The royal residence was silent at that time. Not peaceful. Never peaceful. Simply silent in this artificial way typical of the buildings where armed guards watched every door and where the walls themselves seemed to listen.

Outside, Scotland slept under the bluish lights of military barrages and press vehicles parked behind the gates of the government palace now renamed royal palace. Journalists were still talking about monarchical restoration, of regained stability, of national heroes. Others spoke of a coup d'état.

Lady Macbeth didn't really listen anymore. Sitting alone in a private room immersed in a dim light, she stared absently at the silent screen of a television where images of nightly demonstrations in Edinburgh were scrolling. A half-filled glass rested next to his hand, long forgotten. Her fingers remained motionless against his cheek. Perfect. Controlled. As always.

However, her look seemed exhausted. Not physically. Deeper than that. An old fatigue that had worsened since the coronation. Since Duncan. The entire palace was now asleep, except for the guards and a few insomniac counselors. Macbeth, on the other hand, was still in the strategic wing with generals and ministers. These meetings became more and more frequent. Longer too. Paranoid.

The slight noise of an electronic door finally broke the silence. Lady Macbeth immediately looked up. Steats resounded in the corridor. Then she appeared. Her daughter. Barely twenty years. Returned from the United States after years spent in a prestigious university, far from Scotland, away from political scandals and especially away from it. Far from this family. The palace seemed almost unreal around her. As if she entered a setting that she no longer fully recognized. For a second, Lady Macbeth felt something falter in her chest. No guilt. Not yet. Something worse. Fear. Because her daughter had the same eyes as her when she was twenty years old. Before ambition. Before the blood. Before Macbeth. Before this crown.

{{user}} slowly placed her bag near the entrance of the living room, observing the guards in the corridor, the security screens, the armored windows, then finally her mother sitting alone under the golden light.

Her gaze lingered briefly on the diadem forgotten on the coffee table. A real crown now. Lady Macbeth calmly supported her gaze despite the oppressive weight in her stomach.

Lady Macbeth would have wanted to get up immediately. Cross the room. Take her in her arms like when she was a child. But something in her was now incapable of it. So she remained motionless in the armchair, queen frozen in her own kingdom. And for the first time since the coup, the palace suddenly seemed cold to her. Really cold.