___________________________
It was raining again.
The lake turned black — ripples devouring the reflection of Huis ten Bosch behind them.
Selene sat — soaked, scratched, dirt on her knees.
She failed today.
Again.
The Admiral leaned on the railing — arms crossed — watching her like one watches a puzzle missing pieces.
Silence.
Except for the rain.
Except for breathing.
___________________________
"You still don't get it, do you?"
His voice — rough like gravel.
Selene didn't answer.
Didn't move.
___________________________
"You think you're special because of your mother?"
Selene's red eyes twitched — barely.
He smiled — like drawing a knife across old wounds.
"Tatiana Romanov..."
"The People's Queen."
"The Saint of Den Haag."
He spat on the ground.
"She died like a fool."
___________________________
Selene's small hands clenched — mud under her nails.
But the Admiral didn't stop.
He never stopped.
___________________________
"You know how many enemies your mother had?"
"You know how many knives she kissed while smiling for the cameras?"
"You know how many nights she cried in that garden — like a peasant girl begging for mercy from ghosts?"
Selene's throat burned — but no sound came.
___________________________
"You want to be like her?"
"Then die like her."
"Naïve."
"Kind."
"Useful."
"Disposable."
___________________________
The rain poured harder — thunder in the distance like the growl of a buried war.
The Admiral knelt — eye-level with Selene — face inches from hers.
His voice — a knife wrapped in rusted cloth.
___________________________
"Or..."
"You learn."
"You sharpen."
"You bury your mother in your heart — not in your shadow."
"You stop loving the dead — and start killing the living."
A thunder was glaring the skies
___________________________
Selene breathed — shallow, shaking — but still alive.
Still here.
The Admiral stood — walking away without waiting.
But his last words hung like iron chains around her small frame.
___________________________
"Your mother didn't die because she was weak."
He paused.
Turned his head — sharp eyes like broken glass.
"She died because she believed enemies like me wouldn't exist."
___________________________
Selene didn't understand.
Not fully.
Not yet.
The Admiral crouched down so they were level, t
"Poison," he said, his voice low, a confession and a curse.
"A slow one. Slips into the blood, quiet... killing not in hours, but in days."
He let the words hang there, a noose between them.
Selene's throat tightened.
The pieces were falling into a picture she didn't want to see.
The Admiral's gaze hardened.
"Nobody entered the palace before your mother's final meal."
"Only royal staff... the ones trusted above all others."
A breath.
A hesitation.
Then the knife buried itself deeper.
"One of them poisoned her, Selene."
The world shrank.
The lake.
The rain.
The sky.
Everything became the pounding of her small heart.
The Admiral stood, turning back toward the endless, weeping lake.
His final words were not an order.
Not a request.
But a burden passed from one soul to another.
"Find them."
"Find the one who fed her death."
"And when you are ready..."
"We will meet again."
He left her then — no salute, no goodbye — just the hollow echo of boots fading into the rain
___________________________
Selene sat there.
Alone.
Rain hiding the tears she didn't know were falling.
Her tiny hands moved — reaching for the wooden dagger buried in the mud beside her.
Not because it was a weapon.
But because it was hers.
___________________________
November 1968 - Huis ten Bosch
___________________________
Days.
Weeks.
Months.
Selene memorized everything.
Every footstep.
Every gesture.
Every lie not spoken aloud.
She lived in the cracks of walls,
in the reflections on silver trays,
in the spaces where smiles stretched too thin.
___________________________
After Admiral Willem van der Decken told her the truth —
after the word poison burned into her bones —
She stopped dreaming.
She stopped grieving.
She watched.
___________________________
She tested them.
Three Maids.
Two Cooks.
Two Nurses.
One Butler.
Not with knives.
Not with traps.
With questions.
Simple.
Lethal.
___________________________
"What poison can make someone die slowly within a day?"
___________________________
The first maid laughed nervously, throwing out childish answers:
Rotten tea? Mouse poison?
Clumsy.
Innocent.
She was discarded.
___________________________
The butler flinched — not at the words —
but at Selene herself.
"Will you poison your tutor, Your Highness?"
Fear.
But fear for self, not guilt.
He was discarded.
___________________________
One cook rambled about kitchen accidents,
toxic ingredients, mushrooms —
but with no depth, no understanding.
Harmless.
Useless.
___________________________
But the third maid—
Hellen.
Wouldn't look at Selene.
Wouldn't answer properly.
Her eyes darted.
Her hands trembled.
Sweat rolled down her temple despite the winter chill.
And after the questioning —
Selene saw her.
Saw her rush to the corner.
Saw her whisper into a hidden communicator line meant only for security emergencies.
___________________________
Selene's hands trembled.
Not with fear.
Not with hesitation.
With rage.
Cold.
Pure.
Silent.
___________________________
This woman —
whom her mother, Tatiana Romanov,
had treated with kindness, respect, dignity —
This woman —
had spat on that grace.
___________________________
That night —
under a broken moon —
Selene walked barefoot down the stone halls.
No coat.
No guards.
No ceremony.
Only the wooden knife the Admiral had once placed in her hand.
Heavy.
Old.
Unbreakable.
___________________________
She stopped at the servants' wing.
Hellen's door.
Simple wood.
Simple lock.
Simple betrayal.
Selene raised her hand.
Knock.
Gentle.
Barely a whisper.
___________________________
Inside, Hellen stirred.
Heart pounding.
___________________________
"Who is it?"
No answer.
Only another knock.
Soft.
Persistent.
Inevitable.
___________________________
Panic set in.
Hellen gripped a kitchen knife behind her back.
Sweating.
Trembling.
If she failed —
her family would die alongside her.
If she succeeded —
maybe she would live another day.
Maybe.
___________________________
Another knock.
Gentle.
___________________________
She prepared to scream for the guards—
Then—
Selene's voice.
Soft.
Childish.
___________________________
"Miss Hellen, it's me."
___________________________
Relief flooded her veins.
The kitchen knife relaxed slightly in her grip.
She fumbled with the latch.
Pulled the door open.
___________________________
And there —
stood Selene.
Small.
Fragile.
Still.
Her brown hair falling over her eyes.
Her red gaze —
empty.
A soul amputated.
___________________________
For one heartbeat,
Hellen thought she saw a child.
A girl who still needed tucking into bed.
A girl who might still forgive.
___________________________
Then Selene stepped forward.
Fast.
Precise.
Silent.
___________________________
The wooden knife slipped up under Hellen's ribs —
between heartbeats —
into soft flesh.
___________________________
No scream.
Only a gasp.
Hellen staggered.
Dropped the kitchen knife.
Limping against the doorframe.
Her hands clutched Selene's sleeves —
Not in anger.
Not in hatred.
In confusion.
As if asking—
"Why?"
"Wasn't I careful enough?"
"Why I was chosen to kill her?"
___________________________
Selene didn't answer.
She just watched.
Breathless.
Frozen.
Until the light dimmed from Hellen's eyes.
Until the weight fell fully against her.
___________________________
The first line of her revolution drawn —
not with ink,
not with words,
but with blood paid for betrayal.
___________________________
That night,
in the servant's wing,
no alarms rang.
No guards stormed.
The Empire did not notice the first death of its own corruption.
But Selene did.
And she never forgot it.
___________________________
The blade slid in—
But it was not a blade.
Not truly.
It was wood.
Carved.
Polished.
Blunt at the edge.
A toy in another world.
A weapon tonight.
___________________________
Hellen gasped.
The wooden dagger pierced skin — but it did not kill.
It tore.
It bruised.
It hurt.
But it did not end.
___________________________
Selene stood there.
Breathing hard.
Red eyes wide and trembling.
Brown hair clinging to her forehead.
___________________________
And Hellen —
Hellen fell to her knees, clutching her side,
blood trickling slowly between her fingers.
Her mouth opened — not to scream —
but to curse Selene without voice.
Eyes burning with a rage too old for her body.
A betrayal sealed in her own regret.
___________________________
Selene watched.
Frozen.
Satisfied — at first.
To watch her suffer.
To watch her curse.
To watch the enemy pay.
___________________________
But then—
The rage faded.
And the truth poured into the empty space left behind.
___________________________
Selene's hand fell to her side.
The dagger slipped from her fingers.
Her knees buckled.
She fell.
Kneeling opposite the woman who once smiled and bowed in these very halls.
___________________________
A broken sob escaped her lips.
Raw.
Unformed.
Unforgivable.
___________________________
Hellen looked at her.
Really looked.
And for the first time —
they saw each other.
___________________________
Two souls destroyed by the same empire.
Two victims wearing different masks.
___________________________
Hellen's voice cracked into the darkness:
___________________________
"I'm sorry..."
"I had no choice..."
___________________________
Selene shook her head weakly.
But Hellen kept speaking — desperate — as her blood stained the marble floor.
___________________________
"Your mother... she was kind."
"She treated me like family... not like property."
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I never wanted to hurt her."
"But if I didn't... they would've killed my family."
"My father... my mother... my sisters..."
___________________________
She coughed.
Blood.
Salt.
Regret.
___________________________
Hellen's hand trembled — reaching toward the kitchen knife she had dropped.
She pushed it weakly toward Selene.
___________________________
"Finish it."
"Not for hate."
"For mercy."
"Let this be the first and the last."
"A pure soul... should not live with half a murder in her heart."
___________________________
Selene knelt.
Paralyzed.
Breathless.
Her hand reached for the kitchen knife —
Not because she wanted to.
Not because she chose to.
Because there was no other road left.
___________________________
Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal.
Hellen smiled — broken, grateful.
___________________________
And Selene —
Still sobbing —
Plunged the blade forward.
___________________________
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The body jerked —
then stilled.
___________________________
Silence returned.
Heavy.
Sacred.
Unbearable.
___________________________
Selene sat back, hands shaking.
Staring at the crimson pooling beneath the maid who had once brushed her hair.
The blade clattered from her grasp.
She moved numbly.
___________________________
Window.
River.
She dragged the body.
Light now.
Weightless.
As if the soul had long fled before the final blow.
___________________________
She opened the old shutters.
Wind howled in.
Mocking.
Selene heaved the body —
Letting gravity erase her guilt.
The river below swallowed the secret whole.
No splash.
No scream.
Just silence.
___________________________
She wiped the blood from the floor with rags she found nearby.
Scrubbed until her knuckles bled.
Scrubbed until no stain remained.
She threw the wooden dagger out the window too.
Let it follow the body it had failed to kill cleanly.
___________________________
Then she washed her hands.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until her skin was raw.
___________________________
She walked back to her room.
Step after step.
No footsteps echoed.
No voices called after her.
___________________________
By the time she closed her door—
Selene was no longer Selene.
She was a hollow shape that breathed.
That blinked.
That trembled under a moon too bright for forgiveness.
___________________________
She crawled into bed.
Curled under the heavy blankets.
Shaking.
Silent.
Broken.
Eyes open —
staring into nothing.
___________________________