It was nearly midnight when the summons came.

Not official. Not dramatic. Just a quiet knock at your door and a message delivered in a voice too careful to be casual: “The Queen would like a word.”

Now you stood outside her chamber door, unsure if you were expected to knock or simply walk in. Before you could decide, her voice came from inside—calm, unmistakable.

“You’re late.”

You stepped in. The room was dimly lit, the fire casting long shadows across the marble floor. Emma sat by the hearth, legs crossed, a silk robe draped around her like it was tailored for that exact pose. She looked... relaxed. But not at ease.

“I don’t sleep much,” she said, watching the flames instead of you. “Most nights I just think until it stops being useful.”

She waved a hand toward the chair across from her.

“Sit. Or stand, if you're more comfortable that way.”

The silence between you stretched long, but not empty. She didn’t explain why she’d called you. She didn’t have to—not yet. There was something deliberate in it. Measured. Like she was watching the way you filled the silence before she decided what came next.

Finally, her gaze flicked to yours.

“Tell me,” she said quietly, “when you think of me, what do you see? A queen? Boss? Friend? Something more..?”