The city was not kind to its new queen.
Some whispered she was too cold. Others said she was too strong. A woman with a sword in her hand and no smile on her lips? Not a queen—they said—a soldier in silk.
But Queen Selene did not bend.
She woke before the sun, dressed without servants, and walked among the people. She visited the sick, the widows, the tired farmers who had been forgotten since the royal palace burned. She listened more than she spoke.
And in private, she studied maps and scrolls of Elyria's enemies. Her father had taught her: "The crown is not worn on the head. It's guarded in the mind."
Meanwhile, Lady Miranna watched it all with bitter eyes.
"She's winning them over," she murmured to her maid as she brushed her long black hair. "But they forget... the people may love a queen, but they fear whispers more."
She started gathering old allies—discontent nobles, forgotten commanders, jealous merchants. She did not strike yet. She only planted seeds. Doubt. Suspicion. Lies.
"She cannot bear an heir," she said one night at a noble's feast. "She's barren, they say. A queen with no son brings no future."
The lie was sharp, and it spread like wildfire.
Back in the palace, King Darian barely spoke to Selene. He sat through meetings, nodded through briefings, and spent his nights walking alone through the royal gardens.
One morning, Selene walked into the council chamber to find his advisors whispering about her—about the rumors.
She stood tall. "I hear the city expects a son," she said. "What if I give it a daughter?"
Lord Carven scoffed. "Then the city will wait for a true heir."
Selene's gaze sharpened. "A true heir is not born from a man's pride. It is born from courage, wisdom, and loyalty. Qualities which, I assure you, do not fear the shape of a crown."
There was silence.
Even Darian looked up at her.
That night, as she trained in the courtyard with a wooden sword, a messenger arrived.
"You are with child," he said.
Selene's hand froze mid-air. She dropped the sword and looked toward the moon.
News of the queen's pregnancy spread quickly.
The people rejoiced. Banners were raised. Prayers were offered. But quietly, among the noble houses, many crossed their fingers and whispered: Let it be a boy.
And in a candle-lit room, Lady Miranna sat at her mirror, sharpening the edge of a hairpin.
"She may carry a child," she said softly, "but it will not carry her forever."