The corridors of Eirenwald’s palace were quiet in the late afternoon, sunlight filtering through high windows and breaking into shards of gold against the marble floor. King Adrien moved through them half-distracted, his thoughts tangled, when his chief advisor, Lord Renhal, nearly collided with him.
“Your Majesty!” Renhal exclaimed, his face alight with rare enthusiasm. “You’ve done it! Truly brilliant—simply brilliant!”
Adrien blinked, startled. “Done what, exactly?”
Renhal clasped his hands together. “The matter with the House of Velmire, of course! The nobles were on the verge of rebellion over the new grain tariffs. It could have turned ugly. But your letter—your wording, my king—it was perfect. Calm, firm, but merciful. They’ve backed down entirely.”
The young king’s brows knit. “My… letter?”
“Yes!” Renhal pulled a folded parchment from his sleeve as if presenting treasure. “Here, Your Majesty. It bears your seal. You must remember—it went out only three days past.”
Adrien took the letter, breaking the seal with care. His stomach sank the moment his eyes met the ink. The handwriting—elegant, steady, flowing like silk—was not his. He knew it well.
His wife’s hand.
Queen Neferura.
A strange quiet filled his mind. Renhal was still speaking, but the words washed over him unheard. Adrien’s gaze lingered on the delicate strokes of the letters, the precise, purposeful lines that carried a wisdom he had never seen her display.
She had always seemed so simple, so detached from matters of state—smiling at banquets, speaking softly of trivial things, lost in her gardens and tapestries. He had thought her harmless, ornamental.
But this…
“Renhal,” Adrien said, voice low. “Leave me.”
The advisor hesitated, startled by the sudden edge in his tone. Then bowed deeply. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
When the echo of his footsteps faded, Adrien turned and made his way through the winding halls toward the queen’s chambers.
Her rooms were drenched in soft, amber light. Curtains of sheer linen fluttered in the evening breeze. The scent of myrrh and jasmine lingered in the air. Near the window, Queen Neferura reclined on a long couch, her slender form half-bathed in sunset glow.
Her dark hair spilled like ink across her shoulders, glinting faintly where the light caught the strands. Gold and turquoise shimmered against her skin—her crown, her bracelets, the delicate chains draping her arms. She looked serene, otherworldly, her gaze distant as she watched the dying light over the gardens below.
Adrien paused in the doorway, taking her in. For a moment, she seemed untouchable—a vision carved from myth. Then she turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his, calm and unreadable.
“My king,” she said softly. “You look troubled.”
He stepped closer, the letter still clutched in his hand. “I’ve just come from Renhal. He congratulated me for handling the Velmire dispute.”
Her lips curved faintly, but she said nothing.
“You wrote this,” Adrien continued, his voice shaking between disbelief and quiet hurt. “Didn’t you?”
Neferura’s gaze flickered briefly to the parchment, then back to him. “Yes.”
“Why?” he asked, his tone barely above a whisper. “Why pretend to be something you’re not? You’ve acted for years as if you barely understand the language of court. As if you have no interest in politics at all.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she sighed—a slow, steady sound, like air escaping a sealed jar.
“When I first came here,” she began, her voice calm, “your advisors told me what kind of woman you desired. Quiet. Gentle. Simple. Someone who would not threaten you, nor question you. A wife to please the court and the bedchamber—nothing more.”
Adrien’s breath caught.