The bells of Aeloria rang like songbirds gilded in gold.
From the tall spires of the Moonstone Palace to the market alleys filled with whispering mouths, the kingdom was awash in celebration. Crimson banners rippled in the breeze, the scent of jasmine and honey bread perfumed the air, and nobles from the farthest corners of the realm gathered in anticipation.
Today, King Thalion was taking his third wife.
And everyone already knew—this was no ordinary bride.
Queen Sarith, the first wife, stood at the dais draped in ivory silk, her green eyes cold as jade. Beside her, Queen Malina adjusted the golden cuffs around her wrists, lips curved into the ever-present mask of calm disapproval.
They had heard of her.
Everyone had.
Elira of Dareth.
She wasn't of noble blood—at least, not in the traditional sense. She was the daughter of merchants, the granddaughter of a renowned herbalist, born in the river city of Valdara. But she had become legend not through bloodlines but by heart. She'd once saved an entire village from starvation by convincing the Council of Elders to open the royal grain stores during a flood season. She'd stood before nobles without flinching, spoken with clarity and wit, and tamed even the most hardened tongues in debate.
When King Thalion first laid eyes on her, it was not in a courtly hall or noble gala.
It was at a peace summit in Darenthia.
She was there as an advisor to the regional lords. She wore no crown. Her hair was in a simple braid. But when she spoke—he had listened. And when she smiled—it was over.
He'd courted her for six moons.
Now, she was arriving as his bride.
—
The palace gates opened.
She stepped down from the royal carriage dressed in moon-silver silk, a veil of embroidered roses hiding the lower half of her face. Her skin was radiant against the fabric, her eyes dark and bright like twin secrets. The people watching her fall into hushed silence.
Elira didn't walk like a woman entering her cage.
She walked like she already belonged on the throne.
King Thalion stood waiting at the steps of the Temple of Unity, his royal armor polished but unburdened by helmet or sword. His crown was modest—silver and obsidian, twin wolves engraved on either side. His hands were bare. His smile was wide.
Their eyes met.
And the world vanished.
"Elira of Dareth," the High Seer announced, "Do you come to Aeloria as wife to the king, servant of the people, and keeper of the crown's honor?"
Elira lifted her head. Her voice, low and melodic, carried through the courtyard.
"I come as myself. And I vow to serve, not from fear, but from love. Not from duty, but from choice."
The crowd gasped. The Seer blinked.
Thalion laughed, rich and deep, and took her hand.
"I accept you," he said. "Not as duty. But as destiny."
And as they kissed—under the blessing of the Twin Suns and the eyes of all Aeloria—Queen Sarith turned her face away.
Malina narrowed her eyes.
And Elira—still veiled—smiled to herself, knowing full well the dangerous path she was walking.
She had read their minds before stepping out of that carriage.
They hated her already.
The wedding celebration lasted for three days.
Feasts stretched from sunfall to moonrise. Musicians strummed ballads in her honor. Dancers told stories through movement. The great tapestry hall was filled with silks and sapphires, perfumed oils and foreign guests. Elira played the role expected of her—dignified, regal, smiling.
But beneath her composure, she was listening.
Always listening.
Her magic—quiet and veiled—whispered the thoughts of those who didn't know they were being heard.
"A third wife? She must have something special to pull the king's attention like that..."
"She's not even of noble blood. She's clever, that one. Dangerous clever."
"Sarith looks like she swallowed vinegar."
"Gods, she's beautiful. Did you see how she answered the ambassador's riddle?"
Elira sat beside the king at the high table, her hands folded in her lap, a gentle smile on her lips. She didn't respond to the thoughts she heard. She never did. But knowing made her stronger.
Beside her, Thalion leaned close and whispered, "Tired?"
Elira turned her head toward him. "A little."
"Shall I make an excuse and carry you away from all this?"
"And ruin the night of your noblemen who've traveled weeks to eat roasted stag and speak over each other?" she teased.
His grin deepened. "You know me too well already."
"You make it too easy."
Thalion chuckled, lifting her hand and kissing her knuckles. "Come with me," he said, rising.
Without protest, she stood. The crowd murmured, but none dared stop them. Sarith's eyes followed them like daggers.
—
The king's private wing was quieter. Guarded. Lit by amber torches and glass lanterns suspended from arched ceilings. The moment the doors shut behind them, Elira exhaled.
"I don't think I've smiled this much in my life," she said, letting the stiffness melt from her shoulders.
"You did beautifully."
"You say that like I performed."
Thalion laughed, tugging her toward the divan by the fire. "You did. You performed the impossible: you made my court like you in less than a day. Even the ambassadors from Kaelth are smiling, and I'm fairly certain their entire culture is built on frowning."
She smirked and sank beside him.
For a moment, they sat in silence—king and queen, man and woman, neither speaking of politics or power. Then Thalion turned to her, brushing a stray curl from her face.
"You're not like them," he said.
"Who?"
"The others. The nobles. The women I've met. You're... brighter."
Elira tilted her head. "You make me sound like a lantern."
"No," he whispered. "Like the sun."
Their kiss was unhurried. Deep. Familiar, even though they were still strangers in many ways. But Thalion didn't touch her like a man claiming possession. He touched her like a man thankful for a gift he never expected to receive.
Elira's heart ached with the sudden weight of what she couldn't tell him.
She hadn't used her powers in years—not since she was sixteen and her mother made her swear never to abuse them. She hadn't told anyone of her lineage. Not even him.
But already, the palace was ripe with danger. The looks from the other queens. The whispers. The masks worn by servants loyal to other wives.
Sooner or later, she might have to defend herself.
And she couldn't do that without magic.
---
The next morning, she walked the palace grounds, escorted by two royal guards. Peacocks strutted between garden hedges. The air smelled of crushed rosewood. From the courtyard, she could see Queen Sarith watching her from the upper balcony.
Sarith's gaze was full of honeyed venom.
Elira met her eyes, then slowly smiled—polite, but not submissive.
She did not need to read Sarith's mind to know what the woman was thinking.
"You don't belong here."
"You will never last."
"You are a threat."
But what Sarith didn't realize was that Elira had no intention of fighting her with poison or politics.
No. If war was coming, it would not be fought with steel.
It would be won with the mind.
The sun was barely a whisper beyond the windows when the summons arrived.
A royal steward, clad in deep navy and gold, bowed before her chamber doors. "His Majesty requests your presence in the throne room, Your Grace. The morning council is assembling."
Elira glanced up from her reflection in the mirror. She had only just braided her hair.
The palace ladies-in-waiting—assigned to her after the wedding—froze in confusion. One dropped a hairpin.
"The council?" Elira asked. "Is that permitted?"
The steward hesitated. "No queen has ever been invited, my lady. But... His Majesty was firm. He said: 'Where I go, she goes.'"
The ladies exchanged glances like a fox had just walked through the chicken coop.
Elira turned back to the mirror.
"Fetch my sapphire gown," she said, voice even. "And the froststeel pendant."
---
The throne room was a cathedral of stone and sunbeams. Light streamed through towering stained-glass windows, casting rainbow light over polished marble floors. At the far end, King Thalion sat on the obsidian throne—back straight, crown gleaming, expression unreadable.
Elira entered silently, robes flowing behind her.
The court stilled.
Ambassadors, generals, advisors, nobles—every one of them turned to see her gliding toward the king. She felt their shock. Their outrage. Some didn't even bother to mask it.
She didn't need her powers to know what they were thinking.
But the ones she did hear?
"What is she doing here?"
"This is unprecedented."
"He's let her into the war room? She's not even noble."
"Careful. That one isn't just pretty. She's dangerous."
Elira bowed when she reached the base of the throne.
"My king."
"Come," Thalion said, extending his hand.
She stepped up beside him.
For the first time in the history of Aeloria, a queen stood beside the king as his council assembled.
---
The meeting was not ceremonial. It was war talk.
Border friction with the North. A disputed trade route with the eastern cities. Rumors of black-market magic infiltrating the coastal towns.
Elira listened carefully, taking mental notes. The General of the Crown Guard spoke in gruff tones. The Merchant Chancellor was long-winded and pompous. The High Priestess made vague statements laced with holy metaphors.
At one point, the king asked, "What say you, Elira?"
The room went still.
Elira folded her hands in front of her.
"I say," she began softly, "that war with the North will benefit only the weapons lords. There is nothing on that border but pride and broken soil. If we send soldiers, we'll lose sons and gain nothing."
Murmurs. Raised brows.
She wasn't finished.
"As for the trade dispute with the east—permit me to handle it. I know their customs. If I meet with their envoy face to face, we can preserve peace and avoid tariffs."
The Merchant Chancellor bristled. "Your Grace, with all due respect, you have no formal training in—"
"I have experience," she cut in, eyes sharp. "More than most men in this room."
The Chancellor's mouth clamped shut.
Thalion looked at her as if she'd just commanded the stars.
"Done," he said. "You'll accompany me to the eastern summit."
---
Later that afternoon, while crossing the violet-sky corridor that connected the throne room to the Queen's Wing, Elira found herself face to face with Queen Malina.
Alone.
The second wife wore a high-collared emerald gown and a smile far too serene.
"Quite the performance this morning," Malina said lightly. "You nearly made the Merchant Chancellor soil himself."
Elira offered a polite smile. "Did I?"
Malina stepped closer. "There is a delicate balance here, Queen Elira. One you may not yet understand. Too much attention from the king, and you'll tip it. Too much favor with the people, and you'll break it."
Elira tilted her head, still smiling. "Are you warning me, or threatening me?"
Malina's eyes gleamed. "Neither. Merely... enlightening you."
"I prefer darkness," Elira said. "It's easier to hear the whispers."
Malina's smile slipped for a fraction of a second.
Then she turned and vanished down the hall, the scent of wild mint trailing behind her.
---
That night, Elira sat alone in her chamber.
The candles were dimmed. The fire hummed low. She stood barefoot on the balcony, hair loose, robe fluttering against the wind. The stars above Aeloria glittered like teeth in the sky.
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in months, she let her mind expand.
She reached out—not far, just enough—to hear the edges of thought around her. The flickering emotions of the guards below. The drowsy mind of a stable boy in the lower courtyard. The distracted thoughts of a serving maid polishing plates.
Then deeper.
She reached within herself.
A trickle of truthseeing. A glimpse of her own thread woven into fate's tapestry.
It shimmered gold and violet—unusual, even for her lineage.
But she didn't have time to question it.
Because in the deepest recess of her mind… something stirred.
A flicker of life. Small. Faint. Not fully formed.
Her breath caught.
Her hand fell to her abdomen.
It was too soon to tell, too early to say it aloud. But her body already knew what her mind had just confirmed.
She was not alone anymore.