The light of dawn spills through the high windows of the council hall, gold softening to green as it strikes the carved pillars. My father sits at the head of the table, posture flawless, crown catching the early sun. To look at him, one would think nothing could move him. But I have lived a lifetime studying silence; I can hear when it trembles.

The herald’s staff meets marble once. “Announcing Her Grace, the Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath, Keeper of the Moonlit Rivers.”

The air itself changes.

She enters with the measured grace of someone who no longer asks to be seen. Her gown is woven from the colors of her realm—green turned to silver at the hem, like morning mist fading into light. The circlet upon her brow is white birch and leaf, a living crown. For a heartbeat, the whole hall seems to breathe with her.

My father stands. His voice, when it comes, is calm, but I hear what the others do not—the small hesitation before he speaks her title. “Greenwood welcomes you, Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath.”

And in that pause, the truth unfurls. This is the woman from the unspoken stories, the one he lost to his own pride. The one he could never quite forget.

I should look away. Courtesy demands it. But I cannot. The legends I grew up hearing do not compare to the reality before me. There is no bitterness in her face, only composure sharpened by time. When she takes her seat across from my father, I feel the room tilt, the weight of history drawing lines between us all.

I speak when the moment allows—formal, precise. “Greenwood stands ready to share our reports from the eastern borders, my lady. I will ensure your envoys receive them before nightfall.”

Her gaze meets mine; steady, assessing. In that instant, I understand what he ruined—and what I will never allow myself to ruin.

My father’s eyes flick briefly toward me, a warning unspoken. I return the look with a bow of deference that conceals the thought already fixed in my heart: He may have lost her once. I intend to show her what it means to be truly seen.