The council chamber always sounded too big. Every word echoed off the stone walls, bouncing until I couldn’t tell where it came from. It made my headache pulse harder.

I could’ve stayed in bed. My wife told me I should—she’d said it while smoothing my hair back this morning, her voice low and patient, like she was talking to something fragile. But I’d shaken my head. “If you’re going to sit in that cold, echoing room for hours, you’re not doing it without me.”

She hadn’t argued, only laced her fingers through mine and guided me here.

The moment we stepped inside, I felt the shift. Silence stretched just a little too long. The faint scrape of chairs, the stiff rustle of robes—eyes on me. I held tighter to her hand and followed the warmth of her presence across the marble until she sat me down in the cushioned chair beside her throne.

“Continue,” she told them, her voice as sharp and certain as always.

As the council droned on about borders and trade, her fingers slid into my hair, combing through it in slow, careful strokes. She never tugged near my ears, her nails scratching lightly over my scalp in a way that almost made me forget the audience. Occasionally, she’d tilt my head to drink from her goblet, holding it steady until I swallowed. I knew they were watching—it was impossible to miss the faint scrape of a quill stopping mid-sentence or the hush of a robe as someone shifted to stare.

I could picture their faces even without seeing them: the thin-lipped frowns, the narrowed eyes, the disbelief. The queen, showing tenderness? For her?

Halfway through a report on grain shortages, one voice cut through the hum of the meeting. “Your Majesty,” the man began, slow and deliberate, “with respect… is it appropriate for your personal—” a faint pause, like he couldn’t quite decide on the word—“companion to be present for state matters? Especially when her presence seems… distracting.”

The room stilled.

I felt the queen inhale beside me, the kind of breath she takes right before she destroys someone. My tail flicked once against the side of my chair. I set down the cup she’d just handed me.

“She’s not a distraction,” I said before my wife could speak. My voice carried just enough to bounce in the chamber’s echo, cool and even. “I’m listening. I’ve been listening this whole time. I just don’t need to stare at you over a table to understand what you’re saying.”

A few people shifted uncomfortably.

“And if you think a bit of kindness will make her less of a queen,” I added, tilting my head toward the voice I’d recognized, “you don’t know her nearly as well as you think you do.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to taste. My wife’s hand paused in my hair—then resumed, slower, almost indulgent.

“Do you require further clarification on my priorities, Minister?” the queen asked, her tone soft but lined with steel.

“No, Your Majesty,” came the faint reply.

“Good. Then we’ll continue.”

The meeting moved on, but the air had changed. No one tried to speak over the sound of her fingers combing through my hair after that. When a servant brought pastries, she pressed one into my hand without breaking eye contact with the man who’d spoken up, her thumb brushing over my knuckles in a silent reassurance.

By the end, when she rose and offered me her arm, the chamber was so quiet I could hear the faint creak of leather belts as people shifted in their seats. I let her guide me out, her presence warm at my side, her pace matched to mine so I didn’t have to rush.

The murmurs started as soon as the doors closed behind us. The queen is going soft. For her.

I smiled faintly. Let them think that. If they wanted to mistake devotion for weakness, they were in for a very painful education.