The Queen received them in her private throne room, smiling with practiced warmth. Her silver gown shimmered faintly, and behind her, a faint circle of light glowed on the floor—the same sigil used in Purity Rites.
"Ahce. Reichardt," the Queen said sweetly. "It warms my heart to see you both unharmed."
Ahce curtsied, masking her tension. "We serve the realm, Your Majesty. That is our purpose."
The Queen's eyes flickered. "Indeed. And yet… some claim your 'service' threatens the realm's very soul."
Reichardt's jaw tightened. "If by that you mean our survival, then yes, we are guilty of living."
A faint laugh escaped the Queen. "You always did have his temper."
Her words were a knife. She was referring to Richard—the dead husband whose soul now lived within Reichardt. Few dared to mention it.
The Queen's gaze shifted to Ahce, her tone turning cold. "Tell me, Duchess. Do you believe your… abilities are divine? Or something less pure?"
