The east wing of the palace had been sealed away from the grandeur of court life for so long that it carried the air of another world. Beyond its carved doors, silence reigned, broken only by the measured steps of servants who had long learned discretion. And now, within its halls, two newly bound souls moved, one seeking to understand her cage, the other trying to understand the woman thrust into it.
The corridors stretched before Sophia like an endless tapestry of stone and shadow. Sunlight filtered in through tall arched windows, painting golden rectangles across the polished floor. Her slippers whispered against the marble as she walked, her two handmaidens Elena and Maren are hovering closely at her side.
"Your Grace," Elena murmured, glancing at the guards stationed at each junction. "The household staff has been instructed to give us free passage, but… it is said the east wing holds many places forgotten even by the royals themselves."
Sophia's lips curved faintly. "Then let us remember them."
She did not say aloud what burned quietly in her mind: every inch of this wing might hold a secret...passages, servants' whispers, locked doors.
A queen, even one exiled within stone walls, should know the terrain of her kingdom.
They passed through a gallery lined with faded tapestries, each depicting battles of the Daxton line. Armored figures clashed, spears met shields, rivers of crimson thread flowed across the woven fields. Sophia slowed before one, studying a warrior with storm-gray eyes not unlike Alexander's.
Is he destined to fight forever—even when there is no battlefield left? she wondered.
While in his study, Alexander sat behind a heavy oak desk, its surface littered with unopened scrolls, maps, and letters left by ministers who no longer cared if he read them. His fingers rested on the armrest of his chair, tapping lightly in rhythm with his thoughts.
Her words at breakfast still echoed: Judge me not by words, but by what I do.
Alexander snorted softly. Clever, too clever.
He leaned back, staring up at the shelves of old tomes that lined the chamber. For years, this study had been his refuge, the place where the court's noise could not reach him. And yet now, in the quiet, his mind replayed her expression, the faint hesitation, the too-perfect smile, and the defiance barely hidden in her eyes.
A woman who begged her father to escape marriage should be meek, fearful, even resentful. But this Sophia Valehart… she wore boldness like a cloak.
What game are you playing, wife?
While touring, Sophia came across the next chamber which revealed itself to be a courtyard, overgrown yet beautiful. Vines clung to stone columns, wild roses spilled from neglected beds, and a fountain murmured faintly though its basin was cracked. Sophia drew in the scent of damp earth and blossoms, a rare freedom after endless days of preparation for the wedding.
"This place could be made lovely again," she said quietly, trailing her fingers along the stone rim of the fountain.
Maren smiled, her plain face lighting. "It only needs hands to tend it, Your Grace. The servants do little here, they say it is forbidden."
"Forbidden?" Sophia turned.
Elena lowered her voice. "Concubine Selene once had this courtyard as hers, before the King's favor turned. They say her spirit lingers."
A shiver might have passed through the other maidens, but Sophia's smile only deepened. "Then let the dead have their whispers. We, however, will claim the roses."
Her voice carried the authority of one determined not to be ruled by shadows. Inside, though, she noted it carefully. So even the forgotten corners are haunted by women's ambitions.
In study,
Alexander poured himself a cup of tea, though the liquid grew cold before he touched it. He was not a man prone to restless thought, but Sophia had unsettled him.
The reports he had heard about her tears, her pleas, her outbursts had painted a picture of a spoiled girl unfit for court. Yet the woman who sat with him this morning had been composed, sharp, even calculating.
Which was true?
He had lived long enough at the edges of power to know masks when he saw them. And hers fit too well.
But beneath the mask, something lingered, something that reminded him of the way soldiers clenched their teeth before battle. A will, raw and stubborn.
"Clever liar," he muttered to himself. "Or… something else entirely."
His hand drifted toward a sealed letter on the desk, one written months ago but never sent. It bore the king's seal, demanding his return to court life. Alexander had ignored it, as he ignored them all. Yet now, with a new wife in his wing, silence might no longer protect him.
At the moment, Sophia continued through a library next, dust thick on the spines of forgotten books. Sophia ran her fingers over one, smearing the dust with deliberate slowness.
"Elena," she said softly, "send word to have this place cleaned, quietly. And fetch me the records of this wing if they still exist. I wish to know which rooms are sealed, and why."
The handmaiden curtsied, eyes wide but obedient. "At once, Your Grace."
Maren tilted her head curiously. "Do you mean to study, my lady?"
Sophia gave her a faint smile. "Knowledge is the sharpest blade in any arsenal. And I… mean to be well-armed."
She did not say against whom. But in her heart, she felt it against the concubines who whispered beyond these walls, against the King who had condemned her fate, against the prince who watched her with guarded suspicion.
And perhaps… even against herself.
In the stillness of the study, Alexander turned his wheelchair. He stopped in front of the window that overlooked the courtyard, the one Selene had once claimed. Below, he caught sight of Sophia moving through the roses, her gown bright against the shadows.
She tilted her head back to the sunlight, lips curved in a secret smile, her handmaidens trailing like shadows.
Alexander's chest tightened with something he refused to name.
"Valehart," he whispered under his breath. "What are you after?"
His mind supplied an answer he did not wish to entertain: Perhaps only a life worth living.
But no. No woman entered the lion's den without a plan. And she had walked into his exile willingly, it seemed.
He turned away sharply, forcing the thought down.
Hours later, Sophia returned to her chambers, her skirts brushing the stone as she crossed the threshold. A maid hurried forward to relieve her of her cloak. Sophia noticed that handmaiden seems hesitating as she wanted to say something but fears to anger her. So, she asked her that what she wants to say.
"Your Grace," Elena explained quickly, "the servants of Concubine Helena came earlier. They claimed it was tradition to examine the marriage bed."
Sophia raised an eyebrow questioningly and Elena continued to say that; "they brought the sheets with them."
Sophia let out a small laugh, soft but edged with steel. "Good". And then murmured to herself, "Let them choke on their own certainty."
She dismissed the maidens with a flick of her hand and lowered herself onto the chair by the window. Beyond the glass, the gardens stretched endlessly, and in the distance she thought she glimpsed Alexander's study window, shuttered now against the light.
If he suspects me… let him. Suspicion is better than dismissal. A wary man watches. And if he watches, he will see what I choose for him to see.
Her fingers curled against her lap. The game had begun.
In the study, Alexander extinguished the lamp as dusk crept in. The air grew colder, shadows swallowing the chamber. But his mind remained hot with questions.
Sophia Valehart, was she a naive girl painting blood on sheets to win survival, or a strategist planting seeds in soil she meant to claim?
His lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever she was, she was no ordinary bride.
And perhaps, he thought with grim resolve, neither was he an ordinary husband.