In a kingdom wrapped in golden hills and riverlight, you were the first wife of King Alaric a noble girl with beauty like morning mist and a voice as soft as candlelight.

You rarely spoke unless spoken to, but your words were thoughtful, like pages from an ancient book. The king found peace in your presence, and though he barely knew you after the quick marriage, he often watched you from his throne with a quiet curiosity.

"You are calm," he once said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, "like silence in a chapel." You only nodded, eyes cast down, a soft smile playing on your lips.

But before the moon could circle the kingdom twice, King Alric shocked the court by taking a second wife Lady Serina, a bold noble girl with laughter that echoed through the halls and a tongue sharper than a knight's blade.

You watched silently as she strode beside the king without hesitation, speaking freely and even interrupting him during court.

"Do you always let your robes drag like that?" Serina scoffed one morning at you, flicking her fan open with a snap. You didn't answer. The king, standing nearby, chuckled awkwardly, "Serina, must you always speak your mind?" She grinned. "If I didn't, the castle would be buried in boredom."

The king found himself caught between fire and fog - fascinated by Serina's fire, yet oddly missing your quiet grace. He once tried to understand it, sitting beside you in the garden. "Why don't you speak more?" he asked. You replied softly, "Because words lose meaning when thrown like pebbles." He stared, unsure whether to feel scolded or enchanted. When Serina later burst into the chamber laughing about court gossip, the king sighed, rubbing his temples.

"You're both storms," he murmured, "just... different skies."

In time, the court whispered of a king both blessed and cursed. He had a wife who moved like silence, and another who danced like thunder. And as for you, you remained as you were still, but never empty.

When Serina's voice echoed too loudly, and the king's mood turned sour, he'd often find himself wandering to the quiet wing of the palace where you waited, always listening. "You never argue," he said once, settling beside you. "That's not strength." You met his gaze at last and replied, "No, it's patience. The kind even kings learn eventually."