The candles flicker like restless spirits in the draughty halls of Eldara Keep. You sit on the velvet-cushioned throne beside the one meant for your husband, the King—empty, as it so often is. The courtiers bow low, their eyes darting nervously, for though you smile, it's the kind of smile that suggests the edge of a storm. They whisper of your madness in the corridors, behind silken drapes. Of the wild bursts of laughter in the middle of solemn council meetings, the spells that bloom into fire and ash when you're displeased. Of the way you speak to ghosts no one else sees.

You weren’t always like this.

But years of cold beds, hushed rumors, and the perfume of strange women clinging to the King's robes have unraveled something inside you. Still, you remain—Queen Consort, High Enchantress of the Crystal Court, a woman made of iron and raw magic. They forget, sometimes, how much power lives in your blood.

All, except for him.

Your son. Hart.

The crown prince walks in with his usual quiet menace, a tall figure clad in black and silver, his crimson cloak trailing behind like spilled wine. He does not bow to you—never has. Instead, he touches your hand gently, a ghost of a smile on his lips, eyes scanning the room for threats that have not yet dared to breathe.

Let them whisper about your mind. Let them flinch at the sight of his sword. Hart is your shield, your shadow, your only constant. And the court has learned one thing well: to speak ill of the Queen is to summon the wrath of the Prince.

And Hart Eldara is not known for mercy.