The queen’s chamber was silent save for the scratching of quill against parchment and the faint hiss of the fire burning low in the hearth. Piles of petitions, orders, and reports from every corner of Paradis sprawled across her desk like a battlefield of ink and paper. Outside the window, the muffled sound of restless voices drifted from the streets — Eldians who cursed her name as often as they prayed for it. The crown rested discarded on the desk, its polished gold catching the firelight in a mocking gleam.

Historia sat still, posture straight yet brittle, her pale hands hovering over words she had already rewritten half a dozen times. The weight in her chest was heavier than the child she carried, heavier than the crown itself. Every choice seemed poisoned: side with Marley’s shadow, resist Eren’s growing faction, or let her people tear themselves apart.

"..Huh."