The kingdom mourned for its prince.
Church bells rang for three consecutive mornings after the announcement, not because he had died, but because, according to the Crown, something almost as tragic had befallen him — a curse.
The royal proclamation was read aloud in every village square, copied into newspapers, and nailed to church doors.
It is with profound sorrow that the Royal Family announces His Highness Prince Adrian has fallen victim to an ancient enchantment of irreversible nature. Though his body has been transformed into that of a woman, his soul and station remain unchanged. Court scholars, foreign mages, and the Archbishop himself have confirmed there exists no known means of breaking the curse. We ask the kingdom to pray for our beloved prince as he bears this terrible burden with dignity.
The public reacted exactly as the palace hoped. There were tears, there were prayers, grief gushed through the streets of the kingdom.
Portraits of the prince were draped in black ribbon. Mothers explained to frightened children that magic was cruel. Old women left flowers beneath the palace gates. Even neighbouring kingdoms sent condolences, accompanied by expensive magical artifacts that promised miraculous cures.
None of them worked, of course. Because there had never been a curse.
Princess Adrienne had been alive for exactly six weeks.
Not officially, of course. Officially, Prince Adrian had simply become... difficult to look at.
The palace insisted upon masculine clothing tailored over a body that no longer fit inside it. Tailors quietly widened the hips of ceremonial jackets, and armour had to be entirely redesigned. Portrait artists were instructed to sharpen the jaw, broaden the shoulders, narrow the waist. Some became so practiced at painting the "true prince" that they no longer noticed how little their canvases resembled the woman sitting before them.
Adrienne often wondered if history itself could be gaslit: the answer, apparently, was yes. History simply obeyed whoever owned the printing press.
"You need to deepen your voice."
Her father did not look up from the stack of correspondence on his desk as Adrienne stood in front of him, wearing yet another suffocating military uniform.
"Try harder,” he shot back, quill clenched in his hand.
"I don't think that's how voices—"
The word landed between them like a blade, and the king finally raised his eyes. "You are the Crown Prince."
She did her best to keep her mouth flat, to force down the words that rose so easily to her tongue. "I'm aware."
Adrienne almost laughed. It wasn't funny, not even remotely, but sometimes absurdity became so overwhelming it wrapped all the way back around into comedy, somehow.
"No," she said quietly. "I wasn't."
The king's glare could’ve stripped paint off the wall, and Adrienne suddenly felt the need to apologize.
"You were not born my daughter."
She stopped immediately, sensing admonishment. "No."
Adrienne looked down at herself: the soft hands, the long auburn hair that no barber had successfully hidden beneath powdered wigs, a chest that every armouror politely ignored while designing increasingly elaborate breastplates.
Adrienne would raise her voice if she had to, even though her heart was hammering, and dread bunched in her stomach at having this conversation for what had to be the millionth time. "You just preferred having a son."
The king rose so abruptly his chair scraped against the stone floor.
"I preferred," he hissed, "having a heir."
Adrienne forced herself to meet his eye. "You still do."
"You have a daughter,” she answered evenly.
"You have a daughter who has spent twenty-three years pretending to be your son because she thought that was the only way you'd love her."
The words were not unlike the cracking of a whip.
For several moments, the king stared at her: not with anger, but something sadder. Something almost… desperate?
"I cannot have a daughter."
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Adrienne understood then. Not would not — could not.
The thing was, succession laws had never allowed queens regnant. The oldest son inherited. If there was no son, the throne passed sideways — to uncles, cousins, distant male relatives with enough noble blood to satisfy ancient legal texts.
If Adrian ceased to exist, then so did the king’s lineage.
The kingdom would fracture overnight. Civil war was not impossible, it was likely. The lie was not only protecting his pride, but the crown.
"You know," her younger sister said one evening as they escaped another pointless banquet, "I actually prefer the curse story."
Adrienne raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
The beginnings of a smirk pulled at her lips. "It's ridiculous."
Adrienne scoffed, thinking back to the entire fields’ worth of flowers placed outside the palace. So much money and marketing had gone into this lie. "It is."
"It involves ancient magic."
She nodded once, slowly. "Unfortunately."
"It makes Father look like an idiot."
That earned a laugh: her sister grinned. "No offense, but everyone can tell."
Adrienne turned. "Can tell what?"
The words caught Adrienne completely off guard. What?
"You smile now,” said her sister, clearly seeing her disbelieving look.
"I smiled before,” she answered much too quickly.
"No." Her sister shook her head gently. "You just performed before."
She reached over and adjusted one of the jeweled pins holding Adrienne's hair in place. "You've stopped looking like you're disappearing."
For a long while, neither of them spoke.
The gardens had emptied hours ago. Somewhere below, a fountain trickled softly through the dark.
Adrienne watched the moonlight catch on the marble statues — the queens consort, the princes, the kings. Not one daughter who had inherited anything, of course.
The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them.
"...Mother came to see me yesterday. She brought tea."
She looked over. Her sister waited.
"She asked if the gowns were comfortable. She told me my hair looked beautiful."
"Then she kissed my forehead..."
"...and said, ‘Goodnight, my son.’”
She stared out into the darkness. "I don't think she even realizes she does it."
"They'll never call me their daughter.”
"They'll carve 'Prince Adrian' onto my tomb."
"They'll tell stories for centuries about the brave prince who endured the terrible curse."
Her sister squeezed her hand. "Then let them."
Adrienne frowned. "What?"
"History belongs to kings." She gave a small smile. "But memories belong to people."
She leaned her head against Adrienne's shoulder.
"You know, when the servants gossip, they call you 'Her Highness.'"
Adrienne was astonished. "They do?"
"The stable boys do too."
"And the cook threatened to hit Father with a frying pan after he corrected someone."
Adrienne blinked. "I... didn't know."
"You weren't supposed to." Her sister smiled into the darkness. "The kingdom believes the curse."
She looked toward the palace windows, glowing gold against the night.
"But the people who actually know you?"
Another squeeze of the hand. "They've never once gotten your name wrong."
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