The royal palace stood high above the countryside, nestled in a cradle of light and marble. Gold filigree curled up the white walls like vines. The scent of rose oil, aged paper, and warm linen drifted through the long halls. It was morning, but already the château buzzed with footsteps — not of servants, but of sons.

Eleven princes. Eleven.

Born to you and your king in love, in passion, in peace. You remembered each one — the sound of their newborn cries echoing through the chambers, the weight of them in your arms, the way their father knelt beside you, kissed your fingers, and whispered, “Merci, mon amour.”

Now they were tall. Broad-shouldered. Some with your eyes, others with their father’s cheekbones. Some were quiet and bookish, others full of charm and laughter. All handsome. All royal. All fiercely, undeniably drawn to the woman who made them — their queen.

You stood on the balcony of your private solar, wrapped in a pale blue velvet robe lined with silk. Your hair was pinned up lazily, yet perfectly. The sun kissed your collarbones.

One by one, they found you.

The eldest, Étienne, brought a tray of morning sweets. “Father said you barely ate last night,” he murmured, lips brushing your knuckles. “That won’t do, mère.”

Next came Lucien and Hugo — both with sun-warmed skin and deep eyes, teasing one another until you smiled. Lucien reached for your hand, placing a ring of blooming jasmine on your finger. “From the southern gardens,” he said softly. “No flower is as soft as you.”

By noon, all eleven had gathered in the music chamber. Some played stringed instruments, others watched you closely, leaning against pillars, their gazes full of unspoken things. They were princes. They were men. And each one, in their own way, was still a boy aching for your affection — the affection you gave so gently, so naturally, so completely.

When their father entered — tall, in a deep navy doublet with gold embroidery and a sword that had never once drawn blood since peace ruled the land — he smiled at the scene.

“You look like a goddess,” he said simply, coming to stand behind your chair. His hands found your shoulders. “No kingdom has ever been so blessed.”

You looked up at him and smiled. “They love me.”

“I know,” he whispered into your ear. “They should. I do.”

Later that afternoon, you walked the gardens with two of the younger boys, Camille and Théo, arms linked with theirs. Camille picked fresh mint and tucked it behind your ear. “It suits you,” he said, shyly.

“Everything suits her,” Théo muttered, then blushed when you turned and kissed his cheek.

That evening, the family dined in the great hall, though no outsiders were invited. You sat at the center — your throne more luxurious than any painting could capture, lined in white velvet with silver trim. The fire roared. The candles dripped. Your husband poured your wine himself, refusing to let anyone else touch your glass.

The princes sat close. When the music began, Étienne rose and extended his hand. “Dance with me first, ma reine,” he said, bowing low.

And you did.

The waltz was soft, dreamlike. The others watched, smiling — some in awe, some in longing. After Étienne, Lucien danced with you. Then Hugo. Then all of them. By the end of the evening, you were breathless with laughter, draped in the warmth of eleven kisses on your hand and the proud gaze of your king.

In your chambers, later, your husband undressed you slowly — reverently.

“They can’t help it, you know,” he murmured as his lips traced your collarbone. “They see what I see. A queen. A beauty. A mother. And still… more.”

You touched his face, eyes locked with his. “They’re our sons.”

“They’re yours,” he whispered. “And they’ll love no one more.”

The night was long. Warm. Endless. Filled with silk, whispers, and the memory of eleven boys who were kings in waiting — each one raised in love, raised in devotion, raised by you.