WHISPER'S IN THE COURT
The palace never slept.
Even after the wedding night, when the hallways had emptied of nobles drunk on wine and gossip, maids all back to the usual palace duty, when music had finally stilled, the corridors remained alive. Servants hurried with trays, guards shifted at their posts, advisors whispered in corners. The air itself seemed to hum with secrets.
Elara walked side by side with Adrien through the long corridor that led to the council chamber. The morning sun flashed through tall windows, striking the marble floors into pools of gold. Her gown brushed against the stones, every step measured, every breath intense and intentional.
The king had said little since dawn. He walked with the composure of a man born to rule, his black tunic fastened with silver clasps, his crown once again shining upon his brow. Where he moved, the world seemed to part.
And still, the memory of the night before clung to Elara like smoke. His touch, his words, the dangerous patience in his restraint. She had not slept, not truly. Her mind had spun in restless circles, haunted by his voice whispering that she would fight him… and that he would enjoy it.
She squeezed her hands within the folds of her gown, forcing herself to focus. She would not falter, not before the eyes of the court.
The council chamber was vast, its vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of the King's past. A round table of dark oak dominated the room, already ringed with advisors and nobles who rose as Adrien entered. Their gazes flicked to Elara, assessing, measuring, weighing.
"Your Majesty," one of the councilors said, bowing low. He was a sharp-faced man with eyes like a hawk. "And… Her Majesty."
The title landed heavy. Elara kept her spine straight, though her pulse thudded. She had been a village girl only days ago. Now they called her queen. "Wow", she was in awe.
Adrien gestured for them to sit. He claimed his throne-like chair with ease, and Elara lowered herself onto the smaller seat beside him. The wood was cold against her palms as she folded them neatly before her.
The councilor began, voice carrying through the chamber. "The court rejoices in the king's marriage. Yet…" His pause was pointed. "…there are whispers."
Adrien's eyes narrowed. "Speak plainly."
"The prophecy," another said a woman draped in emerald silk, her jewels glittering with each movement. "It is said the Quinn line is cursed. That the women bear sons destined for thrones not their own. Some fear this union brings danger rather than might."
A murmur swept the chamber. Elara's stomach tightened. She had heard such whispers all her life but here, in the palace, they carried weight like sharpened steel.
Adrien's voice cut through them, smooth but edged with warning. "Prophecies are only as strong as the men who fear them. I do not."
The hawk-eyed councilor leaned forward. "But others might, Your Majesty. Rivals, pretenders… foreign courts eager for weakness. Already, word spreads that you wed not out of choice, but out of credulity. They will test you. Test her."
Dozens of eyes turned to Elara. She met their gazes, one by one, refusing to drop her chin. Her blood thrummed with the urge to speak, though she knew Adrien expected her silence.
But Elara Quinn had never been made for silence.
"If they test me," she said, her voice clear and steady, "they will find that prophecy or no prophecy, I am not so easily broken."
The words hung in the chamber like struck steel.
Adrien's gaze snapped to her, sharp and unreadable. Then, slowly, the curve of something like satisfaction touched his mouth.
The emerald-draped woman arched her brow. "A bold tongue for one so new to the crown."
Elara met her gaze evenly. "Better a bold tongue than a cowering one."
The chamber shifted, whispers rising like wind through reeds. Some with disdain. Some with approval.
Adrien raised a hand, silencing them at once. His voice carried, low and final. "Enough. My queen has spoken. Let those outside this chamber whisper all they like, we will not tremble over mere gossip."
The council bowed their heads, though unease lingered in their eyes.
When the session ended, Adrien rose and offered his hand. Elara hesitated only a breath before taking it, letting him guide her from the chamber.
The moment the heavy doors closed behind them, she released his hand, heat rising in her chest. "You expected me to stay silent," she said softly.
He studied her, his eyes dark with something between warning and intrigue. "I expected you to choose your battles wisely."
Her head lifted. "I did."
For a long moment, they simply stared at one another in the quiet corridor, tension stretching taut as a bowstring. And then Adrien's lips curved not in mockery, but in a smile so faint it was almost dangerous.
"You will drive this court mad," he murmured.
Elara turned away, hiding the way her breath caught at his words.
But as they moved through the palace, she felt the weight of eyes upon her servants bowing, nobles pretending not to stare. Whispers followed like smoke, curling at her heels. The queen from the prophecy. The village girl who defied him. The woman who may yet undo a king.
And beneath it all, something else stirred a darker presence watching, waiting. Somewhere in the palace, unseen eyes lingered too long, too intent.
Danger was not a whisper. It was here, in the marble halls, as real as the fire Adrien's nearness lit in her veins.
Elara quickened her pace, though her voice remained steady when she spoke. "If prophecy makes me dangerous, then let them fear me."
Beside her, Adrien's gaze flicked down, sharp and unreadable. "Oh, they will." His voice lowered, threaded with something intimate. "As do I."
The admission sent a shiver through her not of dread, but of something far more perilous.
Because fear, she realized, was not the only thing Adrien Valemont felt toward her.
And if she was not careful, the tension between them would consume more than her heart. It would consume the kingdom.