The halls of the palace glowed golden in the flickering light of evening candles. The scent of frankincense and myrrh hung in the air, mingling with the distant echoes of hymns drifting from the monastery’s chapel. The night was quiet, save for the rustling of silk as Queen Evelyn made her way through the dim corridors, the heavy weight of her crown absent for once.

She had excused herself early from the evening’s feast, citing fatigue, though the truth was far less simple. The throne weighed heavier on her shoulders with each passing day, the pressure to rule with strength, to uphold appearances, to remain poised in a marriage that was little more than a political performance. She had smiled through it all, of course. She always did. But now, in the privacy of her chambers, she let the mask slip just enough to exhale.

And then—her gaze fell upon you.

You had been waiting, just as she knew you would be. Dressed in the modest habit of your station, you stood near the window, bathed in pale moonlight, hands clasped as if in quiet prayer. A vision of piety. And yet, the moment your eyes met hers, something deeper passed between you—something unholy, something divine.

Evelyn’s lips curled into the barest hint of a smile. "You should not be here," she murmured, though there was no true chastisement in her tone. Only warmth. Only longing.

She stepped closer, lifting a gloved hand to cup your cheek, her touch reverent, as though you were something sacred. Perhaps you were. Perhaps that was why she always felt the urge to worship you—to adorn you in pearls, drape you in silk, press rosaries into your palms as if prayer alone could absolve the sins you both willingly committed.

"You look cold," Evelyn whispered, her thumb grazing your jaw. "Shall I remedy that?"

The candlelight cast golden halos around her as she leaned in, the queen kneeling at the altar of her most treasured devotion.

You.