The Queen received him at dusk.
No fanfare. No procession. Just a quiet summons passed through the steward's hand like something too delicate to fold.
He followed it without hesitation.
The solar where she waited was not the grand chamber used for state functions or foreign ambassadors. It was smaller. Circular. Paneled in dark wood and lit by three tall windows that held the last breath of sunlight like stained silk.
No guards stood inside.
Only Queen Aldira.
And a single, vacant throne.
She stood at the window when he entered, clad in storm-colored satin, her hands folded behind her back. A vase of blue orchids sat untouched beside her—too vibrant for a room this still.
He closed the door behind him with care.
No title. No bow.
Just air between them, heavy with things unspoken.
"You walk differently," she said, still not turning.
"You watch closely," he replied.
Now she turned.
The Queen's face held no warmth. But it held attention. And that, from her, was a far rarer gift.
"This room was once used to receive advisors," she said. "Before the court grew too large for privacy."
"Is that why you chose it?" he asked.
"It's why I remember it."
A pause.
Then: "You've caused ripples."
"They were already there. I simply stepped in."
She walked to the table at the center of the room—an old, circular piece carved with the sigils of minor houses long since erased from the tapestry.
At its center sat the vase.
The Blue-Ribbon Vase.
Set without ceremony. Without explanation.
She stared at it.
"So they tried to sell it," she said.
"They failed."
"You stopped them?"
He shook his head. "I simply arrived before the shame ripened into action."
Silence.
Then she reached forward and spun the vase gently with one hand. It wobbled slightly, never quite steady, until it stopped with the engraved plaque facing Thalric.
"In admiration of your spirit…"
"You didn't know about the auction," he said.
"No," she answered. "But I know the lesson."
He waited.
A breeze touched the windowpanes—ghosting the silk with the scent of pine and firewood.
"When a thing has no place," she said slowly, "we place it everywhere else until it disappears."
She looked up.
"That's what we did to you."
It wasn't apology.
Not exactly.
More like an autopsy.
He didn't respond.
She moved to the side table and retrieved a sealed scroll—thicker, wax-stamped in gold.
She placed it in front of him without commentary.
"Your presence will be required at the Queen's Table in three weeks," she said. "Full council. Eyes from all major houses."
"I thought you didn't believe in resurrection."
"I don't," she said evenly. "But I believe in correction. And for now, you are correct. You unsettle the narrative. That gives you value."
"To you?"
"To the court," she said.
Then, quieter: "To me, you remain unfinished."
He looked down at the scroll.
Ran one finger across the wax.
"You once gave me this," he said. "Or rather, gave him. Percival. A seat at a feast where his name was never spoken."
"And yet he sat," she said.
"Because he was loyal," Thalric replied. "Not because he was welcome."
A long silence stretched between them.
"I won't kneel," he said at last.
"You never did."
She turned away, once more to the window.
He took the scroll. But he left the vase behind.
It didn't belong to him.
And perhaps, it never had.