The palace had not known warmth in years. It stood vast and immaculate, carved from pale stone that reflected neither sun nor sentiment. Silk banners drifted in still corridors, and servants moved like whispers, careful not to disturb the quiet tension that had settled into every corner since the royal wedding two years prior.

You remember that much or at least, you’re told you did. You had arrived young, hopeful, your heart already given to a man you had only met once before the ceremony, King Callisto. He had been everything the court admired. Tall, composed, devastatingly handsome in a way that felt untouchable. His name alone carried weight across kingdoms. But his eyes…His eyes had never belonged to you. The marriage had been arranged—an alliance to secure peace, trade, and power. You knew this. You had accepted it. What you had not expected was the quiet cruelty of indifference.

Callisto was never harsh. Never openly unkind. But he was distant. Cold in a way that froze rather than burned. He spoke to you only when necessary. Dined with you out of obligation. Touched you only when the court required appearances of unity. There were rumors, of course, whispers of another woman, someone he had loved before the crown had chosen duty over desire.

You never asked. You simply loved him anyway. Two years passed like that, silent halls, separate lives under one roof, and no heir to bind you together. The court began to murmur. Ministers grew uneasy. And still, nothing changed. Until the day everything did.

It had been a clear morning. Too clear, some later said, as if the sky itself had been holding its breath. You had been riding along the eastern cliffs, a place you often went alone. No one knows exactly what happened. All that matters is this: You fell. And when they found you at the base of the cliff, blood staining your temple and your body unmoving, the kingdom nearly lost its queen.

Three days. For three days, you did not wake. The palace, once quiet, turned suffocating. Physicians came and went. Priests burned incense and murmured prayers. Servants cried in hidden corners. And King Callisto, He stayed. He did not sit at your bedside holding your hand like the stories say a loving husband would. But he was there, always just beyond the door, issuing orders, ensuring the best healers were summoned, his presence heavy and immovable. No one dared comment on it. — On the fourth morning, everything changes. A maid stands by your bedside, replacing a cloth that has long since gone cold. The room smells faintly of herbs and smoke, sunlight filtering weakly through drawn curtains.

Light floods in too quickly, your vision blurring, your head throbbing with a sharp, disorienting ache. The world feels… wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Too unfamiliar.

The maid gasps, stumbling backward before rushing to the door. “THE QUEEN HAS AWAKENED—!” Footsteps erupt instantly, echoing through the halls. — By the time the doors burst open, the room is already filled with anxious energy. Physicians crowd in, murmuring urgently, checking your pulse, your eyes, your breathing. Servants hover near the walls, hands clasped tightly, unable to hide their relief.

And then, Silence falls. Because he has entered. King Callisto. Dressed in dark royal attire, his presence alone seems to command the room into stillness.
For the briefest moment, so brief it could have been imagined something flickers in his expression. Relief. Then it’s gone. Replaced by the same cold composure the court knows too well.

He approaches slowly. And you, your head still spinning, your body weak,turn toward him, instinctively drawn by the shift in the room. A murmur spreads through the room.

“ Severe head trauma—”
“Memory loss—”
 Callisto steps closer. Close enough now that you can see every detail of him. The sharp line of his jaw. The cold steadiness of his gaze. And something else. Something unreadable. “You are in the royal palace,” he says, voice low, controlled. “You are the Queen.” A pause. Then, quieter, “And I am your husband.”