Moonlight washed the Queen's private chamber in silver, soft and cold as regret. Curtains of dark velvet swayed with each sigh of the evening wind. On her desk, a half-opened letter trembled beneath the flickering candle.
Queen Elara read the line again.
" …rumors that the princes have broken the sanctity of courtly duty…"
Her hand lingered over the wax seal, unwilling to believe the shape of the words.
A quiet knock.
Three measured taps, delicate and deliberate.
Elara: "Enter."
The door opened just enough for a shadow to slip inside — tall, poised, wrapped in midnight silk. The faint scent of jasmine and amber trailed after her.
Lady Soprano: "Your Majesty. I hope I do not disturb you at this hour."
Elara didn't look up. "You seldom arrive by accident, Lady Soprano."
A small smile. "Nor do you read by moonlight without reason."
The Queen finally lifted her gaze. "Then you already know what letter I hold."
Soprano: "I've heard… whispers."
She stepped closer, her jewels catching the flame. "And I feared you might hear them too — without context."
Elara: "Whispers never need context to wound."
Soprano lowered her head just enough to feign humility. "Then allow me to soften the blow, before others twist it sharper."
The Queen gestured to the chair across from her. "Speak plainly."
Soprano sat, folding her hands. "It concerns the princes — your son Felix and Prince Hyunjin of the Eastern line."
A faint tightening of the Queen's jaw. "Go on."
Soprano: "Their friendship is admired… at times envied. Yet envy breeds invention. Some say their closeness has crossed boundaries that our court, and your late husband's laws, might not forgive."
Elara: "And you believe them?"
"Belief is dangerous, Majesty. I prefer observation."
She leaned slightly forward. "I've seen the way Hyunjin watches him. The way Felix defends him as if the court itself were an enemy. Devotion, yes — but devotion can so easily be misread… or misused."
The Queen's fingers drummed once against the desk.
"You're suggesting a scandal."
"I'm suggesting caution," Soprano replied smoothly. "Before the wrong tongues reach the King's ear."
Elara rose, moving toward the tall window. Below, the palace gardens gleamed with dew, innocent in their silence. "The King hears only what pleases his judgment. And you, Lady Soprano, know precisely how to please it."
Soprano inclined her head. "If I wished to destroy them, I would not come to you first."
"That implies you wish to save them."
"That implies," she said softly, "that I wish to save you."
The Queen turned, surprise flashing briefly across her composed face.
"Me?"
Soprano stood, approaching until the candlelight touched the edges of her veil. "The kingdom murmurs, Majesty. They say Felix's heart is no longer yours to guide. That Hyunjin holds it in chains — velvet chains, they call them."
The words hung like perfume — sweet, suffocating.
Elara whispered, "Velvet chains… who began such phrasing?"
Soprano's smile deepened. "No one remembers who starts a rumor, only who repeats it."
The Queen's breath trembled. "And now you repeat it to me."
"To warn you," Soprano said gently. "Because love, when spoken in the wrong chamber, becomes rebellion. And rebellion, when dressed in silk, still draws blood."
For a moment, the room fell silent except for the soft hiss of the candle.
Then Elara asked quietly, "What is it you truly seek, Lady Soprano?"
"Order," came the answer. "Harmony. The kind that only you can preserve."
The Queen studied her — elegant posture, patient smile, eyes bright with something sharper than loyalty. "You've served this court too long to play the innocent."
Soprano allowed herself a small laugh. "Innocence, Your Majesty, is merely the first thing one must sacrifice to survive among crowns."
Elara's gaze softened for a heartbeat — almost pity. "And what of your own heart? Does it not tire of spinning webs?"
Soprano's expression did not change. "A spider without a web starves."
The Queen looked away. "You speak of loyalty, yet you sow distrust."
"I sow protection. Should the King act without understanding, both princes will fall — and with them, your influence. I offer foresight, nothing more."
Elara crossed to the hearth, letting the firelight paint her gold. "And what would you have me do with this foresight?"
"Watch," said Soprano. "And when the time comes, act as though you already knew the truth. It will make you look wise."
Elara turned sharply. "And you?"
"I'll be silent," she said sweetly, "until silence no longer benefits the throne."
For a long while, the Queen said nothing. Outside, an owl called — a low, mournful sound. Finally, she spoke.
"Leave me."
Soprano curtsied, every motion graceful. "Of course, Your Majesty. But remember — silence can protect or condemn. Choose which before morning."
She moved toward the door, her steps whispering against the rug. At the threshold, she paused and looked back.
"Your son has your eyes," she said. "But his heart… that belongs to someone else entirely."
Then she was gone.
---
The Queen stood alone. The candle had burned to its base, wax pooling like spilled light. She touched the letter again — the seal now soft, melted by heat and doubt.
Her reflection in the window looked almost unfamiliar.
Elara (whispering): "Velvet chains…"
She repeated the phrase, as if testing whether it carried comfort or curse. Somewhere deep inside, a mother's fear stirred — for her son, for the throne, for the kingdom that thrived on rumor.
The door closed softly behind Lady Soprano, and her footsteps echoed down the marble corridor. A servant bowed as she passed; she smiled faintly, neither greeting nor farewell.
Outside, the night air was cool and fragrant. She lifted her veil, eyes gleaming beneath the moon.
Lady Soprano (to herself): "One whisper is enough. The Queen will do the rest."
She touched the jeweled pin at her throat, a gesture both absent and satisfied, and descended the staircase — the sound of her heels a quiet metronome marking the rhythm of downfall.
---
In the chambers above, Queen Elara stood unmoving until the candles died.
By dawn, her decision would reshape the fate of every heart bound in velvet chains.