Temperance
I had told myself the Hall of Ash was only stone, only smoke, only statues carved by hands centuries dead. But when I woke, the memory pressed against me like a hand I could not shake off. The obsidian queens stared at me from behind my eyes, their lips parted as though one heartbeat more might have let them speak.
And over it all—the bond.
It was heavier now. Not sharp, not violent. Heavy, like a cloak set on my shoulders. I had expected silence from Castiel, but this was worse than silence. It was weight with purpose. As if he had felt me there and wanted me to know he had not stopped me. As if he wanted me to carry it.
I sat on the edge of the bed, head in my hands.
"You knew, didn't you?" I whispered into the hush. "You wanted me to see them."
The bond pulsed, steady as a drumbeat. No words. No denial.
I clenched my fists. If he would not explain, then I would write my own answers.
The palace was alive with whispers that morning.
Not the faint, cautious kind that trailed me in the first days. These were bolder. Louder.
A pair of servants passing in the south corridor did not lower their voices quickly enough.
—the mortal queen—
—too pale, too proud—
They dropped into stiff bows when they saw me watching, but the words lingered like smoke.
At the gallery doors, two guards shifted aside only after I had stopped before them, forcing the pause, making the moment obvious. A small cruelty. Permission wrapped in obedience.
Each gesture cut sharper than any blade. Not enough to accuse. Not enough to name. But enough to remind me that the nobles' contempt ran deeper than words. Enough to remind me that every step I took was on a floor that wanted to open beneath me.
I straightened my back and walked on, even as my breath grew tight.
If they thought me prey, they would have to work harder to taste fear.
By midday I was pacing the cloister garden again. The pale roses nodded in the cold breeze, their scent sharp as rain. The rill of water rushed over stone, louder than the whispers, louder than my thoughts.
The bond throbbed faintly. Always there. Always pressing.
I stopped beside the carved bench and closed my eyes. If he could listen through it, then why couldn't I speak? Why couldn't I shove my voice into that silence the way it shoved itself into me?
I drew a breath. Not words. Words would falter. A memory.
Elias.
My brother's laugh, spilling into our kitchen when we were children. His hands clumsy as he tried to knead dough beside me. His hair falling in his eyes. His mouth dusted with flour as he grinned, too wide, too alive. The sound of it filled me so sharply my chest ached.
I pushed it. Hard. Into the bond.
The silence cracked.
The weight flared, not with words, but with heat—sudden, violent, like a coal struck until sparks flew. My knees almost buckled.
I gasped, clutching the stone rail.
He had felt it. I knew he had.
I staggered back, trembling, the roses blurring before my eyes.
"Good," I whispered, though my voice shook. "Now you know I'm not empty."
Later, in the eastern gallery, I found her waiting.
Lady Selvara leaned against a column, her gown grey as smoke, her hair spilling down her back like ink. Her smile was soft. Too soft.
"Your Majesty," she purred, the title dripping from her tongue like wine. "Walking alone again?"
I stopped a few paces short. "Is that forbidden?"
She tilted her head. "Not forbidden. Merely… unwise."
Her eyes slid to the windows, where the false dawn light cast silver bars across the marble. "The palace is old. It keeps its secrets. I wonder—do you feel them yet? The weight of what came before you?"
I stiffened. "I know what the palace keeps."
"Do you?" Her smile deepened, but her voice turned quiet, almost kind. "The queens before you thought the same. They believed their crowns mattered. They believed their names would be remembered."
She stepped closer. "But the Court does not keep queens. It consumes them. Their statues remain, yes. But names fade. Faces blur. In time, you will be the same."
Her words cut sharper than she knew. I had seen those faces. I had heard the laughter in the Hall of Ash.
"You're wrong," I said, my voice low, steady. "If I am carved in stone, then I will be remembered as the one who refused to kneel."
The silence between us trembled. Her smile did not break, but her eyes flashed cold.
"We shall see," she murmured, and drifted past me like smoke, her perfume sharp with iron and roses.
I stood alone in the gallery, my hands trembling, my breath sharp. But I had not faltered.
The bond pulsed, hard and sudden, almost violent.
He had heard.
I pressed my palm to the stone, closing my eyes. "I am not prey."
The bond surged again, flaring hot enough to steal the air from my lungs. For a heartbeat, I thought I heard him—not words, but a sound, low and rough, as though torn from a throat unguarded.
Then silence again.
But not empty silence.
A silence that waited.