Being part of the monarchy was both a blessing and a sentence. For her, it had always been both. She was loved, admired, respected as the queen—yet the crown never felt like it fully belonged to her. It sat on her head with a kind of cold distance, as if reminding her every day that she was expected to be something other than herself.
And perhaps that was why, now that the county was at war, she refused to stay locked inside marble halls and gilded rooms. While the court whispered that it wasn’t her place, she was the first to leave the palace gates. She walked among the soldiers, offering a warm word, a reassuring smile, sometimes simply her presence. She sat with the families waiting for news—mothers trying not to tremble, children clutching worn coats, wives who pretended to be brave. She chose to be there, even though the King did not approve; King Alexander II was more comfortable with proper procedures and reports than with emotions. He preferred to rule from his desk, drowning in paperwork and strategy, rather than step into the mud and fear.
She had earned the title of queen two years earlier, when she married him—a union decided more by duty than love. They were fond of each other, at least physically; attraction had never been the problem. But connection required time, and time was the one thing neither of them ever had. She was constantly traveling to represent the kingdom in neighboring lands, shaking hands, attending councils, bridging alliances. He was consistently swallowed by the war effort, sleepless and strained, slowly turning into a man who was difficult to be near.
And so she learned to fill the loneliness with purpose. If she could not be the queen he expected, she would be the queen her people needed.
She found him in the war room long after midnight.
The palace was silent at that hour, corridors dimly lit by the occasional torch. Her footsteps echoed softly as she approached the heavy double doors. She hesitated for a moment — she never liked disturbing him when he was like this — but something tugged at her. Maybe worry. Maybe loneliness.
She pushed the door open.
Alexander was standing over the long table, both palms pressed against it, head bowed. Papers, maps, and half-written letters were scattered everywhere, but he didn’t move. It was the stillness that frightened her. He didn’t look like a king, or even like a husband — just a man who had been carrying too much for too long.
“Alex?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer at first. The candles behind him sputtered, throwing sharp shadows across his face. When he finally raised his eyes, there was something raw in them — exhaustion, frustration, a grief he wouldn’t name.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he said quietly.
“And you?” she countered. “You’ve been in here since the afternoon.”
He exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh. “I can’t leave until I decide where to move the western battalion. One wrong choice and we lose the river. If we lose the river, we lose half the kingdom.”
She stepped closer, careful not to disturb anything on the table. “You’re not making the decision easier by destroying yourself.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue — which was unusual. Instead, he looked down at a particular page: a list of fallen soldiers’ names. She realized his thumb was trembling slightly against the parchment.
“They were boys,” he said under his breath. “Some younger than us when we took the throne.”
Her heart tightened. She had seen him angry, cold, occasionally warm — but rarely this vulnerable.
Without thinking, she reached out, letting her hand rest lightly on his arm. Not as queen to king. Just as a human trying to steady another. He didn’t pull away.