Six years passed in the relentless, polished rhythm of rule—a blink of an eye that contained lifetimes of change. In Xane's echoing absence, the throne became my anchor and my cage.
I ascended at sixteen, a crown of cold platinum replacing the ritual amber of the temple. My engagement followed, a political masterpiece brokered by my mother: to Gealton, the second son of the Northern Duke.
The first son, my fleeting childhood crush Revez, had forfeited his inheritance for love—a dizzying, foolish sacrifice for Lady Delian that I found more pitiable than romantic. Love, it seemed, was a blinding madness that made people architects of their own ruin. I had no time for such fragility.
Gealton, however, was a different kind of challenge.
He was a headache given human form, brilliant and infuriating in equal measure. He possessed a razor-sharp intellect that dissected problems with a cold, alien logic, revealing advantages where I saw only obstacles. He taught me of politics beyond our borders, of trade winds and shadow wars, even as he delighted in voicing his most provocative thoughts directly to my face, in front of the entire court. A formidable ally, a terrifying enemy, and an endlessly exhausting fiancé.
Tonight promised another such bout of mental fencing over dinner. Seeking a moment of peace beforehand, I found myself in the private sun-garden.
The late afternoon sun hung in the sky, a gilded coin offering both warmth and a creeping chill—a perfect, contradictory comfort. There, in a pool of dappled light, was my mother. She was dozing in a rocking chair, a picture of hard-won serenity, until the guards announced my arrival.
"Her Majesty is here!"
She stirred, beginning to rise.
"No need, Mother. Please, rest," I said, my smile genuine as I approached with my advisor in tow.
"How could I show disrespect to my Empress merely because I am her mother?" she chided softly, though she settled back into the cushions with a relieved sigh that made me chuckle.
My gaze then fell to the small porcelain plate beside her, holding the remnants of honey-drenched pastries. I looked at the attending servants, who immediately found the stone path beneath their feet profoundly interesting.
"Mother," I said, my voice gently firm. "The physician was explicit about the sweets."
"It was only two small pieces, my dear. The world will not end for a little honey."
A single, slight gesture from me, and a servant silently whisked the plate away.
After chairs were brought, advisor Bisop and I began to outline the day's pressing matters.
"Cia," Mother said, her wise eyes weary, "you are more than capable of making these decisions alone now. You need not run every thread of state by me."
"I am not here for permission, or even suggestions, Mother," I clarified, opening a leather-bound folio I kept solely for these discussions. "I am here for your judgement. I may never be your equal, but I wish to walk the path you carved. So, judge my actions without mercy."
The pleased light in her eyes was my reward. We delved into reports and disputes, a familiar, comforting dance. Yet, I had omitted one critical, festering issue: the growing audacity of the military faction.
Her keen perception, however, was a force of nature. She pinpointed the problem through the gaps in my other reports. "The Zails territory," she stated, not asked. "The mountain lands. Our neighbors are circling it like vultures."
I could hide nothing from that gaze. I laid it bare: the remote, harsh region with its sparse, independent people; the brutal weather that kept our nobles away; and, most crucially, what lay hidden beneath the ice and rock—veins of magical ore, fertile soil with unique properties, rumored gemstone mines of unimaginable scale.
"The General," I said, the title tasting of acid, "petitions for us to grant Zails independence. He claims it is a drain, too remote to govern." My knuckles whitened on the arm of my chair.
"He does not want us to abandon it. He wants to claim it for himself and his loyalists. In my death, I will not hand over what is mine."
Mother fell silent, her fingers steepled beneath her chin, the world narrowing to the chessboard of this threat.
Then, against my own will, a ghost from the past slipped through my lips. "If only Xane were General, then perhaps we could…"
I cut myself off. The familiar, complex shadow passed over her face—a blend of profound sadness and deep-seated irritation that had appeared six years ago and never left. Mentioning him was the one key that always locked her heart.
"I only meant," I backtracked, softening my voice, reaching to cover her hand with mine, "that you gave him a mission. To protect us." It was a peace offering, an attempt, as always, to understand the chasm his name opened between us.
She did not pull away, but she did not explain.
I straightened my shoulders. "But it does not matter. No one will move me from where I stand." I met her eyes, echoing the vow she had once desperately demanded from me on the eve of my coronation.
"I will never lean on anyone but myself. Not until my last breath."
I finally understood the weight of that promise now. I saw it in the hungry eyes of the nobles, in the aggressive postures of neighboring kingdoms, in the General's thinly-veiled ambition.
To show a moment of reliance was to expose my neck to a dozen fangs. The throne was not just a seat of power; it was a pinnacle of perfect, terrible isolation. To secure it, to hold what was mine, I had to learn to stand entirely alone.
Even if, in the deepest, most secret part of me, the memory of a brother's unwavering, all-consuming focus sometimes felt like the only ghost of support in a hall of enemies.