THE GLASS CROWN

In the crumbling halls of the Glass Court, where sunlight fractured into rainbows through stained windows, Lady Seraphina wore her crown of bottles and blooms. The kingdom, once radiant and prosperous, was now a reflection of opulence tarnished, its riches turned to relics and its grandeur dulled by neglect. But Seraphina, last of the glass-blooded royals, held her head high beneath the weight of her peculiar crown—a mosaic of discarded bottles, faded roses, and shards of translucent memories. 

The crown had been her mother’s creation, a reminder that even what is broken can be beautiful. Each bottle once held a promise, a wish, or a secret whispered into its hollow chamber before being sealed with wax. The roses were gathered from the palace gardens, now wild and overgrown, their petals dried and fragile but still clinging to a scent of sweeter days. 

Seraphina moved through the palace with a ghost’s grace, her footfalls soft against marble veined with time’s decay. Advisors, draped in faded velvet and suspicion, watched her from the shadows, whispering of rebellion and ruin. They spoke of the girl queen’s eccentricity, of how she spent her days among the ruins of the library, piecing together a future from fragments of the past. 

But Seraphina knew the truth. The crown she bore was a symbol not of madness, but of memory—of the weight of the past and the hope of renewal. As daylight slanted through cracked windows, her reflection in the mirrored walls flickered, a young woman armored in fragility, eyes steady and unyielding. 

Outside, where gardens encroached upon the courtyards and nature reclaimed its dominion, a breeze stirred the glass chimes hung from the eaves. Their music, soft and melancholy, swept through the palace corridors, a song for a kingdom in twilight. But Seraphina’s steps did not falter.