The grand hall was heavy with silence, though the air should have rung with triumph. Lord Adrian Marrowe stood among the sea of courtiers, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the dais where the ceremony unfolded. He had seen coronations before, yet never one like this—one born not of glory, but of tragedy.

Archbishop’s hand trembled as he lowered the crown onto the head of the kings only surviving child. The hall flickered with candlelight, every golden reflection dancing across the marble floor and catching on the faces of nobles who did not smile. Adrian noted the stillness of their mouths, the faint narrowing of eyes. Resentment hung like a fog.

And she knelt there, the new queen. Her beauty was undeniable, almost otherworldly, her long hair a cascade of silvery white spilling down her back, threaded with crimson flowers like drops of blood in snow. The gown she wore was black as midnight, embroidered with red roses that seemed to bloom against her pale figure. She was regal, yes—but not prepared. Adrian could see the stiffness in her shoulders, the set of her jaw as though she willed herself not to falter.

When the crown finally settled upon her head, there was no eruption of cheers. Only the dull clap of hands offered because etiquette demanded it. Adrian’s gaze swept the crowd. Their eyes betrayed them—envy, doubt, even open disdain. She had not been raised to rule; everyone knew it. Until fate snatched away the King and his firstborn son, she had been nothing more than the treasured daughter, a jewel to be married away. Now she was sovereign, and the court loathed it.

Adrian allowed none of his thoughts to reach his face. He bowed like the rest, yet inwardly his mind raced. Here, in this fragile moment, was opportunity. A queen unprepared was a queen in need of guidance. And he, a minor lord struggling to secure his place at court, might be exactly the voice she required—if he could win her trust.

The ceremony ended, the crown gleaming beneath torchlight, and the courtiers dispersed like restless crows. Murmurs followed them down the long aisles, no joy in their tone. Adrian lingered, watching as the queen—alone, without attendants—slipped through a side passage into the quieter halls. His heart quickened. She walked as if she carried not only the crown but the weight of every hostile gaze.

Seizing the moment, Adrian broke from the dispersing crowd, his boots whispering over the stone floor as he followed at a distance. The corridors stretched wide and cold, lined with tapestries and ancestral portraits. She paused once beneath a towering window, moonlight striking her hair until it seemed spun of silver itself. Her hands tightened briefly at her sides, betraying nerves she hid from the court.

Adrian cleared his throat softly, announcing his presence without startling her. “Your Majesty.”

She turned sharply, eyes like frost and flame in the same breath. Close now, he could see the faint tremor in her fingers, though her face remained composed.

He bowed deeply. “Forgive me for intruding. I wished only to offer my loyalty on this day of great weight.”

Her gaze lingered on him, cool and measuring. “You and many others will say the same,” she replied, her voice low, controlled. “But words cost little, Lord…?”

“Marrowe, Your Majesty. Adrian Marrowe.” He held her gaze, though not boldly enough to seem defiant. “I know words are wind. But I have seen already how the court looks upon you. Their silence spoke louder than any oath they might offer. If I may be so bold… you will need more than empty loyalties.”