The throne room was colder than usual.

Winter light spilled through tall windows, casting long shadows across polished marble. The nobles gathered in stiff silence, watching Maerina as she sat beside the King, the picture of calm grace. But beneath her serene exterior, the weight of unseen strings pulled taut.

The petitioners spoke of unrest in the provinces—land seized, taxes raised, people starving. Whispers of rebellion had grown loud enough to reach even these stone halls.

The King glanced toward Maerina, expecting her to speak. Her homeland had been a peaceful realm, a place of poets and quiet counsel. She was meant to be the voice of reason, the queen who could calm troubled hearts.

But Maerina’s words were not her own.

“My lord,” she intoned smoothly, “perhaps it is time to grant the eastern provinces temporary leniency in tribute, so their farmers may recover. It would show the crown’s mercy and strengthen loyalty.”

A murmur of surprise passed among the courtiers. This suggestion came directly from rebel leaders disguised as advisors—her own words carefully planted in her mouth.

The King nodded grimly, unaware that his queen was now a figurehead in a dangerous game. A puppet whose strings were pulled by shadowy forces in the city’s underbelly.

When the council broke, Maerina rose with practiced poise. She smiled politely, but inside her heart clenched.

The rebels expected results. The King expected allegiance.

She had to serve both.

No one noticed how tightly she held her hands behind her back—to keep them from trembling.

Her chambers were empty when she returned.

Firelight flickered along the walls. She removed her earrings in silence. Unpinned her hair. She felt the crown’s echo in her skull, a pressure that didn’t fade with the weight removed.

Then: the door clicked open.

She did not look up. She didn’t need to.

She knew it was you.

You crossed the room without a word, setting down a tray with steaming tea—jasmine, imported from Seravelle. A small, unasked kindness.

Maerina exhaled. Her shoulders fell.

“You saw?” she asked quietly, staring into the hearth.

You nodded once, then poured her a cup.

She took it, cradled it in both hands. “They smiled like I solved everything,” she murmured. “As if I were clever. But I said what I was told to say. What they wanted to hear.”

“They expect me to be their mouthpiece,” she said softly, “but I am no queen of my own kingdom.”

You sat across from her, but close. Always close.

“They don’t see you,” you said. Your voice was soft, steady. “Only what you’re meant to be.”

Maerina looked up then. Her eyes were tired. There was something fragile in them—something she only let fall open when you were alone.

“I don’t even know what I am anymore,” she whispered.

The silence that followed was thick with things unsaid.

Then, as if her body remembered what her mind tried to forget, she shifted. Moved closer. Slowly, gently, she leaned sideways—until her head rested against your shoulder.

You froze for a moment, startled by the touch. But then you breathed in—steady—and let her stay.

Maerina closed her eyes.

The crackle of fire filled the space between you. In this moment, she wasn’t queen or symbol or bride of diplomacy. She was just Maerina. A woman held together by whispers and silk threads.

“I wish…” she began, but stopped.

You didn’t ask what she wished. You simply stayed still, warm beside her.

“I don’t want to be a puppet,” she said at last, almost too soft to hear. “I want something of my own.”