The Origin of the Queen of Three Suns Who Would Rule as the Ice Queen
Before she was feared...
she was ignored.
Estela walked the halls like a well-dressed shadow.
Beautiful.
Silent.
Decorative... in the eyes of the wrong people.
Three years crowned.
Three years beside a king who loved her as though the world ended with her.
Benedicth had never treated her as lesser.
But he was not there.
War had raged along the border for months. She waited, always waited, because she loved him, because he was worth waiting for, because theirs had not been an arranged marriage. It was a bond granted by the Goddess herself.
And the castle...
always reveals its true face when the king leaves.
They always tried to diminish her.
Tried to reduce her to something she was not, had never been, and never would be.
The servants whispered.
The councilors' daughters smiled too much.
Eyes measuring.
Weighing.
Despising.
— Beautiful... — they murmured. — But that's all.
— Three years and still no heir...
— Fragile.
— Empty.
Estela heard.
She always heard.
And she smiled.
Because she believed.
She believed ruling through love was enough.
She believed respect came with time. That if she remained patient, if she became the Queen, the Luna beside the man who gave her the world instead of empty promises, she would achieve her goal.
To be benevolent.
To be diplomatic.
To be like Araliz, the Lycan Queen whose name rode upon the winds of the North, South, and East.
She wished to resemble her.
Not become her.
But stand close to the image of that woman who seemed almost the moon incarnate upon the earth.
She believed the problem...
was herself.
The air.
The soil.
The change.
Fifteen times.
Fifteen damned times she believed it.
Fifteen lives that never reached their first cry.
Fifteen names never given.
Fifteen times bleeding in silence while telling herself her body was failing.
Not the world.
Naive.
In the fourth year...
the truth arrived.
Not as a divine revelation.
As disgust.
Bitter.
Raw.
Abortifacients.
Served.
Mixed.
Planned.
She was not barren.
She was being sabotaged.
And something inside her...
did not break.
It hardened.
---
Estela sat at the head of the table.
A crown far too light for the burden she carried.
A newly crowned Luna.
Three years married.
Three years of sideways glances.
Three years of whispers that died the moment she turned her head.
Benedicth was not there.
The border.
War.
Blood far enough away not to stain the hall.
Close enough to justify his absence.
She was alone.
Again.
The dinner had been organized by her.
Of course it had.
Everything immaculate.
A long table.
Silverware aligned like soldiers.
Wine served at the perfect temperature.
The perfect image of a Luna.
Beautiful.
Graceful.
Controlled.
And completely underestimated.
The councilors' daughters were there.
Young.
Well dressed.
Eyes far too sharp for their age.
Smiling like women who had already chosen where they would sit when the current queen fell.
They did not fear her.
Not yet.
They believed the lie that comforted them most:
Beauty does not rule.
Kindness does not command.
And a woman without children...
does not remain.
Estela listened.
Of course she listened.
She always listened.
That was what made her dangerous.
— Three years... — one of them murmured, too quietly to be considered public.
Yet loud enough.
Always loud enough.
— I would have given the kingdom an heir within the first week.
Contained laughter.
Elegant poison.
— Fertile... healthy... — another continued. — Unlike certain Lunas who seem... incompatible with their own role.
Estela's fingers did not move.
Her expression did not change.
But inside...
something began to crack.
Not because of the insult.
Insults are cheap.
It was the memory.
One.
Two.
Three.
Blood.
Stained sheets.
Tiny bodies that never breathed long enough to cry.
Fifteen.
Fifteen times.
Fifteen promises that never became reality.
And she had believed.
Like a well-trained fool.
In the climate.
The soil.
The change.
Fate.
Anything...
except the truth.
Until she discovered it.
The taste in the tea.
The wrong scent.
The calculated timing.
Abortifacients.
Slow.
Consistent.
Administered patiently.
Deliberately.
Methodically.
Fifteen children stolen before they ever received a name.
The young woman's smile still echoed.
— I would be a better Luna...
Silence.
And then...
Estela rose.
Slowly.
Without haste.
Without sound.
The entire hall noticed.
Not because of noise.
But because something changed.
The air.
It grew heavier.
She walked.
Every step measured.
Until she stopped before the table where the young women sat.
The one who had spoken first was still smiling.
Confident.
Foolish.
Estela tilted her head slightly.
Observing.
Like someone studying something she had already decided to break.
— Repeat it.
The words came softly.
But it was not a request.
The young woman hesitated.
Only for a second.
— I... said that—
— I heard you, — Estela interrupted.
Still calm.
Still perfect.
— I want you to repeat it... while looking at me.
Silence.
Now the entire hall was watching.
The young woman swallowed.
But held her ground.
— I said I would be a better Luna.
Courage.
Or a complete lack of survival instinct.
Difficult to tell.
Estela smiled.
And that was when everything changed.
It was no longer kindness.
It was a warning.
— Bring me the registrar.
Confusion.
Whispers.
But no one questioned the order.
No one questions a voice spoken in that tone.
The man was dragged forward.
Pale.
Sweating.
Far too confused to understand he was already dead.
— Your daughter believes she could rule better than I can, — Estela said, looking at him. — Is that your failure... or your ambition?
— M-My Queen, I—
— Wrong answer.
A simple gesture.
One of the guards stepped forward.
The blade found the young woman's throat before the scream could fully form.
Hot blood.
Across the table.
Staining the perfect banquet.
Absolute silence.
The registrar collapsed to his knees.
— Treason does not begin with blades, — Estela said, now looking at everyone. — It begins with ideas.
Slowly, she turned her gaze.
One by one.
— And ideas... must die young.
The names came without hesitation.
Two cupbearers.
Two guards.
Three councilors.
Among them...
the old woman.
The one who smiled too much.
The one who measured the throne as though it could be divided.
As though she could offer her own daughter as a replacement.
Disgust passed through Estela like cold fire.
— Public execution, — she ordered.
Without raising her voice.
Without trembling.
— Tomorrow.
A pause.
Brief.
Sufficient.
— I want Solari to see what happens when kindness is mistaken for weakness.
The hall remained frozen in shock.
But there was no longer any doubt.
That woman...
was no longer the same.
The sweet Luna...
gentle...
patient...
died there.
Buried beneath fifteen names that were never given.
Beneath blood that never had a chance.
Beneath betrayal served in delicate cups.
And in her place...
something worse was born.
Something necessary.
A sovereign who would not ask for love.
Who would not beg for loyalty.
Who would tear both from others if necessary.
When Benedicth returned from war...
he did not find the wife he had left behind.
He found a queen.
And he understood, without anyone needing to explain:
Solari would never again be ruled through gentleness.