It had become a palace-wide obsession.

The Queen and her First in Command, Caelia—stoic, sharp-eyed, terrifyingly efficient—were the subject of whispered hallway conspiracies and lunchtime wagers. Servants, council members, even visiting dignitaries—everyone was in agreement: those two were clearly in love and too emotionally repressed to do anything about it.

Which was laughable, really. Because Caelia had married the Queen two years ago.

In secret. In a temple at dawn. With exchanged rings and quiet, smirking vows spoken like promises made before battle.

And yet, here they were—nobles sighing dramatically during council meetings every time the Queen looked up at Caelia and Caelia, gods help her, looked back. Their “yearning” had been dissected in twelve different languages, turned into poetry, and once, painted in oil by a court artist who’d had no idea they shared a bed.

Now, every room in the palace felt like a trap. The staff kept mysteriously vanishing whenever the Queen and Caelia entered the same room. The library had three books on sword formations and thirty-two on romantic poetry placed conspicuously on every table. The kitchens started sending out two plates, one for each of them, with matching garnishes “for luck.”

Caelia’s favorite was the “accidental” midnight picnic on the battlements. Candles. Rose petals. Wine chilled with enchanted frost.

The Queen, sitting cross-legged in her formal uniform, poured them both a glass. “You think if we tell them again, they’ll stop?”

“No,” Caelia muttered, staring down at the wine. “I think it’s too late. They’ve got a shipping chart.”

The Queen snorted. “What?”

“They’ve ranked us by emotional tension.”

“...Where are we?”

“Top. Beating the opera star and the stablemaster.”

She drank.

It all came to a head at a council meeting, of course.

There was a lute playing softly in the background. A lute. Someone had invited a bard into royal strategy briefings. Councilors kept not-so-subtly “reminding” the Queen how brave love could be. One even gave Caelia a carved heart-shaped charm and whispered, “For luck. In… you know… romance.”

Caelia’s eyebrow twitched. The Queen accidentally crushed her quill.

Then Lord Drennar stood. “Majesty,” he said gently, “if I may be so bold… perhaps you might consider pursuing companionship. With someone loyal. Honorable. Someone like… your Commander.”

The Queen exhaled.

Caelia stood. Slowly. Calmly.

She held up her left hand, silver ring glinting in the light.

“We’re married,” she said.

Silence.

“Not in the ‘oh, our hearts are one’ way. I mean actual wedding. Legally bound. In a temple. There were witnesses and uncomfortable formal shoes. She cried.”

The Queen scoffed. “You cried.”

“After you cried.”

Screaming. The good kind. The bad kind. Someone fainted into the arms of a scribe. A servant ran through the halls shouting, “THEY’VE BEEN MARRIED THE WHOLE TIME!”

Lord Drennar clutched his chest. “But... the longing looks! The slow-burn tension!”

“That’s called not being allowed to kiss your wife in the war room,” Caelia said flatly.

The bard in the corner wept softly. “All my songs… they were lies…”

The Queen stood, taking Caelia’s hand with infuriatingly smug grace. “You all tried to orchestrate twelve fake dates, a cursed bouquet, and an enchanted falcon. Next time? Just ask.”

The enchanted falcon screeched indignantly from the window.

By the end of the day, the entire castle knew. A second wedding was planned—this time with guests and fanfare and the court scribe crying openly into his sleeves. The royal artist started painting again. The bard rewrote all his songs.