The first thing I felt when I woke was not the bed. Not the silk canopy drooping heavy overhead, not the faint warmth of the embers guttering in the hearth.
It was him.
The bond thrummed faintly, like the echo of a bell struck far away, humming in my bones long after the sound had died. My pulse answered without my consent, quickening as though I had heard his voice again. I pressed my hand against my chest. The beat was mine, steady, insistent. And yet—not entirely mine.
What do you want from me? I thought, though the chamber was silent.
The silence hummed back. The servants avoided my eyes that morning. They moved like shadows, bringing trays of fruits and bread I could not eat, pitchers of watered wine I barely touched. They bowed, they whispered "Majesty," but none of them lingered. It was as though the echo of the bond had spread beyond me, a presence they dared not cross.
When a summons arrived—black parchment, silver script—I almost laughed.
Attend the day court.
As if I had a choice.
The hall was different by daylight, though "day" here was a word stretched to breaking. Pale lanterns glowed in the chandeliers, mimicking sunlight but lacking its warmth. The obsidian floor reflected us all in thin, broken fragments. Courtiers gathered along the balconies, their silks muted but no less rich, their whispers still sharp. I stood at Castiel's side as petitioners came forward.
A farmer bent low, begging for reduced levy after a storm stripped his fields. Castiel heard him in silence, then ruled without hesitation: double tithe for daring to speak weakness aloud.
A fledgling vampire, little more than a boy, admitted to feeding without leave. Castiel's sentence was swift: chains for a week, wrists bare to any who hungered. Each word from him struck like a hammer. No pause, no mercy. The court murmured approval, their hunger fed by his coldness.
And I stood beside him, each verdict cutting into me as though it were my skin, my throat, my wrists. When the petitions ended, the nobles lingered. Their gazes slid to me, sharper now.
"She does not speak," Selvara murmured, her lips curving. "Perhaps she cannot."
Veynar tilted his head. "Or perhaps she knows her words would condemn her faster than silence."
Their whispers spread, little barbs thrown across the hall, meant to test if I would flinch. I felt my throat tighten. Isolde's voice rose in memory: doubt is the wound they cannot be punished for. So, I steadied myself. I turned my head just enough for my voice to carry, but not so much that I looked them full in the face.
"Perhaps silence," I said, "is what keeps me alive in a hall where words are daggers."
The balconies rippled—gasps, laughter, sharp murmurs. Selvara's smile thinned. Veynar looked away first.
I kept my hands still, though they trembled. Castiel did not look at me. But I felt it—the bond pulsing once, hot as coal. Approval? Warning? I could not tell. After the court, I did not wait for summons. I found my way to the cloisters, to the pale roses and the rill of water that ran bright and loud enough to steady my head.
Isolde was there, seated on the carved bench as though she had been waiting. Her gown today was deep grey trimmed with pearl, her hair wound into a crown that looked both regal and unbothered.
"You survived," she said without preamble.
"Barely." I sat beside her, the stone cool against my palms. "They circle like wolves. Every word is a test I didn't know I was meant to take."
"You passed."
"Did I?" I laughed harshly. "They only hunger more."
"That is the Court," she said. "Every answer you give feeds them. The trick is deciding how much flesh to offer and how much to leave in your own bones."
I pressed my fingers into the folds of my skirt. "Why keep me alive? Why crown me if they hate me so?"
Isolde studied me a long moment. "Because you are useful. And because you unsettle them."
"That's not enough to keep me breathing."
Her mouth curved faintly. "It is, if the king wills it."
The bond stirred faintly again at the word king. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron.
I asked her about the Sable Library.
Her eyes flickered, just once. "You've heard of it."
"The door is marked. Admission by leave. I want to know why."
"Because the past is dangerous," she said softly. "Especially to mortals."
"Especially to queens?"
She inclined her head. "Especially to queens."
"Then what happened to them?" The question burst from me. "All the others before me—the consorts, the wives. What became of them?"
Isolde's gaze turned toward the rill. For a long time, she did not answer.
Finally, she said, "They are not remembered."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one the Court allows."
Her tone ended the matter. But her eyes did not. Her eyes told me she knew more, and that I would have to decide if I was brave enough—or foolish enough—to demand it.
That night, back in my chamber, I pulled black parchment toward me and dipped the quill into silver ink. The words scratched out unevenly, my hand shaking:
Day court — they hunger for weakness. Selvara waits for me to falter. Veynar doubts. Isolde warns me: the past is dangerous. The other queens are not remembered.
I set the quill down, the ink shimmering faintly.
The bond stirred again, stronger this time, pulling at my pulse. My chest tightened.
I whispered into the silence, my voice barely carrying beyond the desk.
"What do you want from me?"
No answer.
But the silence shivered. A ripple of heat slid beneath my skin, sharp as hunger, soft as breath.
I closed my eyes, shivering, and told myself I was alone.
And knew I was lying.