The door opened without warning. No guard announcement. No footsteps.
Just him — tall, silent, storm-eyed.
King Casian stood in the threshold, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face.
His hair was dark as wet ink, swept back in careless waves from his brow.
His eyes — deep brown — burned gold at the edges in the flickering light.
Broad-shouldered, still dressed in his ceremonial cloak, he looked every bit the war-forged monarch he had become.
He had not come as a husband.
He had come as a king expecting answers.
You rose from your kneeling position, prayer beads cradled in your palms.
"Why didn't you join us for dinner?"
You bowed, silk sleeves brushing the rug.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was finishing my evening devotion."
His gaze lingered. "You've prayed every night this week."
You offered him a small, careful smile. "The Queen Dowager believes it will help in gaining our ancestors' blessing. I do not wish to dishonor her faith… nor yours."
Casian stepped further inside, eyes narrowing slightly. "You are pale."
"I'm only tired," you replied gently.
You reached for the small tray on the table, lifting a silver cup with both hands. "Wine, Your Majesty?"
As you approached, he saw it: the sheer fabric of your robe clinging delicately to your frame, ghostlike against candlelight. You wore no adornments, no jewels — only silence and silk.
He stopped.
His breathing became harsh. His jaw clenched.
The robe slipped slightly, not by force — by the gravity of the moment. A sheer layer remained, delicate and whisper-thin over your skin.
He saw.
And for a long moment, he just stared.
Not with desire.
Not with shame.
With torment.
You stood tall despite the air clinging to your bare arms.
Despite the tremble in your breath.
You didn't cower.
And that—that broke him.
"You don't need to protect me from your mother," you continued. "Or your court. But if you won't give me a place beside you… this is the least I can do."
He reached for the cup of wine you offered and felt your hands — trembling slightly from the cold.
"Your hands," he muttered. "They're freezing."
Before you could offer excuse, he turned to the coat stand, took down the thick fur-lined cloak draped across it, and gently laid it over your shoulders.
You stiffened at the gesture — not from fear, but confusion. It was the first time in months he had touched you outside of public appearances.
You gathered the folds around you, forcing composure. "The court has been speaking again. About the lack of… an heir."
He said nothing.
You continued, quieter now. "I cannot control their whispers, but I can do what's expected. Appear devout. Be obedient. It is the least I can do, for everything you have done for me."
The pain in your voice was so softly worn, it almost sounded like gratitude.
His voice came out raw, hoarse:
"You're a princess," he said, bitter with guilt. "You shouldn't have to ask to be seen."
You pulled the robe back over your shoulders, chin high, pride unshaken.
"I never asked to be seen," you whispered. "Only to stop being invisible."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
He stepped back, posture clipped and closed again. "I will speak to my mother."
You shook your head. "Please don't. Let her believe I am trying. I owe her — and you — at least that comfort."
Casian looked at you then, fully. The warmth of the fur had not reached your skin. You looked like someone waiting to be dismissed. Waiting to endure another silence.
But instead of leaving, he said, "I'll have the servants bring you a proper meal."
You nodded once. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
He paused at the door — as if something more could be said, or should be.
But he said nothing. And left.
You returned to your prayer rug, but the beads no longer felt like comfort.
They felt like chains.
He did not return that night.
He rarely did.
You had long since stopped asking where he spent his evenings — whether in the war room, the barracks, or some distant tower where duty outweighed comfort. Perhaps he sought counsel. Perhaps solitude. Perhaps something else.
Your mind wandered — and you hated that it did.
Does he have a lover?
The thought came uninvited.
Is that why he never looked at you that way? Never touched you that way?
Maybe he was faithful in name, but not in heart.
Maybe there was someone else who got to hear his voice when it wasn't cold.
Maybe… you were never desirable to him.
Your throat tightened at that thought. More than it should've.
All you knew was that it was never here.
Never with you.
The servants brought food to your chambers not long after the king left.
You thanked them with practiced warmth and dismissed them without touching a bite.
Your appetite had left with him.
If it had ever come at all.
Only Mira remained — your most trusted handmaid, quiet as breath, loyal beyond words.
You sat by the vanity, hands folded on your lap, eyes unfocused.
Mira worked through your hair with a gentle comb, careful not to tug. She didn't speak unless you did — a kindness you'd never had to teach her.
The silence between you was not empty. It was the silence of shared understanding, of years spent watching from shadows and whispering through walls.
Your gaze drifted to the flickering candle near the window — the way its flame leaned toward the glass, painting long shadows across the stone wall. The warmth of the room felt distant, dulled.
"Mira," you murmured, voice low.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
You hesitated.
Then said, "He brought me a cloak tonight."
A pause. Mira's hand stilled, just for a breath. "That was kind of him."
"Yes," you said quietly. "Indeed."
She resumed brushing, the rhythmic strokes of the comb like a lullaby from another life.
Your gaze stayed on the candle, but your thoughts drifted backward.
You had known Casian since you were both children.
Not closely — your stations had always been apart — but enough to share laughter once, stolen pears from the orchard, a chase through the rose gardens in spring. You remembered how he used to roll his eyes when his tutors turned their backs, how he'd sneak tokens to you from the royal tours without admitting they were his favorites too.
You were not strangers.
So you often wondered, as the nights passed cold and quiet:
When did that boy vanish?
Why would he marry you, only to become someone so distant?
Why save you, elevate you, give you a crown—only to freeze your heart with it?
You didn't want love he couldn't give. You only wanted to be seen.
But after two years, even that seemed too much to ask.
You had done everything that was expected of you.
You dined when summoned. Smiled when watched. Prayed when advised. For two long years, you fulfilled your duty as queen — a role you never asked for, only accepted with gratitude. He had rescued you. Protected your name. Saved your inheritance from greedy hands.
But never once — not even once — had he looked at you as a woman. As a wife.
You lay down, eyes open to the ceiling.
You were a queen in daylight.
And a ghost by night.
The candle dimmed.
The wine remained untouched.
And the space beside you in bed had never felt colder.