I didn't answer.
"I begged Caelen to visit you. But he… refused."
Of course he did.
She hesitated, then added, "Rael's been fussy, too. More than usual. Maybe… maybe he misses you."
That made me laugh.
A soft, sharp thing.
Not because it was funny. But because I couldn't decide if she was truly that clueless, or if she just enjoyed rubbing it in. My son. My husband. My place. All things she held now, with those delicate hands and pretty, pitying smiles.
I scoffed and turned slightly away, letting the moonlight catch only my profile. "You don't need to worry about me, Ophelia. I've survived worse than your concern."
"I'm not just—" she started, stepping closer. "I only thought… someone should. Since no one else is."
I glanced back, eyes narrowing.
"Since you're the one they chose," I said, voice cool and cutting, "why don't you stick to your role and let me fade into mine?"
I moved to walk past her, done with the game.
And then she did the unthinkable.
She reached for me.
Fingers around my wrist. Small. Warm. Daring.
"Wait—" she said quickly. "I know you like to act strong Eris. But you're not well. I can see it. You've been locking yourself inside since you collapsed... haven't you?"
I stared down at her hand.
Then up at her face.
It always fascinated me, how someone so desperate to be good could be so oblivious.
I smiled. Just barely.
"It seems I need to discipline the little mouths running loose in my court."
"No—don't blame them," she said quickly. "I… I made them talk. I was worried."
Of course she was.
That's all she ever was.
Sweet. Sympathetic. Stupid.
And suddenly, I was done pretending.
The moment shifted. My smile vanished. My spine straightened. I stepped into her space, slow and deliberate, until her back brushed the cold stone wall behind her.
She stiffened.
I leaned in.
Voice like silk over a blade.
"You know, I always admired the way you carried your grief," I whispered. "An orphan at thirteen. A fallen name. No power. No family. And still, you had the strength to smile at the woman who took it all from you."
Her breath hitched.
"You pretended to forgive it," I continued, lower now. "But I've always wondered… is that kindness real? Or are you just waiting for the rest of us to fall before you show your teeth?"
She didn't speak.
Couldn't.
So I stepped back.
Still smiling.
"Be careful, Ophelia. The palace may have forgotten what you are. But I never do."
And with that, I turned and walked away, barefoot and unrepentant, leaving her frozen, trembling, and reminded that some of us don't need to raise our voice to taste blood.
I didn't return to my chambers.
Not yet.
The rage still hummed low beneath my skin, not the firestorm it once was, but something quieter. Colder. Sharper.
I needed a drink.
I passed three guards on my way down the hall, none of them met my eyes. A pair of servers carrying trays froze by the corridor walls as I glided past. One bowed so hard I thought his spine might snap.
Good.
They should be afraid. The only time a queen walks this quietly is when she's already fed.
I stopped by the wine cellar myself. Told the sommelier to go.
He hesitated, of course. But I didn't say it twice.
I selected a bottle of wine, deep red, brewed from grapes grown on black volcanic rock in the western valleys. A royal vintage. Burned like smoke and velvet on the way down. A drink for people who wanted to taste ruin on their tongues.
I poured it myself.
No poison tester.
No second glass.
Just me, and a goblet full of blood-colored peace.
Then I walked to the garden.
My garden.
Where jasmine grew in clusters, and the marble benches still remembered the weight of secrets. I walked barefoot through the stone paths, hair loose, robe brushing around my ankles. The guards stationed nearby stepped back without needing to be told.
The night was soft. The moon was high.
It painted me in silver-blue, like I was carved from cold light.
I sat down on the bench nearest the fountain and raised the glass to my lips.
The first sip burned. The second sang.
And the third made me smile.
That smirk. The one that curled without warmth. That always meant something was about to die, a little dream, a little illusion, maybe even just the hope someone had of me ever becoming something softer.
They were fools, all of them.
I could never change.
And I didn't mind.
The sound of boots against stone interrupted me.
I didn't turn.
Didn't have to.
A breathless voice spoke from the garden arch. "Your Majesty."
It was the Royal Herald. Clothed in red and gold. Sweating beneath the formal crest of Solmire, holding a scroll he probably didn't have the nerve to open.
I glanced at him. "Well?"
He bowed. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I come with urgent announcement."
I sipped again. "Obviously."
He swallowed. "The Emperor of Nevareth, His Imperial Grace, Soren Nivarre — has arrived. He comes with his Winter Guard, and has requested entry into Solmire under peace protocol."
I blinked.
Then, slowly, remembered.
Of course.
It was nearing the time for Pyrosanct, the sacred fire week honoring Pyronox, the flameborn god who created our realm with the frost mother and first scorched the sky to keep dark beasts from rising.
At least that was what the writer of this story created didn't they?
A holy festival. An ancient one.
And more importantly, it was the ceremonial week for Solmire and Nevareth to finalize and re-sign their Treaty of Flame and Frost, a peace pact renewed once every five years to keep our two nations from burning each other to ash.
I looked up at the stars. Then at the wine in my hand.
"Oh," I said. "Right."
I didn't bother changing.
The garden's chill clung to my skin as I rose from the bench, my goblet still half-full. Emberglass still traced the corner of my mouth like a kiss from the devil.
I passed the Herald without a glance, barefoot still, night-robe sweeping behind me like smoke trailing from a dying fire. I could almost hear them talk and the guards' stare. But I didn't care, I'd let the court feel their lungs seize.
I was the Queen of Solmire. And if the Emperor of Nevareth wanted to meet me, he would meet me like this.