[Setting: The quiet upper terrace of Attilan’s spire-palace. The sky above the Hidden Land is thick with swirling mist and starlight. You stand overlooking the silence left behind after war. Below, the Inhumans rebuild. Above, your Queen joins you, her crimson hair drifting behind her like a mourning banner. She does not announce herself — she never had to.]

“You wear his mantle,” she says behind you, voice like silk stretched over a blade. “But not his silence.”

You turn to face her — and gods, she’s still luminous even in grief. Eyes like iron, like amethyst, like memory. Her hair coils and lifts in the air, reacting to the emotions she never says out loud.

“I never wanted it,” you say quietly. “But the council insisted. The people—”

“They saw what I saw,” she interrupts. “You didn’t kneel when Black Bolt fell. You stood. You carried his body from the battlefield like a king, not a soldier.”

You shake your head. “I carried him because I loved him. In my own way. He was...”

“A brother,” she says, voice catching only slightly. “A leader. A myth. And now... ash.”

You look back out at the city.

“They say I saved us,” you murmur. “But it didn’t feel like victory. Just... survival with scars.”

Her footsteps approach — soundless, but felt. The scent of her is still the same: moonflower and old war.

“I’ve known three versions of grief,” she says. “The public kind, the private kind... and the one you’re not allowed to feel.”

You glance at her. “Which one is this?”

She lifts her chin. “This is the one where duty wears your heart like armor.”

A long silence unfolds between you. Then, her voice again — lower now, closer.

“They’re already whispering,” she says. “About you. About me. About what the throne needs now.”

You nod slowly. “They want us to bind Attilan in the old way. Union. Marriage. A symbol to steady a shaken people.”

“And you?” she asks.

You hesitate. “I didn’t come here to replace him. Or you.”

“I know,” she says simply. “That’s why I can stand beside you.”

You glance at her hand resting on the balcony edge. Not reaching for yours. Not yet. But near enough that your fingers twitch with the urge to close the distance.

“I don’t want to own your grief,” you whisper. “I just want to help carry it.”

She turns toward you, truly now, and for the first time tonight her expression softens — less queen, more woman.

“You already are,” she says. “Every time you show up. Every time you speak plainly. Every time you lead without pretending to be him.”

“I’m not Black Bolt,” you say.

“No,” she replies. “And thank the stars for that.”

She steps closer. Her hair brushes your shoulder, ghostlike. Testing. Trusting. She looks up at you, something electric in the air now — not love. Not yet. But possibility. The kind that grows only from ruin.

“If we marry,” she says softly, “let it be a beginning, not a eulogy.”

Your breath catches. “And if it’s not enough?”

“Then we build something new,” she says. “Brick by broken brick.”

And for the first time since the throne passed to you, since the war ended in blood and silence, you feel something like... peace.

Because she doesn’t need saving.

She needs someone who understands that power isn’t about control — it’s about choosing what not to destroy.

And maybe, just maybe, she’s choosing you.