Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 68

POV: Celeste

The argument starts because I spill water.

It is such a small thing that I almost laugh at first—the cup tipping, the clear line of liquid racing across the marble table and dripping onto the floor. I reach for a cloth automatically, my hands clumsy with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll clean it.”

The servant standing across from me does not move. She stares at the spreading puddle like it is alive.

“You should be more careful,” she says sharply. “Or is control too much to ask?”

My breath catches. “It was an accident.”

She scoffs. “That’s what they always say.”

I feel the warmth stir.

It is immediate, instinctive, like a creature waking when it senses danger. My chest tightens. The air feels thicker, heavier, as if the room has inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

“I didn’t do anything,” I repeat, softer now.

The servant steps closer. “Everyone has to clean up after you,” she snaps. “Broken glass. Spilled ink. Injured animals. And we’re supposed to pretend it’s normal.”

“Please,” I whisper. “Don’t—”

She laughs. “What? Are you going to break something?”

The warmth surges.

The marble beneath my feet vibrates. It is subtle at first, a hum more felt than heard, but the servant’s eyes widen. She steps back abruptly, fear finally cracking through her irritation.

I clamp my hands together, nails biting into my palms. “Stop,” I whisper. “Please stop.”

The world does not listen.

The water on the floor lifts.

It rises in a thin, twisting column, droplets spinning wildly, catching the light. The servant gasps and stumbles backward, knocking into a side table. A vase tips and shatters, porcelain exploding across the floor.

“Guards!” she screams.

I am shaking now, my breath coming in sharp, painful bursts. The warmth inside me feels too big, too loud, filling every space I try to push it into. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it.

“Celeste!”

Elira’s voice cuts through the chaos like a blade.

She appears in the doorway, her face pale, eyes wide with terror—not at me, but for me. She takes in the scene in a heartbeat: the lifted water, the shattered vase, the servant scrambling away.

“Stop,” Elira says, rushing forward. “Leave her alone.”

“Get away!” the servant shrieks. “She’s dangerous!”

Elira ignores her. She steps between us without hesitation, her back to me, her arms spread slightly as if she can shield me with her body alone.

“It’s all right,” she says over her shoulder, her voice trembling but steady. “Celeste, look at me.”

I try. God, I try.

My vision blurs, tears streaking down my cheeks. The room feels wrong, bent, like it’s warping around me. The warmth is no longer contained to my chest—it’s everywhere, buzzing beneath my skin, pressing outward.

“Elira,” I sob. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she says quickly. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

She turns her head slightly, meeting my eyes. There is no fear there. Only concern. Only trust.

Something inside me cracks.

The warmth surges outward in a violent wave.

The marble floor fractures with a sound like thunder. Fine cracks spiderweb outward from my feet, racing toward the walls. The air explodes, throwing furniture aside as if it weighs nothing.

Elira cries out.

She is lifted off her feet and slammed backward into a pillar with a sickening crack. Her body crumples to the floor, unmoving.

“No,” I scream.

The warmth vanishes in an instant, sucked back into me so fast it leaves me dizzy. The room goes eerily still, the only sound my ragged breathing and the faint drip of water hitting stone.

“Elira,” I whisper.

I stumble forward, slipping on the wet marble, my heart pounding so hard I can barely breathe. She lies twisted on the floor, blood spreading beneath her head, dark and awful against the pale stone.

Her eyes flutter open.

“Hey,” she whispers faintly.

Relief crashes over me so hard my knees buckle. I drop beside her, hands hovering uselessly above her shoulders, afraid to touch her, afraid to do more harm.

“I’m sorry,” I choke. “I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t—”

“I know,” she breathes.

Her fingers twitch, brushing against mine. I feel nothing—no surge, no crack, no invisible pressure. Just her skin, warm and real.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispers, the words barely audible. “You’re not—”

Her eyes roll back.

“Elira!” I scream.

Boots thunder in the corridor. Guards burst into the room, swords drawn, faces hard and terrified. One of them grabs my arm roughly, yanking me away from Elira’s side.

“No!” I shriek, fighting against their grip. “Please, she’s hurt. I did this. I’ll do anything—just help her!”

Another guard kneels beside Elira, swearing under his breath when he sees the blood. “Fetch the physician. Now.”

They drag me backward, my heels scraping against the cracked marble.

“I’m sorry,” I sob over and over, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Elira doesn’t move.

The corridor blurs as they pull me through it. Servants press themselves against the walls, eyes wide, mouths tight. Some cross themselves. Others turn away entirely.

I thrash against the guards, panic giving me strength. “She was protecting me,” I cry. “She didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Enough,” one of them snaps. “You’ve done enough.”

They haul me toward the inner wing of the palace, the one with thicker walls and fewer windows. The air grows colder with every step, heavier, as if the palace itself is closing around me.

My mother appears at the end of the corridor, her face white as linen. She takes in the guards, the cracked stone visible behind us, the blood on my dress.

Her hand flies to her mouth.

“Celeste,” she whispers.

I reach for her instinctively. “Mother, please. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I swear I didn’t. She was my friend—”

She steps back.

The movement is small, almost imperceptible.

It shatters something inside me.

“Take her,” my father’s voice says from behind her, cold and final. “Now.”

I scream as they drag me away, my throat burning, my chest aching with every breath. I twist and fight until my strength gives out, until all I can do is sob into the guard’s sleeve.

“Elira!” I cry one last time.

The doors slam shut behind me.

Darkness swallows the sound.

Later—much later, when my voice is gone and my body aches from shaking—they leave me alone in a small, bare room. No windows. No furniture but a narrow bed bolted to the floor.

I curl into myself, pressing my forehead against my knees, and rock back and forth.

Blood on marble. My fault. My fault.

I don’t know if Elira lives. No one tells me. No one comes.

The warmth inside me is quiet now, withdrawn and watchful.

I understand, finally, with a clarity that makes my chest ache.

Kindness is dangerous.

Love is dangerous.

And anyone who tries to stand between me and the fear I cause will bleed for it.

I press my hands over my ears and scream into the silence, but the palace does not answer.

It never does.