The palace prepared for the annual Feast of Anointment, where blessings were whispered over the king's reign and the queens presented tokens to the kingdom. A celebration of loyalty, of unity.
A farce.
Elira stood before her mirror, draped in a gown of iridescent silk the color of moonlight. Embroidered on the sleeves were vines of silver threading — an old symbol of mental clarity and grace. She had chosen it deliberately.
Not to provoke.
To remind.
She wasn't just a beautiful face for the throne.
She was present, aware — and dangerous, if need be.
At her side, her handmaiden Serel fastened the last of her cuffs and leaned in. "You'll be watched tonight."
"I always am," Elira said calmly.
"No… I mean more than usual. Queen Malina received a letter from the west wing archives yesterday. She's been speaking in hushed tones ever since."
Elira's fingers froze mid-motion. She turned.
"Who told you?"
"I listen where others don't," Serel said. "And I saw the wax seal. Black serpent. That symbol is only used on bloodline documents."
Bloodline.
It clicked. Too quickly.
Her lineage. Her gift. Her curse.
Someone had found it.
---
That evening, the Feast of Anointment burned brightly. Musicians played harps and lutes. Rose wine flowed like rivers. Lords and Ladies from every province gathered in glittering gowns and embroidered cloaks. The king looked radiant, dressed in onyx armor etched with lion sigils — but his eyes searched only for her.
When he saw Elira enter, the crowd stilled. A hush of awe, of worship.
But near the dais, Sarith's mouth twisted into a sneer. Malina lifted a cup and sipped, calm as a coiled viper.
The king welcomed his guests and gave thanks to the Queens beside him.
"Queen Sarith, whose wisdom guides our house.
Queen Malina, whose grace calms the tides.
And Queen Elira…" He turned to her, extending his hand.
"…whose voice is the echo of our people's heart."
The hall erupted in cheers. But not from everyone.
Not from the ones who had started digging.
---
Later that night, as dancers whirled and servants lit lanterns under the stars, Queen Malina approached a group of noblewomen from the House of Velmeris — one of the oldest bloodlines in the kingdom.
"Have you ever wondered," Malina said softly, loud enough to be overheard, "where Queen Elira came from? Who her ancestors were?"
One of the women raised a brow. "She's from the East Vale, isn't she? Windhollow?"
"Yes," Malina nodded. "And do you know what they say about Windhollow bloodlines?"
A pause. Whispers.
"Elira is kind," one said. "The people love her."
"And yet," Malina countered, "there's a reason the people of Windhollow were once feared. For magic so dangerous even the gods turned their faces."
The silence was long. Sticky.
"You're saying the king's favorite queen is cursed?" someone whispered.
Malina didn't answer. She simply sipped her wine and let the poison do its work.
---
Back in her chambers, Elira stood alone at her balcony, watching as lanterns floated into the sky.
One by one. Hopeful. Delicate.
Like lies dressed in beauty.
Her hands gripped the stone.
She had stayed silent. Buried her gift. Chosen love over power.
And now it was unraveling. Word by word. Whisper by whisper.
Behind her, the king entered. His arms slid around her waist, and for a brief moment, she leaned into him.
"You were radiant tonight," he said against her hair.
"I felt eyes on me," she murmured. "Hungry ones."
"They fear what they can't own," he replied.
"Or what they can't destroy."
He turned her gently. "Let them fear. I will stand by you."
Her eyes lifted to his. "Even if they find out the truth?"
Silence.
Then: "What truth?"
She hesitated.
Say it.
Tell him everything. The dreams. The compulsion. The lineage.
But fear — not for herself, but for him — gripped her tighter than any prison could.
"Nothing," she whispered. "Just that I love you."
He smiled, kissed her brow, and left.
And in that silence, her heart fractured.
---
Two days later, rumors spread like plague-fire:
That Queen Elira had never bled in the temple, like a proper bride.
That animals bowed when she passed.
That she had whispered once to a man, and he had thrown himself off a cliff.
That her smile was a spell.
And worst of all… that she came from Mindbound blood.
---
When Elira visited the market three mornings later, the cheers were quieter. The children didn't run to her carriage. A man bowed — but wouldn't meet her eyes.
She returned to the palace, head high.
But inside… she felt it.
The shift.
The beginning of the fall.
That night, Elira found herself seated beside King Theron on the eastern balcony of the observatory. It was where they often escaped the palace's noise—sharing honeyed figs and wine while speaking of politics, prophecies, and dreams.
But tonight, the sky stretched silent above them. Stars blinked warily.
And Elira's gift itched in her mind.
She closed her eyes for only a moment.
Just a second.
And entered his thoughts.
"Is she hiding something from me?"
"She looks tired… Or worried?"
"The court has been whispering more than usual."
"Should I confront her?"
"No. No, I trust her. I must."
Elira pulled out of his mind quickly, guilt rippling through her. She hadn't done that in years.
She had promised herself never to peer into his thoughts. But the whispers outside… they were making her paranoid. Or worse — truthful.
When she opened her eyes, Theron had turned to her.
"You've been quiet," he said.
Elira smiled faintly. "The stars are louder than my thoughts tonight."
He chuckled. "I doubt anything could be louder than your thoughts, my moonfire."
Her smile faded a bit. "And if my thoughts weren't… what they appeared to be?"
He narrowed his eyes slightly. "What do you mean?"
Before she could answer, a knock interrupted them.
It was the palace steward.
"Your Majesties," the man bowed low, "Queen Sarith requests the King's presence at the Hall of Verdicts. She claims there is an urgent matter from the Southern delegates."
Theron sighed, clearly reluctant to leave her. "Another empty panic."
"I'll wait here," Elira said softly.
As he left, her gaze followed him. Something was unraveling. Not between them — not yet — but around them.
And she had seen enough court to know: when people couldn't reach the crown, they'd aim for the Queen instead.
---
In the Shadowed Gallery
Far below the palace's main chambers, Queen Sarith and Queen Malina met privately, cloaked in black shawls beneath the stained glass gallery.
Sarith folded her arms. "You started the rumors too early."
Malina didn't flinch. "No, I didn't. They're working. You saw the way the commoners looked at her today. Unease has begun to rot their love for her."
"You're risking treason if the king finds out."
"I'm not touching her," Malina said coolly. "But truth… truth is not treason. Especially if it protects the realm."
Sarith's eyes narrowed. "You hate her because she took your place."
"No," Malina whispered, "I hate her because she's pretending to be something she's not. She walks in light, but her soul is stitched in shadows."
Sarith didn't answer. But the silence between them agreed: Elira's days of peace were numbered.
---
The Poison Takes Root
Over the next week, the palace servants grew quieter in her presence.
Once, two handmaids dropped their baskets when Elira entered the laundry room. Another day, a stableboy backed away from her horse without explanation.
In the market, she heard fragments from passing lips:
> "She's too beautiful. It's unnatural."
"Did you see the way she stared at Lord Vael last month? He fell ill the next day."
"The king is blinded by lust."
"They say her mother spoke to ghosts…"
And worst of all, as she entered the palace gardens:
> "She must've spelled him. He would never love her otherwise."
Elira didn't cry.
But her steps grew heavier each day.
---
The Queen of Masks
She summoned her dreamwalking ability that night.
In her sleep, she entered the dreams of the noblewomen who had begun to pull away from her — to learn what they feared.
She drifted into the dream of Lady Reneth, a woman she had once shared tea with.
In the dream, Elira saw herself as a wraith — skin glowing, eyes white, lifting people off the ground with a wave of her hand.
Lady Reneth screamed in terror.
> "She sees us when we sleep."
"She's reading our minds."
"The last queen like her burned half a kingdom before the gods struck her dead."
Elira withdrew from the dream, breath shallow.
The fear wasn't born of malice. It was born of legend.
Of ignorance.
She wasn't being hunted for what she had done.
She was being hunted for what they believed she could do.
---
Theron's Unspoken Worry
When the king returned late that evening, he came to her chambers immediately. He seemed tired, shoulders heavier than usual.
He knelt before her chair — something he hadn't done since their wedding night.
"Elira," he said gently, "the ministers have asked questions. About your origin."
"Have you answered them?"
"I told them what I know. What I believe." He held her hands tightly. "That you are my queen. That you are good. That is enough."
She searched his eyes.
But in the deepest part of her heart, she saw it.
Doubt.
Not in her.
But in the world. In what it might do to her.
"I'm afraid for you," he whispered.
Elira pressed her hand to his cheek. "Then protect me."
"I will," he vowed.
But even kings have limits.
---
By the time the sun rose on the eighth day of the festival, Elira stood alone in the grand chapel for morning prayers.
No noble wives joined her.
No priests blessed her.
Only the sound of her breath echoed across the empty marble floor.
The people who once adored her had begun to disappear.
One whisper at a time.