The humiliation feeling was a constant, heavy companion for Rosalinda, a shroud of isolation that she could never quite escape. It was the same wherever she went.
In the palace, servants would bow but avoid her eyes. At the Institute of Virtue, other students would whisper and scatter when she entered a room. Even on the rare occasions she left the castle grounds, she could feel the weight of their gazes - the pity, the condescension, the faint flicker of disgust. They tried to hide it behind polite smiles and forced pleasantries, but Rosalinda could always see it in their eyes.
She was the broken princess, the one who carried the mark of the family's shame, the living reminder of a magical flaw. To cope, Rosalinda built a wall around herself. She rejected any outreach, viewing offers of help as patronizing insults.
Her own room became her entire world, a self-imposed prison where she could at least be alone with her misery.
On one such day, locked away in her chambers at the Institute. Inside, Rosalinda was a cocoon of blankets and despair, her small form huddled in the corner. The silence was broken by a sharp, rhythmic sound.
It was a click… click… click noise against the glass of her window. The sound came once, paused, and then began again, this time in a more persistent and erratic pattern.
Anger, sharp and sudden, cut through Rosalinda's sadness. With a snarl, she threw the blanket off and stomped to the window, yanking back the heavy curtain to see what was making the noise.
Rosalinda stared, her anger melting away into sheer bewilderment. Pressed against the glass, just a few inches from her face, was a small bird.
It had a streamlined, sleek body, with long, pointed wings folded neatly against its sides and a deeply forked tail that twitched slightly. Its feathers were a vivid dark blue above and a crisp, clean white underneath, a striking and beautiful pattern.
A swallow.
The bird had been the source of the clicking sound, tapping its beak against the pane in a rhythm that now seemed almost intentional. Rosalinda's breath caught in her throat.
For a long, unbroken moment, they simply looked at each other. The swallow's dark eyes met her own red-rimmed, tear-filled ones. There was no fear, no revulsion or pity in the bird's gaze. Only a calm, steady curiosity.
Rosalinda slowly, hesitantly, reached out and unlatched the window. The panel swung outward, and the swallow stumbled sideways in the air to avoid it, then darted back to its perch on the windowsill, staring at her once more.
A tremor ran through Rosalinda's voice as she finally whispered into the cool evening air. "Are you not scared of me?"
The question hung between them, filled with a lifetime of rejection. "Of course," she added, her voice cracking as the thought solidified.
"What was I thinking? Even a bird pities me. It probably just feels sorry for the sad, useless princess locked in her tower."
Her misery deepened, the weight of her own words pressing down on her. The swallow, however, simply tilted its head, its bright eyes unwavering.
After another few seconds of stillness, the bird gave a sudden, sharp chirp, then launched itself from the sill, disappearing into the twilight sky in a blur of blue and white. Rosalinda was left alone, the window open to the silent world, her misery somehow feeling a little heavier than before.
The following morning, the familiar clicking against the glass stirred Rosalinda from her bed. She grabbed a pillow, intending to shoo the creature away for good this time, but the moment she saw the small, dark shape on her windowsill, her anger evaporated.
It was the same bird, its blue and white feathers crisp in the morning light. In its beak, it held a wriggling, pinkish-grey worm, which it deposited on the stone sill before looking directly at her.
"Is that… for me?" Rosalinda asked, her voice barely a whisper as a fresh lump of emotion formed in her throat. The bird gave a single, soft chirp, then took flight, vanishing behind the neighboring rooftops.
Rosalinda's gaze fell to the windowsill. The worm inched along, searching for an escape. A strange, warm feeling bloomed in her chest, a feeling so alien and unfamiliar that it almost made her gasp. It wasn't pity or duty. It felt, impossibly, like kindness.
The days that followed fell into a new and secret pattern. Every dawn, she would hear the clicking sound, and every dawn, she would find a small gift waiting for her.
One day it was a worm, the next a plump bean, and another time a single, perfect green leaf. Each time, she would open the window with a sense of breathless anticipation, her heart thumping a little faster at the sight of the small creature.
Rosalinda found herself spending more time by the window, her posture a little less slumped, her eyes a little clearer. The corners of her mouth, once perpetually turned down in a frown, began to twitch upward into the faintest of smiles.
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"Those were the happiest days I've ever had, you know," Rosalinda murmured, her voice soft and wistful. She leaned her head against the cold, hard steel of Ysabel's shoulder armor, the gesture a small, unconscious plea for comfort.
"I know, Princess. I was there, too," Ysabel whispered back, her own head coming to rest gently on top of Rosalinda's fiery red hair. The memory was as clear as day.
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The secret ritual with the swallow became the highlight of Rosalinda's existence. Each morning, she would be at the window, a genuine smile spreading across her face as the bird arrived with its gift.
It was that smile that had changed everything for Ysabel.
As the young soldier standing guard outside the princess's door, she had witnessed it all. She had seen the transformation in Rosalinda, the way her sullen expression gave way to one of pure, unadulterated joy. And in that moment, something had shattered inside Ysabel. She had been forced to confront the ugly truth of her own prejudice.
She had treated this little girl, this ten-year-old princess, with a cold, professional disdain, all because of whispers and rumors. She had let the gossip of maids and the crude jokes of soldiers poison her mind.
The thought was a bitter pill to swallow. Was she no better than them? Just another bastard who judged a book by its broken, magicless cover?
Her parents had raised her to be a soldier, to be honorable, to protect the innocent. But she had failed. She had protected the castle walls, but not the heart of the person she was supposed to guard.
That day, watching Rosalinda's innocent smile as she accepted a worm from a bird, Ysabel made a silent vow.
She would not fail again. But life, as it so often proves, is not a dream.
One morning, the familiar clicking sound never came. Rosalinda waited by the window until the sun was high in the sky, her smile fading with every passing minute, replaced by a hollow, sinking feeling.
She finally retreated into her room, the silence a heavy, suffocating blanket. The next day, she was back at the window, her hope a fragile, flickering thing. Ysabel, watching from her post, felt a similar pang of anxiety. The ritual had become a part of her own routine, a small beacon of warmth in the cold stone hallways.
Then, on the third day, Ysabel saw it. The swallow was back, but its flight was wrong. It stumbled through the air, listing to the side as if drunk or broken. Her heart lurched. The small blue and white shape faltered mid-air and then tumbled, falling from the sky with a soft, sickening thud onto the flagstones below.
Ysabel rushed over, her breath catching in her throat. The bird was a mess of blood, its beautiful blue feathers matted and dark with crimson. A deep, ugly wound gaped in its chest, the kind made by a slingshot stone. It was too late, far too late. The bird had likely been injured the day before, lingering in some hidden corner before making this final, desperate attempt.
As the life of the little creature faded, its beak gaped open. And there, clutched gently within, was a small, single blue flower.
A myosotis.
The meaning was so painfully clear it stole Ysabel's breath. This wasn't a gift; it was a goodbye.
The swallow had known it was dying and, with the last of its strength, brought her one final thing. A flower. A message. A reminder.