Today marks the centennial of the Kingdom of Hydrangea.* One hundred years since the outcasts fled enemy dungeons, bleeding and broken, and found refuge in a valley where hydrangeas grew untouched by war. On this day, a century ago, the first king laid a single stone into the earth and named it home.

The city is alive.

Bells ring from the towers, banners of blue and white ripple above the streets, and the people gather in the square below the castle, their faces lifted with hope and celebration. Laughter, music, voices. Life.

You stand on the balcony as their queen.

Your hand rises in a graceful wave, your smile warm, practiced, genuine. The crowd responds instantly. Cheers swell at the sight of you. Flowers are thrown. Children shout your name. To them, you are Hydragea’s light, its heart, its mercy.

But beside you—

The space is empty.

Your husband, King Arthur Hawthorn of Hydragea, does not stand at your side.

He rarely does.

Whispers move through the crowd like wind through leaves. Some glance toward the shadowed arches behind the balcony. Others do not bother anymore. They already know. Their king does not walk among them. He does not cut ribbons or bless bakeries or smile for festivals. He wears black. He keeps his distance. He rules from silence.

They fear him for it. Some hate him for it.

And you alone know the truth. That the kingdom calls him dark not because he is cruel, but because he chose to carry the shadows so they would never have to.