familiar ache through my chest. She died three years ago, taking with her all the answers to questions I’d never thought to ask. Like why she used to trace that same symbol for voice on my palm when I was young, or why she spent so many hours in the forbidden section of the library.

The curse was meant to protect us,I sign, my fingers forming the traditional movements I’ve known since childhood.To save our kingdom from some ancient evil.

So the histories tell us,Marion agrees, but there’s something careful in her thought-voice, something measured. Her hands falter mid-sign, as if holding back words she dare not form.

A sharp mental summons cuts through our connection - my father, calling me to the great hall. The time for questions is over.

I take one last look in the mirror. The girl - no, the woman - staring back at me looks every inch a future queen. Her spine is straight, her chin lifted with quiet dignity, her face a careful mask of serenity. Only her eyes betray her, dark and full of something that looks uncomfortably like doubt.

Veils aren’t supposed to doubt. We’re the pillars of this silent society, the threads that bind it together. We were saved for a reason, weren’t we?

Your Highness?Marion prompts, holding the door open with practiced grace, her fingers moving in the formal signs of ceremony.

I step into the torch-lit corridor where shadows dance across ancient tapestries. Each one depicts a scene from our kingdom’s history, though the images grow more obscure as they reach back through time. The final tapestry, the oldest, shows a figure with their hands pressed against their throat, their mouth open in what might be song or scream.

As I pass beneath it, that strange pressure returns to my throat. For just a moment, I swear I feel something stir in the air - like the ghost of a forgotten sound.

But that’s impossible.

In Montvernia, silence isn’t just our curse.

It’s our salvation.

At least, that’s what we’ve always been told.

I form one last private-sign, so subtle only Marion would notice - the symbol for ‘truth’ intertwined with ‘doubt.’ Tonight, I’ll stand before the kingdom and accept my role as heir to the silence. I’ll make the sacred signs and share the traditional mental blessings.

But deep inside, in a place even my thoughts can’t reach, something is awakening.

And it feels like sound.