"You belong to the kingdom now." The words echoed in the cavernous silence of the bedchamber, a cold pronouncement that still clung to the air long after he had spoken them. "Not to me."
Elara—no, Queen Lyria now—jerked awake, her breath catching in a dry throat. The space beside her in the vast, four-poster bed was empty. The sheets on Kael's side were cold, pristine, untouched. As if he had never lain there at all.
Her body ached. A deep, resonant throb between her legs was a visceral reminder of the night before. She squeezed her eyes shut, the memories flooding back not as a blur, but in brutal, high-definition detail. The crushing weight of him. The searing, unfamiliar stretch. The way her own fists had beaten a weak, useless rhythm against his unyielding shoulders. She had been a vessel. A means to an end. A duty.
She drew a shuddering breath, forcing herself to sit up. The movement sent a fresh wave of soreness through her core. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, a cheery intruder in the room of her despair. It illuminated the rumpled silk sheets on her side, a stark contrast to the perfect, cold order of his.
This was not how it was supposed to be. In her story, the one she had poured her lonely heart into, the one that had somehow, miraculously and terrifyingly, swallowed her whole, the wedding night was a culmination of simmering tension and stolen glances. It was supposed to be gentle. It was supposed be wanted. She had chosen this path, this specific story, to escape a life of quiet oblivion. She had thought a fictional world would be safer. Simpler. She had been a fool.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Before she could answer, it opened to reveal a woman with a severe bun and an impeccably tailored dress of charcoal grey. Her eyes, a sharp and knowing hazel, took in the scene: the lone queen, the evidence of a solitary sleep, the faint trace of dried tears on her cheeks.
"Your Majesty," the woman said, her voice cool and efficient. "I am Matron Valeria. I am assigned to attend you."
Elara could only nod, pulling the sheet higher over her bare breasts.
"The King has departed for the northern territories to settle a dispute among the lords," Valeria stated, moving to draw the curtains open fully, flooding the room with a light that felt accusatory. "The matter could have been postponed, given the… occasion. But His Majesty felt his duty to the realm could not wait." She turned, her gaze neutral, but Elara heard the unspoken words loud and clear. He chose to leave you. On the first morning.
The tour of the Royal Palace was a lesson in exquisite isolation. This was not the palace of the royal family, the one she had briefly inhabited as a princess-in-waiting. This was the seat of power for the reigning monarchs. Their private wing was a gilded cage of echoing hallways, cavernous drawing rooms, and a library so vast its ceiling was lost in shadow.
"The King's study is, of course, off-limits without express permission," Valeria intoned, a hand indicating a set of heavy oak doors carved with thorns. "Your solar is through here. You may receive petitioners here three mornings a week. The consort's duties are primarily ceremonial. You will preside over charities, attend the theatre, and provide a… stabilizing presence for the people."
Consort. The word rang in her ears. Not partner. Not lover. A accessory. A stabilizing presence.
The list of "don'ts" was longer than the "dos." Don't offer political opinion in public. Don't wander the lower city. Don't fraternize with the household staff. Don't expect the King's time.
The day was a blur of polite nods, memorizing names of dozens of servants, and sitting stiffly through a meeting about the kingdom's floral emblem. Every smile she forced felt like a crack in her soul. Every deferential bow from a servant only emphasized the terrifying height of the pedestal she'd been chained to.
When she was finally released, the silence of the royal chambers was a physical weight. The loneliness didn't just hit her; it swallowed her whole. She stood in the center of the room, the site of last night's cold transaction, and wrapped her arms around herself. She had written this. In a fit of lonely, late-night fantasy, she had crafted King Kael Thorne as this brooding, wounded hero, believing her self to be Seraphina who could be the one to thaw his icy heart. She had written herself into the story as the plucky, kind-hearted princess Seraphina who would win his love.
But look at her now the best friend of princess Seraphina ,who she had betrayed in order to save her life, She had been so, so wrong. The reality which she had though would be different from the one when she would have dead,was a man of stone, bound only by duty, who saw her as a necessary inconvenience. The consummation wasn't a beginning; it was a contractual obligation he had fulfilled with grim efficiency. And now she was here. Alone. Queen of a castle that felt more hollow than her old, quiet life had ever been.
She walked to the window, looking out over the twinkling lights of the capital city. Somewhere out there, her husband was tending to his kingdom. And she was here, in the opulent heart of it, the most lonely woman in the world. A single, traitorous thought whispered through the ache in her body and the hollow in her chest: What have I done? . The rejects of not accepting the fate that would have awaited her if she just said no to the proposal, yes she would have dead but at least she would have dead knowing we she was loved and not lonely.