Bells keep ringing
The bed that once felt familiar now felt stiff and cold beneath her. Cecelia shifted beneath the blankets, then stopped, already knowing sleep wasn’t coming. No matter how many times she closed her eyes, her thoughts refused to slow.
The room felt different at night lately. Too still. Too aware.
She lay on her side, watching the trees beyond the window sway as the wind pulled at their branches. Shadows stretched across the walls, then drew back again, moving with each gust.
The fire had burned down to embers. Their faint glow reflected against the glass, weak and flickering, like something trying to last just a little longer.
Cecelia let out a slow breath, hoping the tension in her chest would ease.
It didn’t.
A dull ache settled there instead. Not sharp, but heavy. She missed her family the way things used to be—the easy laughter, the way conversations drifted instead of stopping short. The halls had once been full of sound.
Now, everything felt careful.
The past few weeks had weighed on the kingdom. Unsettling talks about war. Voices were quieter. Doors stayed closed. Guards had doubled, and even warmth felt measured, saved for moments that never quite came. Her parents spoke in low tones more often than not.
When the fire finally went out, the room fell completely dark.
The silence pressed in.
Cecelia sat up, swallowing as her chest tightened. She placed a hand over her heart, surprised at how fast it was beating.
“Oh... I’m being childish,” she murmured, barely louder than a breath.
She reached for the cup on her bedside table, hoping the water might calm her, even for a moment.
Her fingers brushed the rim.
Empty.
She sighed softly. “Of course.”
Careful not to make a sound, Cecelia slid from the bed and crossed the room. She eased the door open, holding her breath until it stayed quiet. The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by distant candles.
She had walked these halls her entire life. She knew which stones shifted underfoot, which doors complained if opened too fast.
“I’ll be quick,” she whispered to herself. “No one will notice.”
She stepped into the hall, her bare feet silent against the cool stone and carpet.
Halfway down, she slowed.
A thin line of warm light spilled from beneath her parents’ door.
Cecelia stopped without meaning to. Her feet rooted to the floor as her ears caught the sound of voices... her father’s low, steady murmur, followed by her mother’s quiet laugh. Soft. Unhurried. The kind of sound that had become rare.
Something tightened in her chest.
She imagined them sitting close, speaking quietly out of habit rather than fear. Her mother leaning into her father as she laughed. His hand finding hers without thought.
For just a moment, Cecelia stayed there, caught between moving on and turning back.
She didn’t realize she was smiling until—
“Spying will get you hung, you know.”
She startled, breath catching as she turned.
Matthis stood a few steps behind her, leaning against the wall like he’d been there all along. His dark blond hair had fallen loose, strands brushing his forehead, and his brown eyes... so much like their father’s, softened when they met hers. Even without a crown or armor, he carried himself like a prince. Steady and proud.
“You scared me,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest.
He smiled, the kind he only showed family. “You’re the one sneaking around,” he said quietly. His gaze flicked to her feet. “And without shoes.”
She glanced down, toes curling against the cold stone. “It’s easier to be quiet this way.”
“Quiet,” he repeated, doubtful.
After a moment, she added, “I was just going to get some water. I didn’t want to wake anyone.”
“You wouldn’t be bothering anyone,” he said gently.
“I know,” she replied, eyes dropping.
He sighed and nudged her foot lightly with his boot. “At least put something on next time. You’ll catch a cold.”
“Only you would notice,” she muttered.
“I always notice,” Matthis said lightly. “That’s part of the job.”
The words carried more weight than he meant.
He glanced once toward their parents door before looking back at her. “Go get your water. I’ll walk with you.”
They continued down the corridor together, their pace slow, neither in a hurry to be alone.
The kitchen door creaked as Cecelia slipped inside, Matthis close behind. Moonlight spilled across the stone floor, lighting counters dusted with flour and bowls left out for the morning.
“Told you,” she whispered. “No one noticed.”
“You kicked the door,” Matthis replied.
“I thought it was already open.”
She grabbed the pitcher, but the water sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the counter and floor.
Matthis raised a brow. “You’ll spill the whole thing before you reach a cup.”
“I will not,” she whispered back, then immediately bumped her hip into the table.
He bit back a laugh. She glared at him, then broke into a quiet grin herself.
Her eyes landed on a loaf of bread resting under a cloth. Still warm.
Before he could stop her, she tore off a piece.
“Don’t—” Matthis warned.
She darted away as he lunged, laughter shaking silently through her. He grabbed a handful of flour and tossed it towards her.
White dust puffed against her.
Cecelia gasped and flung a chunk of bread back at him.
Matthis froze, looking down at himself.
Then up.
“You’ve declared war,” the Crown Prince said in his king voice.
She laughed, circling the table as he chased her, flour drifting through the air. For a moment, it felt like childhood again. Like nothing had changed.
The kitchen door banged open.
A candle flared.
“What in the—”
Peter stood in the doorway.
His black hair was a mess, as if sleep had been dragged from him, and his blue eyes were sharp despite the hour. He held the candle like a weapon, sword hanging at his side, cloak thrown on without care. Wax dripped dangerously close to his fingers as his gaze swept the room, windows first, then shadows, then them.
He relaxed after holding his breath.
“...rats,” he finished.
Cecelia and Matthis froze mid throw.
Peter took in the flour, the spilled water, the stolen bread. His mouth twitched.
“Bigger rats than I expected.”
“Didn’t know rats feared candles,” Matthis said.
Cecelia smiled. “what would a candle and a sword do?”
“I was half asleep,” Peter muttered, setting it on the counter. His eyes flicked once more toward the windows.
“And before you ask,” he added, “yes. I’m on rat duty.”
Matthis crossed his arms. “What did you do?”
Peter tore a piece of bread from Cecelia’s hand. “Watched one chew through a grain sack.”
“You watched it?” Cecelia blinked.
“The chef was talking about a new spice,” Peter said calmly.
“You mean you were eating,” Matthis said.
“I did report it,” Peter replied. “Eventually. Just not before the head maid walked in.”
Cecelia laughed. “She punished you.”
“She handed me a candle and told me the kitchen needed guarding.”
Matthis shook his head. “Tragic.”
“I may never recover.”
Peter paused, listening. Somewhere beyond the walls, a distant sound drifted through the night.
“You’ve been on patrol more,” Cecelia said, trying to keep things light.
“Routine,” Peter replied.
“Until things settle,” Matthis added.
Peter didn’t answer.
The silence lingered.
Then Cecelia scooped another handful of flour and tossed it at Peter’s chest.
He looked down. Sighed.
“I leave you two alone for one night,” he said, “and everything falls apart.”
Cecelia laughed as the three of them stood together beneath the candle’s glow, sharing warm bread and quiet comfort. Unaware of how closely the night was already watching.
