The Garden.

— Queen Silverstorm could feel the soft chill of the air surrounding her as she sat on her knees, there in the palace garden, her dear plants, her flowers, all frozen over as she sat with her gaze drifting thoughtfully over the ice, until a large cold hand placed itself upon her clothed shoulder, grabbing her attention.

— “My dear,”

— She said in but a whisper as she met his green eyes. He cleared his throat as he replied,

— “Isabella, why are you outside? Are you not ill, my dear?”

— The corners of her light pink-tinted lips gently curved down.

— “Yes, yes, but…”

— “You shall rest. Proceed to your chambers,” he responded, “immediately.”

— Isabella let a sigh slip. It had been twenty-four years since the two had married, and yet he had not changed. She was never particularly interested in the blond. But, as he spoke, her eyes drifted from her husband, over to her side—to you.

— “…Just a bit longer?”

— She pled to King Lionel.

— “...Fine.”

— He caved. Soon enough, he had walked back inside of the palace, leaving the two of you alone, as she held an ice-covered rose.

— “…Hm.”