Honey to Stone

by Tooliewrites

Summary:

He chose her for a throne. She chose to root herself in his ruin."

The Kingdom of Rime is ruled by a king whose magic is cold, unyielding, and stone-born—he commands mountains, silence, and the judgment of law. His people fear him, his court serves him out of duty, and his heart has long been rumored to be carved from granite itself.

To stabilize a fracturing realm and repair tensions with the borderlands, he agrees to marry a woman of no noble blood: a beekeeper's daughter from the Brambles, where whispers say she speaks to trees and her bees follow her like familiars. Her magic is warm and thriving—everything his kingdom lacks. She's beloved by the people but mistrusted by his court.

What was meant to be a political union becomes something much more tangled. Her presence softens his halls. Her kindness warms his frozen court. Her power begins to awaken something old in the stone beneath the castle.

But not everyone wants peace. Whispers of an underground rebellion rise. Factions within the court want her gone.

Chapter 1

The bees were restless today. 

 

Melira let the veil fall over her face, approaching the hive with hands bare and unafraid. The air shimmered with golden bodies and soft hums, heat rising from the wax like breath. They parted for her. They always did. She whispered soothing lines under her breath, just as her father did. When the forest was whole, when the Brambles weren't burned and torched on the edges. When they still ruled themselves.

 

“Easy now. Clover’s late this year, I know. But the sun will turn soon.”

 

They pulsed around her in a soft cloud, brushing her skin like raindrops. One landed above her heart, its tiny legs tickling over her bare collarbone like a clock. She stilled, waiting, patient. Sudden movements made them scared, and she had been stung enough to know that they needed time to resettle before moving on. 

 

Once it had its say, Melira moved on, lifting the frame slowly. The honey and wax dripped off in golden beads, catching the light and filtering it over the ground. She pulled a scraper from her waist, running delicately down the honeycombs, collecting what came off in a small bucket on a stool. The bees let her, swirling around her like the wind. 

 

She worked in silence, letting the hum fill the space where thought might take root. The bees always knew before she did- storms, deaths, births, betrayals. If they were uneasy, it meant something was coming. Something she couldn’t scrape away with honey and calm hands. Just like the thoughts in her head.

 

Uneasy was the word of the day and escaping it was impossible. 

 

The messenger arrived yesterday. Some lord that she had never met before, tall and old, weathered in ways that out here seemed impossible. Melira met him with the grace that her bloodline once held- head high but not lofty, back straight but not tight, dressed in elegance but not overdone. The perfect picture of a lost kingdom. A bloodline that no longer is allowed to exist. 

 

He gave her the once over, nodding in approval before turning to her mother. Once the hand was waved, Melira gave her curtsy, as taught to do, and left. The doors closed behind her and she slid to the floor in the antechamber, pressing her ear to the door to overhear the conversation. 

 

“...His Majesty believes this is the best way forward. Lady Melira remains of noble blood, the people revere her. She is… acceptable.” 

 

Melira closed her eyes then, praying to the Gods that what she just heard was a lie. Some sort of sick joke that the world was playing on her. Acceptable . That’s all she was to the coldest human being to ever exist. To a man she had never once laid eyes on- she was acceptable . 

 

The bees pulled her back from the memory, stirring with her mood. A few zipped around her hair, angry with her own twist of emotions. She took a slow breath to calm them, to calm herself. Her fingers brushed the edge of the hive, replacing the frame back down. It was warm. Alive. Unlike the palace that she was to be sent to. 

 

With a sigh, Melira let go of the bees, allowing them to return to their daily lives without her. She didn’t think they were coming with her, she didn’t dare hope they were. Her mother always detested that she spent more time with “bugs” than with people. If Melira was lucky, her mother wouldn't smash the hives once she left. 

 

She brushed the honey from her fingertips on the hem of her apron, sticky and golden, then stood. The bucket at her side sloshed gently as she lifted it, careful not to spill. The sun had climbed above the treetops now, slicing through the mist like a blade. The light made everything look deceptively calm. Like the Brambles hasn't been bleeding for years beneath Rime’s slow advance. 

 

The path home wound through thickets of the brambles that they land was named for, moss-covered stone lined the path, ensuring that she didn’t accidentally step off into the wilderness. Roots tugged at the old flagstones and fallen leaves rustled with whispers. The manor still loomed ahead- grey, lichen-covered, stubborn in its survival. Just like the Brambles. 

 

Once this had all been sovereign land. Before the Kingdom of Rime marched south in their froststeel and soldiers in polished bone-white armor. Before her father and his father before him fell in the Second War, blades in hand, crown shattered at their feet. Back when the Brambles still held the title of the Halethorne Dominion. 

 

Now it was no more than a territory. Annexed. Tamed , they claimed. 

 

Rime called it a peacekeeping treaty. Milira called it a surrender forced at swordpoint. 

 

The Kingdom of Rime was colder than the climate. Built into the cliffs above a frozen sea, its people believed in order, stonework, and bloodlines as sharp and brittle as the icicles that never melted. Their priests dealt in silence and shadow, in metal that never warmed and laws that never bent. 

 

The Brambles were nothing like that. Their beliefs bloomed wild through root and river, through skin and song. It was older than written word and twice as stubborn. No wonder the court called them backwards. Uncivilized. Dangerous. 

 

And yet, when the flames ceased, the treaties and taxes silenced- Melira still walked among the hive-buzzed trees, with bees at her shoulder and name that couldn’t be erased. 

Lady of the Brambles. 

 

Her boots crunched over a scattering of brittle pine needles, her eyes drifted up to manor. Smoke curled weakly from the chimney. One of the servants had lit the hearth, despite the day not calling for it. If she had to guess, they had started preparing her chambers for travel. 

 

Melira swallowed hard. She didn’t want to see her childhood stripped bare. Didn’t want to find her traveling dress and cloaks laid out like burial shrouds. She slowed her step, letting her finger tips brush the leaves of a flowering hawthorn tree beside the path. The Brambles were quiet today. They sensed the stirring of something bad. Something coming. Something leaving. 

 

The ironwood doors of the manor groaned as Melira pushed them open. The scent of beeswax polish and woodsmoke greeted her, laced with lavender from the dried bundles hanging over windows. She stepped inside, brushing a curl of wind-tossed hair from her face and closed the door behind her with more care than force. 

 

The manor was colder than the air outside. Always was. Thick stone walls, inherited from older days, held a chill within them. In the summer it was wonderful, in the winter it was torture. 

 

“Lady Melira.” A voice from the shadow of the stairs called out to her in greeting. She turned towards it, already knowing who it was. Cassa, the head maid- and more importantly, the closest thing Melira had to a confidante. The older woman stepped forward, her graying blonde hair was pulled into the uniformed tight knot, her grey dress and white apron embroidered with her house symbol- a knot of roots- all overshadowed her aging grace. Her dark eyes were tight with concern as she pulled the bucket from her hands. “She’s in the solar. Hasn’t left since the rider departed this morning.” 

 

Melira lifted an eyebrow, “She wants me?” 

 

Cassa nodded, “She’s… in a mood.” 

 

“What else is new?” Melira muttered, then sighed, “I’ll deal with it. See that is stored properly please.” 

 

The older woman gave her a look that said tread lightly, then turned away. Both knew the dangers of keeping Melira’s mother waiting. She watched Cassa disappear into the doorway, the shadows wrapping around her. Then smoothed her skirts and made her way past the stairs to back of the manor. 

 

The solar was a sunlit room at the back of the house, half encased in glass planes that looked out into the twisting trees and roots that made up the Brambles. A room that was meant to hold life that was green and pure. But it wasn’t not anymore. Now most of the plants were dead, twisted and shriveled in that way that made you think that it had been abandoned. The shrine that once stood in the corner was now an empty table, most of the more valuable offerings had been given away to keep up the ruse that they had money. Her mother never truly cared for the religion anyway, saying it was “peasant speak”. Even if the evidence of their nature lived in her daughter, Lady Halethorne was a fervent disbeliever. 

 

Melira gave a quick bob, as instructed to do so since the moment she could walk. “Mother.” 

 

Lady Halethorne was once a beauty. But now, sitting by the tall window, her fingers wrapped around a chipped porcelain cup, spine straight despite the years- had grown out of it. Her silver hair was braided back in an intricate coil, her dark green crown starched within an inch of its life. She was as faded as some of the leaves in the room. 

 

“So,” she set the cup down with an audible clink, “you are capable of returning before dusk.” 

 

Melira fought the urge to roll her eyes, “I was with the hives.” 

 

“I’m aware,” her mother said with cruelty, “As were the servants. The ones who shouldn’t be asked to go searching for a grown woman in the middle of the forest like a common field hand.” 

 

She bit the inside of her cheek. Her mother knew precisely where she was. The jab was going to fall flat, Melira had to make sure of it. “You wanted to speak with me?” 

 

Lady Halethorne’s eyes sweeped up Melira’s sticky apron and stained brown dress, “We leave in three days. I’ve instructed the servants to pack lightly. The court dislikes ostentation from the conquered.” 

 

Melira stiffened, “You presume I’ve agreed.”

 

“You don’t have a choice.” 

 

“There’s always a choice,” Melira said quietly. 

 

Her mother narrowed her eyes, “You want a choice? Then either go as a willing bride or as a symbolic prisoner. Either way, you will be seen by the King’s side.” 

 

Melira gripped her apron, looking down at the floor. “Why now? After all these years of ignoring the Brambles, do they suddenly want to tie themselves to it?” 

 

“The King is not a stupid man. Your name still means something to the people here. He’s not marrying you , Melira. He’s marrying this land. Wrapping it in silk and honey and putting it in his gilded cage.” 

 

Melira tried to keep the break in her voice from being too loud, “You sound like you’re in favor of it.” 

 

Her mother’s voice was cruel and calculating. “I’m in favor of survival. We have no army, no allies, no throne. What we have is your face, name, and the last remnants of whatever you call that thing with the bees. He could have sent soldiers. Instead, he sent a proposal.” 

 

“ Acceptable ,” Melira echoed the word bitterly. 

 

“I’d rather you’d be acceptable than not.” Her mother snapped, and this time Melira did flinch. “That is a mercy these days.” 

 

The silence fell, heavy between them. Melira didn’t push the argument. What good would that do? Her mother was the coldness that seeped through these very walls. Even as a child, she had known that affection came with strings. That silence was preferable to rebellion. And when she didn’t obey- when she ran off into the woods for too long, when she refused her etiquette lessons or skipped out on needlework- punishment would follow. 

 

She’d be lucky for a stinging slap, then sent to her room with no supper. Once, when she was twelve and came home muddy and scraped from trying to fix a broken hive instead of sitting through a lunch with some merchant lord, she’d been stripped to her shift and whipped across the backs of her thighs with a birch switch. 

 

The scars had faded now. But the memory was still fresh. 

 

There was never any yelling. Not once. No anger. Just disappointment that feels like frostbite: slow, irreversible, and deep. No comfort after either. No balm or apology- Melira was told she didn’t deserve that. Only Cassa’s cold poultice in the dead of night, a sliver of honey cake from dinner pressed into her hands was the bit of comfort she had been given. 

 

Melira took in a breath, letting it out slowly. “May I go pack now? I’d like to bring some comfort from home.” 

 

Her mother waved a hand in dismissal. Melira didn’t look back. Her fists clenched at her side, the taste of honey still on her tongue. If she was to be a prize goat, she could at least pick out the collar. 

The door to her chambers closed with more force than necessary, the click of the latch loud in the quiet. The room was the same as it had always been- high windows draped in ivy green, pale stone walls, and furniture carved with bees and vines. A cage softened with beauty. But a cage nonetheless. 

 

The amount of times she would throw glass chalices at the walls was countless. 

 

She crossed to the wardrobe, yanked open the doors, and stared blankly at the rows of dresses inside. Gowns she never wore. Gifts from her mother, not out of kindness, but duty. Dresses meant to remind her of who she was supposed to be. Melira let out a breath through her nose and began to pack. 

 

She pulled out the simpler gowns first. Soft linen, warm cotton, and smooth silks- the kind that wouldn’t draw too much attention but still held the threads of home. Those were folded carefully and tucked into the trunk that had already been pulled out for her. Her fingers paused on a pale yellow dress tucked in the back, one her father had commissioned before his death on the battlefield. Before the war burned away all that she loved. She traced the stichting absently, then shoved it in the bottom, knowing if her mother saw it, the poor thing would be turned to rags. 

 

The next dress she reached for snagged her thumb- a fine brocade thing with boning like armor and pearls stitched into the bodice. Her mother’s taste, through and through. She stared at it for a moment then threw it across the room. Then crossing to it, she kicked it hard underneath her bed. It was childish, but that thing was the definition of gaudy. 

 

She collapsed on her bed, honey-brown hair fanning out around her like wings, the weight of the past day pressing against her chest. Dresses were folded like submission. Silence wrapped in silk. Her life, reduced to neat seams and measured hems. 

 

The bees that lived in a hive outside the window had quieted. That was never a good sign. 

Her head rolled to the shelves near the hearth, where jars of salves and infused honeys were stacked with care. Her eyes ran along the familiar glass, the faded labels she’d written in ink and pressed petals. She wouldn’t be able to bring all of them- there simply isn’t space, and the court would scoff at their simplicity. But, she could fit three in her trunk, tucked carefully between dresses. Standing, she collected the three she knew would be the hardest to leave behind: the calming balm Cassa taught her to make, a jar of spring honey from the lavender fields, and a strong antiseptic one she’d used to clean her wounds once, long ago. 

 

Let the King have his polished bride, she thought, But I’ll be damned if I show up empty-handed.

 

Books that had been hidden behind the curtain- her mother insisted that true born ladies do not read for fun- were collected. Herbcraft, soil lore, a tattered journal with sketches of pollen maps and hive clusters. Those she tucked beneath her gowns. Not contraband, not exactly, but nothing a new Queen should be carrying. 

 

The bees had taught her long ago: survival wasn’t about power. It was about persistence. Choosing what to carry, and what to leave behind. 

 

A knock startled her. 

 

“Milady?” Cassa’s voice, low and warm, “May I come in?” 

 

Melira crossed the room quickly and opened the door. The older woman stepped in, her eyes taking in the half-packed trunk, the tossed dress peeking out from under the bed, then Melira’s face. A curl of a smile came on Cassa’s face. 

 

“You threw the brocade one, didn’t you?” 

 

“I could’ve thrown it in the fire.” 

 

Cassa tucked a stray strand of her hair behind an ear, “Lucky, you don’t have one going.” She stepped more into the room, bending down and pulling the dress out from under the bed. “You’ve grown into something fierce, you know.” 

 

Melira dropped her eyes, “They called me acceptable .” 

 

“That’s wrong,” Cassa’s voice was steel, “You’re rare. Terrifying. More than they deserve.” 

 

That almost broke her. The words cracked something inside, like a soft part of a comb splitting under pressure. Cassa didn’t press. She simply reached into her apron and handed Melira a small, wrapped bundle. “Gingerbread. From the last of the clover flour. You’ll need something sweet when you get there.” 

 

Melira took it with both hands, blinking fast. “Thank you.” 

 

“Be a bee, Melira,” Cassa cupped her cheek, “Sting them where it hurts.” 

Chapter 2: Acceptable, Tolerable

 

The carriage smelled of rose oil and old paper. Her mother had insisted on it. Something about making the right impression. Melira sat stiffly beside her, hands folded in her lap, back straight as a blade. The motion of the wheels beneath them hummed a rhythm she couldn’t match- too fast for the bees, too slow for her heartbeat. 

 

She didn’t cry when she said goodbye to her bee hives. She didn’t sob when Cassa gave her one last hug. She barely glanced at the final border stone that they passed, carved with wildflowers. And she didn’t turn back when the last glimpse of the Brambles faded into mist and pine. She simply set her jaw and kept her breath steady. Grief could come later. 

 

Three days of slow travel and silence. Her mother only spoke when they crossed the kingdom proper. “You’ll keep your head bowed when you approach the King. The courtiers will be watching. They’ll already be whispering.” 

 

She didn’t reply. 

 

By the time the cold gates of Rime’s capital rose before them- spires sharp as thorns and windows glittering like frost- Melira had been digging her nails into her palms to keep the last bit of patience in. The city clung to a mountainside, all silver stone and steep steps, cold air curling through banners the color of blood and bone. 

 

It was beautiful in a distant, calculated way. A kingdom sculpted rather than grown. 

 

The carriage pulled through the outer wall and into the palace courtyard. Servants moved like ants, quick and polished. A line of guards waited near the steps, blades gleaming, armor etched with the mark of a cracked mountain, cut through with a sword. She felt her heart stop for a moment and her head grow light. This was to be her new home?

 

The door to the carriage opened, the guards forming a path for her to the monstrous metal doors of the palace. Her mother stepped out first, barely gracing the footman with a thank you. Then Melira. 

 

Her heart stopped for a moment, her head grew light and dizzy. It was so cold . It felt as if all the life had been sucked up into the air, whisked away in the wind. There was nothing warm here, nothing that spoke about the people living here. If this is what they wanted to do to the Brambles… Melira couldn’t bare the thought of that, 

 

Her mother turned to look at her, her gown flawless, her face serene. The picture of regal defeat. A conquered noblewoman who knew exactly how to fold herself into a conqueror’s hands. Melira took the final steps down from the carriage, hands automatically clasping in front of her. The traveling dress was a soft silver color, but to her it felt like she was wrapped in snow. Chilled and frozen all at the same time. 

 

“Lady Halethorne!” A voice rang out across the courtyard. A man was emerging from the metal doors. He wore dark robes, but clean shaven with sharp features that were bred for court. He practically skipped down the stairs, his dark gray cape flapping behind him like an absurd one-winged bird. “The King binds you welcome to Rime. I am Lord Merin, Master of Protocol. You are to be presented at dusk.” 

 

He came to a stop in front of them, his gaze flicking over her, taking in the silver traveling cloak and her pinned back hair, “And this must be the bride.” 

 

I have a name , she thought silently, but gave a small curtsy. “An honor, my lord. I am Mel-”

But she didn’t get the chance to finish, Lord Merin had turned back to her mother. “She is exactly as described.” His smile was tight and rehearsed, “She shall be taken and housed in the Rosewing Hall. A dress has already been made ready for her.” 

 

And that was that. He turned, forcing the two  to follow him. Guards closed themselves behind her like gates, closing her only prayer of going home. Melira kept her face passive, level, docile, just as her mother instructed her. Like a lamb head to slaughter, but beneath the surface her thoughts were like an angered hive. 

 

He didn't even let her finish her name . 

 

She was nothing to him. A symbol of defeat, a lackluster point of control. Her eyes narrowed on the man's back, slightly memorizing where the cuffs and collar of his coat ended, where skin peeled out. One sting, and he would drop like a rock. 

 

She moved beside her mother silently. Their steps echoed in the hall, but they sounded muffled, like even they knew that there should be any noise. The walk was cold, the walls depicted nothing but polished marble, clean, pristine. No ivy creeping in cracks, no roots making her stumble underfoot. No warmth. This place was built not for comfort, but control. 

 

The Rosewing Tower was on the eastern side of the fortress, and as assured by Marin, completely dedicated to her. A column of stone rising like a dagger into the sky. A servant opened the door with a bow, allowing entrance to Melira’s new cage. 

 

The room was clearly created to disguise what it was supposed to be. The walls were a pink stone, the floor a hard white marble, covered in thick fur rugs. A set of stairs started by windows that opened up to a terrance but instead of shooting straight up, it followed the curve of the wall, disappearing into the floor above it. Lush, but perfectly crafted furniture decorated the place, all of it seemingly too clean cut to look remotely comfortable. It didn't give a semblance of warmth. Just like the city. And to her belief, just like the King.

 

A prison with a plush couch, Melira thought, I must be the luckiest prisoner in the world. 

 

In the center of the room was the seamstress, the dress on a mannequin, both waiting for her to step into for the final fitting. Marin left them without so much as a bow, leaving the two women to the confines of their new home. 

 

“My lady,” the seamstress at least had the decency to bow to her, “Shall I help you dress?” 

 

Melira gave a tight nod, although she had hoped for a bath first. Her mother sat on one of those cold looking couches, her face was impassive. Melira stepped up to the pedestal, letting the servants and seamstress remove her clothing. She hated when others undressed her, it was unnerving. As if they could see everything that she tried to keep hidden away. But, her mother instructed her to be pliant and well mannered. 

 

The dress that was chosen for her was, in a word, ugly. It was ashen gray, with a silver gauze material overlying the skirt. The bodice was like an armored corset, the bones of it poking into her stomach like claws. It was adorned with tiny white gems that glittered when the cold light caught them. The servants all cooed that she looked regal, Melira thought she looked dead. 

 

“Do her hair in a braided crown,” her mother snapped directions at a servant who has picked up a brush, “Not a hair out of place.” 

 

Hair was brushed and braided, the servant’s fingers were gentle. Jewelry, simple silver bands in her wrists like malacles and a diamond necklace, adorned her. She felt like the icicles she had spied on the window outside. Glittery and cold. Adjustments to the dress was made. They needed to let out the waist just a bit and pull the sleeves up and inch. 

 

By the time she was done, her mother was nodding in approval. Then she stood, “Dusk is in a couple of hours. Stay here. Do not ruin that dress.” 

 

“Yes, Mother.” 

 

Her mother went up the stairs, a door slammed and she was finally alone. Except for the servants, who just stared at her. She didn't look at them. Not even as the final pin was slid into place and the last lace was knotted up. They stood there, hovering around her like flies. 

 

“You may go,” her voice came out cracked, without an edge. 

 

When they didn't move, Melira raised her voice, “I said, go .” 

 

They scurried out, the seamstress being the final one. All bobbed half-curtsy as they did, one trailed upstairs after her mother, probably hoping to curry favor by asking if she needed help. Once the room was empty, Melira dragged herself off the pedestal, the train of the dress dragging behind her like a shroud. She opened the window, ignoring how the cold bit into her bare shoulders. And she finally exhaled. 

 

The sound that came out of her wasn't pretty, wasn't polite. It was barely even feminine. But she has been holding it in ever since that messenger came and called her “ acceptable ”. Her eyes landed on the view. She had to admit, it was lovely. The mountains rose in the distance like a jagged crown, their greyness silhouetted on a soft blue and yellow sky. The sun was cradled by them, the last of its rays fanning out in long lines. The sky would be filled with stars tonight, and she was sure that this far north, the air was so clear she could count every single one. 

 

But she missed her bees, the smell of wet dirt, the sound of the birds and squirrels as they clamored over each other. She missed having sticky hands, the smell of lavender soap, her cozy bedroom. She wished she could still see it from here. To view the Brambles from this spot, just to remind her that they still existed.  

 

She leaned against the wall, using it to support herself. Tonight she was to meet the King. The cold, stone-hearted -and if rumors were right- cruel king. Her fingers tug into her arms. 

 

Let him try to be cruel, she decided. Melira was a bee. 

 

And bees sting when they feel threatened. 

______________________________________________________________________

The corridor outside the Hall of Presentation was quiet. Or it would be if Melira’s heart would just stop thundering inside her. It was also empty, save for the two guards that stood at the door, their eyes transfixed on some point ahead of them. Torchlight flickered across the stone walls, casting dancing shadows and catching the embroidered jewels on her dress. 

 

Melira stood just as she was told. Dead center, far enough back so when the doors opened they wouldn't hit her. Back straight, head high, eyes ahead. Nothing to portray a weakness. When the doors opened, she would lower her head, keep her eyes on her feet, praying that the red sting on her cheek had faded enough to make her seem compliant. 

 

She wondered what King Theron would think of her. Would he be happy that she was as submissive as she was meant to be? Would he be disappointed in her? Find her unacceptable? She’d caught glimpses of the other court ladies out her window. They were all very regal and elegant. Nothing like her. Maybe he’d finally admit openly that she was his prisoner. That would be a relief off her shoulders. 

 

The guards suddenly stiffened their posture, their hands gripping tighter at the poles they held. Melira’s brow twitched. Not enough to be noticed, just a flicker of confusion. Then she heard footsteps. 

 

They sounded like horse hooves, hard and sure of where they were falling. And when she turned her head, just slightly, her breath caught. 

 

King Theron. 

 

He was not at all what she was expecting. When they spoke of King Theron, she pictured him older, graying hair, maybe a beard. But the man that came from the shadows seemed to be rather carved from stone rather than born. 

 

He was tall- easily a head above most men- with a presence that filled whatever space he walked into. He didn’t need to speak to make himself known, he just had to exist . Tall, broad-shouldered, moving like someone ling used to being obeyed before speaking. There were no age lines on his scared face, just a faint scar near his jaw that whispered of violence he had survived. His eyes, when they found hers, were the kind that didn’t need to raise their voice to be heard. Pale gray, sharp with a black tint to them. They narrowed as he took Melira in, while her’s only widened. He wasn’t seeing her, he was calculating her, strategizing everything about her movements, the hitch in her breath. 

 

Melira felt that if she made the wrong move, her life would be over in a blink. 

 

She dropped into a low curtsy, eyes finally moving from the figure in front of her to her feet. She tried to even her breathing, tried to keep herself submissive, just as she practiced. 

 

“My King,” she said, voice thankfully coming out as smooth as water. 

 

Silence. 

 

Then: “Stand.” 

 

His tone was clipped, cold. She rose. He regarded her without expression. No warmth. Just calculation. 

 

“You are smaller than I expected,” he said. 

 

She kept her eyes politely lowered, focusing somewhere near the clasp of his black cloak. “Yes, Your Majesty. I imagine I would be.” 

 

He circled her once, then again. She was prey, he the hunter- inspecting the creature in his snare. “Your mother speaks highly of your obedience.” 

 

She resisted wrinkling her nose at that. Her mother would lie between her teeth on that. But if obedience was what he was expecting, that was what she would be expected to give. 

 

“I hope you find me acceptable,” the sentence left her mouth before she could stop it. It was soft, still submissive, but it made him pause in front of her. There was a shift in his expression- something subtle. Like the twitch of a tree branch before a storm. 

 

“We shall see,” he said at last. 

 

Melira offered nothing in return. No smile. No defence. Just a stillness that looked like submission and felt like the eye of a hive. 

 

“You shall be presented in the Hall shortly,” he continued, “Walk three paces behind me. Do not speak unless addressed. Smile, if you can do so without shaking.” 

 

She inclined her head, “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

 

He turned, the dark length of his cloak trailing behind him, signaling to the guards to open the doors. Melira followed. Three paces behind. A good little offering. Her chest buzzed with that same buzz she got when she faced her mother in an argument. That knowledge that regardless of the situation, she would win. 

As the great doors opened, the thunder in Melira’s chest shifted- no longer fear, not quite defiance either. Anticipation, perhaps. The kind a fox might feel before stepping into a wolf’s den, knowing the trap but choosing to enter anyway. The light that spilled from the Hall of Presentation, silver and burning. Braziers flanked the carpeted aisle, the flames dancing against polished stone and tall, stained-glass windows. At the far end, high upon his throne of iron and ashwood, waited for the king’s council, and the eyes of the court- all turned toward the entrance. She spied her mother stationed towards the front, Lord Merin next to her. The look on Lady Halethorne’s face was clear: Do not disappoint me . 

 

Theron walked forward, unhurried, the hem of his cloak whispering over the velvet runner. Melira followed at the instructed distance, her head bowed, her footsteps measured to match the beat of the drums echoing faintly from the far end of the hall. She hoped, to the watching lords and ladies, she looked every bit the docile daughter of the Brambles: soft-spoken, beautifully dressed in cold greys and snow diamonds, hair pinned back in that intricate crown braid that bared the vulnerable curve of her neck. A symbol of peace. A symbol of surrender. 

 

But inside? Inside, Melira was counting every step. Every face. Every soldier’s position. The hum beneath her breastbone- silent to anyone else- was her only anchor. The bees were quiet now. Observing. Waiting. Which meant it was time for her to do the same. 

 

Theron halted before the steps of the dias. Melira did the same, dropping into another curtsy, so deep that she was practically sitting on the floor. Her legs shook under her own weight, but she held it. Heard the silence swell around them. The weight of expectation pressed down like another stone in the folds of the dress. 

 

“Lady Melira Halethorne of the Brambles,” the herald announced, somewhere to her left, “Daughter of Lady Eardine Halethorne, offered in alliance and goodwill.” 

 

Offered . Like a lamb. A bribe. 

 

Melira rose as she’d been instructed, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered. She felt Theron’s gaze shift to her again, but he said nothing for a long breath. 

 

“Until the wedding,” Theron announced, his voice carrying above the crowd, “Lady Melira shall be housed in the Rosewing Tower.” 

 

He leaned down slightly, picking up her hand and pressing a cold kiss to the back of it. There was no affection there. It was barely even chaste. Then quiet enough for only her to hear it, “I’d say you're acceptable .” 

 

The shiver that ran down her back was a mix of disgust and fear. But her spine straightened nonetheless. She kept her face neutral. No flicker. No smile. Not even a twitch of an eyelash to betray that she heard him. But the bees were stirring again. 

 

Acceptable. 

 

The kiss on her hand lingered like the feeling of slime just beneath her skin. 

 

The courtiers began to murmur in hushed approval or disapprovals behind their jeweled masks and ceremonial veils. She could feel the weight of a hundred assessments, silent judgments tallying every inch of her, every syllable spoken. They saw a girl being handed over like a gift. A piece of paper that signed off on a larger game. 

 

Let them think of me as acceptable , she thought, Let them see right through me. 

 

Theron turned from her there, ascending the final steps of the dias to take his throne. The arch of iron and ashwood loomed behind him like mountains in the mist. Melira stood at the base, silent and still, until the herald’s voice boomed again, dismissing the court. The tension snapped like a rope. Murmurs turned into movement, the scrape of shoes against marble, the faint chime of court music drifting in from the side halls. Somewhere, her mother was watching and waiting. Melira hesitated, she wasn’t sure what to do. This wasn’t part of her training, the aftermath never was. 

 

Finally deciding that she should step back, retreat into a crush of politics and painted smiles, Theron spoke again. 

 

“Stay.” It was not a request. Melira looked up at him, his eyes were hard. A chair, plush but not as elegant as his throne, was produced, next to him. Ornamental. A place of visibility without power. Like everything else. “Sit.” 

 

It was not a request, it was an expectation. 

 

She swallowed, her feet shaky as she made her way up the dias. Then, carefully, she lowered herself with a grace born from practice, not ease. Her hands folded in her lap, her face a studied calm. He watched from the corner of his eye, but she gave him nothing to read. Her stillness, her silence- they weren’t a rebellion. She never could rebel. It was obedience that held its breath. 

 

“You’re quiet,” he said after a long pause. 

 

“Would you like to converse, Your Majesty?” Her tone didn’t shift. Not cold. Not warm. Just questioning. 

 

He made a small humming noise but didn’t answer. Instead he just leaned back on his throne, one hand resting against a carved claw armrest. His gaze drifted towards the court that still buzzed below them. But Melira could feel him assessing her. Measuring her silences. She stared straight ahead, eyes focused somewhere just above the heads of the nobles still lingering, pretending not to watch the newly betrothed pair. She could feel their curiosity buzzing, although it was unfamiliar in comparison to her bees’ buzzing. Mostly pomp and teeth beneath silk and civility. 

 

Theron said nothing for a long while. The silence between them stretched, as taut as a drawn bow. 

 

“I want to make sure you realize,” his voice was low, and was still not looking at her, “you’re not what I expected.” 

 

She let that linger. He had stated that earlier, but now it felt more like a silent accusation. Not aimed at her, but an accusation. “I am what I was raised to be,” she answered. 

 

“Hm.” A noncommittal sound again. Perhaps approval. Perhaps boredom. “That doesn’t answer my observation.” 

 

She turned her head slightly then, just enough to be seen doing it, not enough to be bold. “Would you prefer I be something else?” 

 

Now he glanced at her. Brief, cutting. The kind of look that made Melira want to disappear into the chair’s hard cushion. “I’ll make that decision, once I know what you are.” 

 

She bowed her head again, acceptance, submission. “Of course, Your Majesty.” 

 

Another beat passed. The torchlight caught his crown- forged in a black silver, etched like curling frost, a single garnet settled between his eyebrows. She watched him from beneath her lashes. He was cold, certainly. But not dead. Not numb like the rumors claimed. There was tension in him, one that she felt a connection to. She couldn't name it, not yet, but it was there. 

 

He leaned closer to her, a hand bracing lightly on his chin, “You will attend the council meeting tomorrow.” Again, not a request. She was beginning to think he never made those. “You will not speak, you will not engage. But you will listen.” 

 

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” 

 

“I find it useful to observe what others view is beneath tolerable.” 

 

Her heart skipped a beat. What did that mean? Was it a threat? An observation? A compliment? She got the sense his words always meant something, so this was no throw away line. 

 

“Then I hope you find my presence tomorrow… tolerable.” Her voice stayed measured, firm. Only a slight hesitation, but one that weighed a thousand times heavier than the words that were spoken. 

 

Only then did she see the lift in the corner of his mouth, the glint in his eye turning playful, but only for a second. In fact, if anyone asked her, she would deny it happening. “We’ll see.” 

 

Her eyes turned back to the courtiers. They were filling out one by one. All curtseying or bowing slightly despite him not paying any attention. Even the council had started making their leave, one escorting her mother out with them. Melira folded her hands tighter in her lap. The hum in her chest shifted. She could do this. 

 

She has to.

Chapter 3: Listen, Watch, Learn

Notes:

TW: Physical Abuse

She was dismissed as soon as the last lord left, the King barely acknowledging her good-bye. Two silent attendants walked her back to the Rosewing Tower, the gilded pink cage that had been deemed her home. They didn’t introduce themselves, but she was sure they had been assigned to her by some head of the house that had yet to make their appearance. They moved like shadows and left her alone like ghosts, closing the heavy door behind them with a soft click.

She was alone. No eyes. No watchers. No mother. No king.

Finally.

Her first breath without performance clawed at her throat like it forgot how to be drawn. She didn’t realize how tight she’d been holding herself until her arms fell to her sides. Even then, she didn’t quite exhale. Not fully. The air was still too perfumed, still, too clean. Her lungs didn’t trust it yet.

Her bedchamber was everything her station demanded. A bed carved from pale whitewood, an armoire inlaid with rose quartz and ivory, velvet drapes the color of dusk. There were no bees buzzing outside her window, no greenery adorning the walls. No wilderness. It was curated, manicured, and exquisitely lifeless.

She yanked out the pins holding the brain up, throwing them on to the arimore without really caring where they landed. Then she peeled off the dress like a second skin, this time laying it gently on the bench at the foot of her bed. She didn’t want to destroy a dress she might have to wear again. Her shoes got flipped across the room. The silent servants or attendants can clean up after her. She was betrothed to royalty now, that was the role she needed to play.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror. She was now in her shift, thin, soft, and not meant to be seen by anyone’s eyes. She didn’t care. Her honeyed hair now fell like a waterfall, all soft waves and dark in the moonlight. Her brown eyes were wide, doe-like, but hard. Her sun-kissed skin from spending too much time outdoors was almost pale. She finally looked like herself.

Her feet were silent on the bare floor, soaking in the coldness as she crossed to the window and pressed her palm to the cold glass. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead into it. It felt nice and the buzz beneath her breastbone flickered to life again- faint, but certain.

She closed her eyes.

The silence here was different. Not the charged silence of the court, not the brittle one of her mother’s drawing rooms. This silence was empty. And dangerous. And hers.

She whispered, “I’m here.” It was a statement. A challenge. A promise.

Melira wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there, letting the moon wash over her, when there was a hard knock on her door. It opened without her permission, which made it clear that her mother had entered.

Lady Eardine Halethorne entered rooms like a blade drawn from a sheath- quiet, gleaming, dangerous. Her gown was a darker shade of storm than Melira’s had been, her hair slicked into a bun so tight it could slice. She did not glance around the room, only at Melira- half undressed, barefoot by the window, her hair unbound.

“Put something on,” her mother snapped, “You are no longer some wild creature now that you’ve been handed over.”

Melira didn’t move, just turning her head back to the city that sprawled out before her. “I didn’t know I’d have company.”

“What did he say to you?”

Melira didn’t answer right away. The conversation with King Theron felt too personal to actually share, too intimate. But lies with her mother always ended up messy. “He said I was acceptable.” A half-truth, that was one thing he said.

“There was more.”

Melira turned around, wrapping her arms around her chest. “There was not.”

The silence between them stretched, taut and thin. Not like the stretched silence that she experienced between Theron and her earlier, but more like waiting for the snake to strike.

“You will not lie to me,” her mother hissed.

“I’m not-”

The slap was hard, stinging, and sharp. Something warm bloomed on her lip, and tapping it gently with a finger, Melira found her lip had been cut open. Her mother didn’t remove the ring. She looked down at her feet for a moment, collecting herself quickly, before looking up at her mother again.

“You will not make a fool of me.” Her mother’s breath was hard and fast, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother.” Melira said softly.

Lady Halethorne stared at her for one long moment, searching for a reaction. When Melira failed to provide any, she turned on her heels and walked out. When the door slammed shut behind her, Melira didn’t cry.

Crying doesn’t solve anything. Instead she just fell backwards on her bed, closing her eyes. In her chest, the bees were no longer waiting. They were watching. Listening.

They were angry.
____________________________________________________________________________

The next morning arrived like a storm smothered in silk-quiet, but heavy with threat. Melira was dressed and fed before the sun was fully in the sky. She didn’t want help, but didn’t turn the servants away when they came in with the food tray. They then opened the wardrobe, shifting through until they found a dress that they must’ve liked.

It was pretty, one that she might’ve picked for herself. A pale gold, embroidered with pale white flowers, long flowing sleeves. The fabric whispered and shimmered with each step, it was delicate and gentle. The complete opposite of the dress she was wearing yesterday. But Melira felt none of its delicacy. They let her hair stay down, pinning only a few pieces back with a white pearl. Her face was calm in the mirror. That same studied calm she’d worn the night before.

Her lip bore the thin slice of red from her mother’s ring. The servants tried to cover it, she waved them off.

The buzz in her chest was more alive today. Not with panic, not exactly, but not with calm peace either. It was a waiting, watching kind of buzz. She pinned two pearl earrings to her ears and chose a golden necklace that had a single pearl on the end. It might be over done, not what was required. A golden trophy.

As she stepped into the hall, carefully avoiding her mother, the silent attendants were waiting, wordless and still. They both bobbed a small bow to them, but that was all that they gave. They began walking before she could ask where they were going. Down corridors dressed in centuries of polished stone and velvet. Up staircases that spiraled like a snake ascending towards power. Every path felt carved by unseen hands long before she was born. She tried to memorize it, wanting to have some sense of belonging. But it was impossible. Everything looked the same.

The doors to the council chamber loomed ahead- black wood carved with old sigils, frosted at the edges as though the cold king’s magic touched even the hinges. Two guards stood on either side. The attendants left her there, no direction on what to do.

One the guards opened the door, letting her in with silent permission. Melira took in a breath and entered. Theron was already seated, obviously. He did not rise when she entered but the other five did. His crown caught the light that streamed in from the high windows, that solidary garnet glinted like a drop of blood.

He gestured to the empty chair beside him. Not a throne. Not a second seat of authority. A symbol. Ornate and gilded like last night, but deliberately smaller. Beside him, where no one would mistake her place in the room. Melira curtsied once, then moved forward with that same careful grace. She could feel all the eyes on her- sharp and unrelenting. She ignored them. Her body lowered into the chair, hands folded once again in her lap. The council sat.

Right when a man on her right started to speak, Theron grabbed her chin and turned her towards him. His finger was gloved, but she could feel the hard coldness through it. Her heart started thundering again, her breath coming in short as he studied her face. His thumb grazed the cut on her lip. He did not speak, didn’t acknowledge it more than that, and released her chin. He nodded to the man and he started speaking.

“Listen carefully,” King Theron whispered under his breath, “These are the men who think they rule me.”

Melira’s eyes widened slightly, but she stayed still. She listened.

The man on her right was lean, with skin that showed he was from the coast: dark and weathered. He wore the crest of a wave overcoming a ship, Melira distantly recognized it as the symbol for Seamond, meaning that this man, with his blonde hair and blue eyes was Lord Cern Walton. His eyes flicked over to her, hesitating then restarting his spiel.

“Your Majesty,” he stood, unrolling a map of his coastland. “The smugglers are getting bolder-too bold for my liking. Three of your salt mines have already fallen, and I'm sure they won't be the last ones. I request funds for a blockade, protect what we have by guarding the mouth of the bay, only letting in those with proper paperwork work.”

No one looked at her. Why would they? She was here to listen. To be decoration.

King Theron didn't flinch, his eyes on the map. His voice though, when he finally spoke was deceptively calm.

“No.”

“But Your Majesty-”

“I will not spill more blood and gold for your fight,” Theron spoke as if the matter was settled. “Besides, the coast has been too dramatic for my tastes these days.”

Lord Cern opened and closed his mouth like a fish. When he finally spoke, she could see the sweat beading on the man's forehead, “The salt mines are good money for you. They bring in extra income tax. The people rely on them-”

“Lady Halethorne.” Theron turned to her.

It took Melira a beat too long to respond. She raised her head, looking around the table surprised to find everyone's eyes on her. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

Theron inclined his head in the direction of the map, “Your thoughts on this?”

A test. He was testing her. Thank the Gods she had been paying attention.

She swallowed a lump in her throat, taking a moment before answering. The silence around her was as sharp as a sword to her neck. “Smugglers are parasites, not armies. Give them what they want and they will take until there is nothing. Starving them and they scatter. Public retaliation will give us control of the coast, but it will cost peace elsewhere.” She let the words settle, “I say you cut away the inland buyers. It would be more… effective.”

Theron sat back in his chair, a glimmer of something on his face. The councilors all glanced between us, measuring if the king approved of my response or if he was repulsed by it.

“That’ll take months,” Lord Cern’s eyes narrowed.

Melira didn't look at him, “But it will work.”

Theron didn't blink, “It is an idea.” And just like that the conversation was over. The subject had been dropped. “Next.”

The meeting continues like that. A lord would stand, ask for a favor, a short discussion and then Theron would turn to her. He made no decisions, nothing real at least. The shift in the room was evident, suddenly eyes were on her constantly, seeing if the plans they proposed met her approval. The first time it happened, she considered it a coincidence, the third? She knew it was intentional.

Theron wouldn’t argue, he would simply listen. Then turn to her and ask in a cool, level voice: “Your thoughts, Lady Halethorne?” or “Do you agree?”. Never stating his approval for her thoughts but seemingly favoring them as he would move on once she spoke.

She gave careful answers. Never too sharp or soft. Enough to show she was paying attention, listening the way he had instructed her to. Enough to prove that she knew how to tiptoe that line of power. She only needed to cite precedent once when a lord tried to break a treaty that was written a few years prior. The Lord has grown pale at her words, the King only hummed.

She didn't feel like decoration anymore. She felt like a queen. Melira knew that this was a test, that was evident from the start. But it made her feel stronger, the buzz in her chest flowing down to her fingertips. If she was at home, the bees would’ve come running. And what was worse was when she would chance a glance at Theron, the look on his face would make her breath hitch.

He seemed to like watching her.

And she hated how steady it made her feel.

The final Lord stood at the left of the King. He was too fat, too large to be ignored, his face too long and wobbly. The skin, too loose. She could smell a faint tang of wine coming from him, but resisted the urge to cover her nose.

He presented a trade deal and apparently went in only a few months ago, between the viners in the west and the merchant guilds. Apparently there was a dispute over the prices. His voice was thick, and it slurred every so often, but his tone was no less biting. He clearly expected Theron to wave it off, let him deal with it on his own.

Instead, Theron didn't even give his noncommittal hum, he just turned to Melira and asked, “Your thoughts, Lady Halethorne?”

The older Lord bristled.

She thought for a moment. Trade disputes were normal in the Brambles, and she had grown up watching the merchants and farmers come to their agreements. It was rare for her house to ever step in.

“If the wine is as good as the viners say,” She spoke softly, slowly, very demure. “Then leave the prices as they are. Merchants don't ask for more than they think they can sell for. If the product is worth the price, they’ll survive. If not?” She shrugged, “Then it’ll be a very difficult winter.”

Theron gave his first true smile that she had ever seen. His eyes were filled with what she could only assume was pride. She passed the test.

“Council dismissed.”

The councilors stood, each giving a stiff bow as they walked out. Some looked at her with a new found wonderment, others completely ignored her. Melira wasn't sure what to do now. She had a dress fitting for the wedding, but she had no desire to return to her cage. The bees were too active for her to go and deal with her mother right now.

“Come,” a gloved hand extended itself into her line of vision. She glanced up. Theron wasn't looking at her, but it was his hand that was being offered.

She took it lightly, as if he was made of glass. He led her to a side door she had completely missed when she entered. It was small, easy to overlook if you didn't know it was there. Once she was standing, she used her free hand to smooth the wrinkles from her dress.

Melira followed him, her hand not leaving the gentle hold of his. There was no intimacy, not true emotion behind it, just simply a King leading a Lady. But still, she couldn't help but wonder if this was a sign that he had some kindness towards her.

He pushed the door open, letting her hand drop. The room was small, large arches with swirling stone vines that imitated the draping ivy in her home, and looked out across the courtyard. White curtains fluttered in the breeze, the chill rippling through her. There was a small round table, already laden with fruit, bread, and tea. Two chairs sat opposite each other, neither more impressive than the other.

Theron took the far seat, then pointed to the other. A silent command. One Melira followed without hesitation. She sat across from him, the soft rustling of her dress settling the only sound for a long moment. Theron took off his gloves, his left hand had a jagged looking scar across the back of it. He poured the tea himself-no servants, no pomp- just quiet, precise movements. In the light, she spied a small scar that ran just under his right eye, faint enough to be mistaken as a shadow. Then he poured her a cup, handing it over. The steam curled up between them, warm against the cold threading through the air.

For a while they ate in silence. Melira found the tea to be sweet, not bitter like she was expecting. The food was good, the fruit surprisingly fresher than she had thought. Theron took a slice of bread and smeared some white cream on it, motions unhurried. It was the most peaceful scene she had since her arrival.

When he broke the silence, it took all the energy in her to not jump. “What did you make of them?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “The councilors?”

Theron nodded once, as if it was obvious. Melira considered for a moment, debating on whether to lie or to tell the truth. “They were… interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

“They spoke with a boldness of men who think they’ve earned the right to.”

Theron leaned forward, a twitch on the side of his mouth, “Explain.”

“They came asking for favors, not with solutions,” she worded herself carefully, placing her teacup down and avoiding his eyes. “Only a few seemed to have actually considered the broader kingdom. The rest think that their land is the whole world.”

“Don’t all men think that way?”

Melira glanced up at him. A test. Another damn test. She could tell by the way his face was as impassive as a piece of marble. “When it comes to ruling a land,” she finally spoke, her voice more even and confident that it had been, “the needs of the many must outweigh the needs of the few.”

Theron sat back, as if considering her words. She took the moment to take a bite from the apple slices on her plate. If the test was completed, she wanted to know if she passed or not.

“In your opinion, Lady Halethorne, who was the most dangerous person in that room?”

Melira hesitated. The most obvious answer was him. The King was always the most dangerous person. He was the judge, the jury, and the executioner. One wrong move, look, or word and the life that a person curated was over before they knew it. But that couldn’t be what he was asking for, it was too obvious. Her other choices were the various lords, Lord Cern sprung to mind. Any of them could be a contenter of the throne if Theron dropped dead without an heir. But again, too obvious.

“I was.” She finally decided.

Theron waited, his eyes not leaving hers. He didn’t blink, “Explain.”
Melira held his gaze, willing her voice not to falter, “I didn’t come asking for anything. I didn’t come with complaints or demands. I listened, as instructed. I understood silence when it was given. And when you asked for my thoughts, I gave them.” Her fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the table, “And every man in that room saw you value it. That makes me dangerous.”

Theron leaned back, “For a girl who never had court exposure, you certainly have a skill for it.”

“I’m used to bees, Your Majesty,” she replied, her voice quiet, controlled. “I don’t cry when I get stung.”

That earned her a twitch in his lips again. Not quite a smile, not quite approval, but something close. The wind outside tugged at the white curtains as silence fell on them again, their ghostly shapes breathing before settling. Theron picked up his tea, but didn’t drink. His eyes never left hers.

“Who hurt your lip?” he said at last, as if they had never strayed from the subject.

Melira subconsciously covered it quickly with her hand, surprised. He had noticed it before the meeting but didn’t say anything. Again, she wondered if telling the truth was worth it. She was sure she wasn’t the only lady who suffered violence from her family as discipline. She was just the only one who wore the scars publicly.

She must’ve been silent for a lot longer than she thought because he repeated the question, although it was more clipped this time. “Who hurt your lip?”

“It was an accident,” the lie slipped out before she could stop herself. “A clumsy mistake.”

“She hits you often then?” he asked. Melira jerked up at him, eyes wide. He saw right through her.

Melira didn’t answer. Not directly. “She thinks it keeps me obedient.” The word was more bitter on her tongue than the word “acceptable”.

“And does it?”

She met his eyes, “In your opinion, Your Majesty, does it seem like it works?”

Theron’s smile was slow, emerging like a sword from a sheath. “I certainly hope not.” He shifted himself so he was sitting with one arm propped up on his knee, studying her with a different kind of silence now. The calculation had ended, he looked at her with recognition. The tea between them had gone lukewarm, but neither reached for it.
“You’re clever,” he said, finally. “Too clever for your own good.”

Melira gave a slight bow of her head, letting her gaze drop submissively even as the smallest glimmer of defiance sparked behind her lashes. “I was taught to be useful.”

“Useful,” he echoed, voice wry. “And acceptable. And tolerable.”

She looked up at him, “Are those things to your liking?”

The corner of his mouth twitched again, that half-smile returning. “I would prefer more.”

A pause hung between them, stretched like spun sugar- fragile and tense. She didn’t know what came next. A lecture? A warning? Dismissal?

Instead, he pushed his hair back with a soft scrap and stood. “Walk with me.”

Melira rose carefully, smoothing her skirts once more. He didn’t offer his hand this time, but she followed him through a narrow arch that led into a long corridor opening to a stone garden below. Carved trellised vines clung to columns, color rock sculptures imitated flowers in stone lined beds. She wondered if there were any living plants in the castle. If there were gardeners that tended to a private space filled with greenery. She hoped one day, she might find it.
He said nothing for several minutes, just leading her around. She said even less.
Silence never bothered her. It was familiar. The bees in her hives didn’t hum constantly- sometimes the hive went quiet, a stillness before a storm. Melira found that in silence there was a sense of peace, a moment to collect thoughts that had run astray.

Finally, when they reached the other end of the stone garden, he spoke again. “When you are mine-”

She blinked. The words were too casual for their weight.

He continued without looking at her, “- no one will ever raise a hand to you.”

Melira didn’t answer right away. A pulse flickered in her throat, but she forced her expression to stay as smooth as possible. She didn’t know if it was a threat or a promise. Or, if, terrifyingly, it was neither- just fact.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Theron glanced at her then, eyes sharp. “Gratitude wasn’t what I was looking for.”

She didn’t look away, “Then what were you looking for?”

He stopped walking. She nearly ran into him.

“I don’t know yet,” he said, voice low. “But you’ll figure it out.”

Then without further explanation, he turned and kept walking, leaving her step just behind.

Chapter 4: A Hummingbird and a Queen Bee

Notes:

Hello,

Just wanted to say thank you for reading this!

The gown was cold even before it touched her skin. 

 

Melira stood in the center of the Rosewing Tower, arms raised as the tailor’s assistants adjusted stiff bodice seams and ran long fingers down the silk-lined sleeves. The dress was already half-fitted to her measurements- designed in advance, long before her consent had ever entered the equation. 

 

White. Of course it was white. The color of sacrifice. Of purity. Of surrender. 

 

If Melira had her choice of a wedding dress, she would have chosen one the color of honey. It would have a full, flowing skirt with a fitted bodice that had an elegant, low neckline and golden embroidery depicting intricate flowers and leaves. The sleeves would be the only thing that was white lace, sewn into a honeycomb shape. She would have even embroidered it herself. Instead, this dress, with it’s sharp bodice and plunging neckline, slim skirt, all of which was embroidered with sharp diamonds and pearls- was the opposite of what she dreamed about. 

 

She stared ahead, past the seamstress’s shoulder, at the tall mirror that had been propped against the wall. Her reflection looked like something carved from bone. Hands tugged and pinned around her ribs, her thoughts slipped back to the dining room. To Theron. To the way his fingers had brushed her chin so carefully. His expression, unreadable. 

 

She should’ve flinched. Should’ve stepped away. 

 

Instead, she’d leaned in, just slightly- a foolish moth to a deadly flame. But he didn’t comment. Not right away. And he asked for her opinion , like it seriously mattered. And when she gave it, he’d listened. No smile or praise, but he didn’t dismiss her words either. Then he stated he no one would touch her? Called her his ? 

The whole day so far had been unsettling. 

 

She could still feel his fingers on her lip, gloved and ungloved. His hands weren’t cold, like she had expected. They were oddly warm. In fact, a piece of her craved to feel it again, despite the bees telling her to avoid him at all cost. She hadn’t known what to expect from a king who ruled winter and iron, but she hadn’t expected… that. 

“Higher, my lady,” the seamstress murmured. Melira raised her arms again, obedient. The silk scraped against her underarms. The pins bit too close to the bone. 

 

“Stop squirming,” her mother snapped from across the room, where she was seated like a specter in shadow- ever watching, ever judging. 

 

Melira wasn’t squirming, but she stiffened herself more. Her gaze flicked again to the mirror, at the stranger she barely recognized in white and silver. She would bow. She would curtsy. She’d play that quiet, dutiful girl. For now. 

 

Theron’s last words rang in her head. “I’d prefer more .” The words had played like a blade’s edge in her mind since he said them. Not cruel. Not kind. Just sharp. Measured. 

 

Calculating. 

 

What exactly did he mean by more ?

 

A knock interrupted the quiet bustle. One of the servants answered, and a girl stepped through the open doorway. Melira sized her up in the mirror, watching as she curtsied. 

 

She was pretty, in the same way a rose was. Her blonde hair curled in that effortless way down her shoulders, her skin was the same darkness as Lord Cern’s which indicated she was from the coastal areas. She wore a pink dress, with what looked like seashells embroidered along the sleeves. She stood, Melira could see that her eyes were a piercing blue. 

 

“My Lady, I apologize for the interruption,” she said, “I am your lady-in-waiting, Sera Avton, of Glasta.” 

 

Glasta, their sigil was a hummingbird with a flower. Melira studied the girl. Her house was small, she knew that, scooped up from when the Kingdom of Rime conquered the western lands. 

 

“Wonderful,” he mother stood, “Let me show you my belongings-” 

 

“I apologize,” Sera’s voice was tight but sweet, “I am here to serve the future Queen, Lady Melira Halethorne.” 

 

The room stilled. Melira turned just enough to angle both figures in the mirror. Her mother’s face had grown pale, her mouth turned downward as if she just bit into something sour. Melira had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. 

 

Sera held her ground at the threshold of the door, eyes only on Melira, her hands clasped in front of her. She was waiting for orders. A direction. An acknowledgement. The line in the velvet and marble flooring had been drawn. 

 

“May I turn?” She asked the tailor, not wanting to ruin his work, when he nodded she spun fully. “Come, Lady Sera, let me greet you properly.” 

 

Sera came forward, and Melira caught details that she missed. A slight splattering of freckles, her curls were more windblown, the faint scent of roses. She was pretty but in that youthful, garden way. Her gaze kept flicking back and forth between the Melira in the mirror to the one standing before her. Absolutely resolute with her respect. 

 

Interesting. Very, very interesting. 

 

Melira couldn't outwardly question who appointed the girl, but she had a hunch this was no accident. She was too sure of her place here, too confident that she was addressing the correct person. This was a girl raised in court. 

 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Sera,” Melira finally spoke, keeping her tone soft and gentle. “As soon as my fitting is done, you must join me for some tea.” 

 

“I would be honored, my Lady,” Sera curtsied low then made a motion to move back just a step. 

 

The tailor directed Melira back to the correct position, but she watched Sera from the corner of her eye. Sera held herself in complete grace, her eyes never leaving Melira once. Her mother, on the other side of her, was clearly upset. Her mouth pressed into that thin line she got when Melira did something unpleasant during dinner back in the Brambles. 

 

Melira let the silence stretch, allowing the tailor to work. She kept her arms raised as instructed, her spine a line of tension beneath the heavy bodice, but inwardly, her thoughts churned like a river. Her mother’s narrow gaze burned into her from the chair from the window, but Melira didn’t meet it. She watched Sera instead- this soft-spoken, garden-blushed girl from Glasta had just made it abundantly clear who she answered to. 

 

And that shift in power might have been slight, but it was seismic. 

 

Melira didn’t let herself smile, not fully. But the seed of something began to root in her chest. All bee hives started with one queen and a worker. There was a possibility here. 

 

“Lady Sera,” her mother’s voice cut through the air, cold and brittle. “Would you be so kind as to wait in the antichamber? My daughter-”

 

“Is perfectly content for Sera to stay,” Melira didn’t blink, “In fact, I want her to. Her opinion might be needed.” 

 

Her mother turned toward her, sharp and silent. Everyone in the room seemed to still. Two predators, each circling their prey. The question was, who would back down first? 

 

“She should learn what is expected of her,” Melira added with a soft finality. 

 

That was a line that her mother couldn’t argue with. Not without looking improperly petty. Slowly, the older woman sank back down, hands gripping the chair like talons. Melira had won this round.

 

Sera, for her part, bowed her head in gracious gratitude, as if she didn’t notice the tension, “Of course, my lady.” 

 

Melira kept her gaze forward again as the tailor resumed his careful work, threading another long silver ribbon through the side seams. In her reflection, she caught Sera’s eyes once more. Observant. Unflinching. A shadow with perfume and perfect manors. 

 

Who assigned her was now evident. So, let her report back to Theron. Let her watch and listen. Melira had grown up with buzzing wings under her skin and secrets on her tongue. She knew the language of queens just as well as the language of humans. Stay still, stay sweet, and sting when necessary. 

 

How hard could it be?

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

What felt like hours later, the fitting ended without further comment from her mother, though the tension in the room still clung to the walls like corset bones. Once the final pins were set and a servant noted the measurements for the next adjustment, Melira stepped down from the pedestal, the gown falling like liquid frost around her ankles. 

 

As Melira stepped out from behind the screen, she ran her fingers through her hair to undo any tangled that might’ve built up from the constant shifting and maneuvering. “I think I've had enough of dress changing for the day,” Melira joked lightly, “Thank you for your hard work.” 

 

Lady Sera stepped forward, launching into her role to usher the tailor and his assistants out with the dress. At the same time, two new servants came in with a tea tray, the silver and porcelain set jingled as it was wheeled in. Sera showed them where to set it up on the terrace, allowing them to prepare the table with tiny cakes and cups. 

 

“I think,” Lady Halethorne went to move towards them, “I shall stay. See what else needs to be completed-” 

 

“You can go, Mother.” 

 

Her mother turned to her slowly, her eyes narrowing dangerously. This was the moment when Melira would get a birch switch to the back of her thighs as a child, or a well aimed hit on her cheek. Whenever Melira denied her anything, requesting privacy in any way, that was always the consequence. She just wondered if her mother would be willing to do it publicly. 

 

But Melira didn't shy away, “I wish to have some time to get to know my lady-in-waiting. I see no reason for you to stay.” 

 

Her mother lifted her head high, “Very well, we shall speak later than.” 

 

Melira knew what that meant. But she won. For now. 

 

Once her mother left, Sera handed her a shawl so they could both sit comfortably in the chilly air without getting too cold. They both sat at the same time, although Sera with a more practiced grace than Melira. A servant poured them both a cup of tea, then bowed and moved back. 

 

“So,” Melira suddenly felt very awkward, she never had a lady-in-waiting before, nor had she ever had to lead a conversation over tea. “Have you lived in the capital city long?” 

 

“Ever since I was a little girl,” Sera took a sip of her tea, “When Glasta was taken in by Rime, my mother gained a position in the late queen’s company. I came with her.” 

 

“Ah.” Melira took her own sip. Bitter, not sweet enough to her liking. Not the same as the one she had with Theron. 

 

“I know you’ve only been here a few days,” Sera broached, “but are you finding it to your liking?” 

 

“It is quite… beautiful.” Melira admitted. 

 

“But?”

 

Melira hesitated. She had plenty of ‘buts’. The cold. The brittle air. The lack of life in the gardens. The fact that she was here as a prisoner who was marrying a king to make sure her people were protected. She decided to go with the safe choice. “It’s very cold.” 

 

Sera laughed, it sounded like a babbling brook. “And you're here in the summer , My Lady. Just wait until winter.” 

 

Melira forced a laugh over her cup. She figured that the winters here must be brutal. She heard that all trade was forced to a stop because the mountains became prime avalanche territory. That didn't make her look forward to the colder season any more. 

 

Melira stirred her tea with a silver spoon, watching the contents swirl. The dark liquid caught the weak sun’s light, giving it the allusion of being brown. 

 

“You must miss Glasta,” she said after a moment, “I’ve heard it's an eternal spring.” 

 

Sera looked out into the courtyard, eyes glazing over the workers as they moved like ants, “I miss the hummingbirds. They used to greet me at my window each morning.” She sighed and turned back, “But it's been so long, I doubt they remember me.” 

 

“Animals are funny that way,” Melira took another sip, holding back the grimace, “They tend to remember people more than other humans do.” 

 

“You speak like you know, My Lady.” 

 

“I had bees,” Melira’s voice almost cracked, “They greeted me more than any other person did in the Brambles.” 

 

“So it's true?” Sera set down her cup, leaning forward, “You can talk to bees?” 

 

Melira hesitated. Her ability, her magic, was more than just “talking to bees”. It was life itself. Most people only saw the bees, how they would follow her steps, move along her like a dress when they found her. Her own personal hive, the one she favored, saw her as their queen. But, her power was more than that. Flowers would grow if she walked barefoot in the woods. Leaves would blossom under her touch. Roots and thorns would move like snakes until she told them to stop. 

 

But here, where life was infused with lifeless stone, that was a dangerous power to hold. 

 

“Yes,” Melira set her own cup down, “I can talk to bees.” 

 

Sera’s breathless face of shock was almost comical. But she quickly composed herself, straightening her spine slightly. “I’ve always wanted to see the wild lands of the Brambles. I’ve heard they are beautiful all times of the year.” 

 

“They are.” Melira replied, but didn’t elaborate. She didn’t want to expose how homesick she was. 

 

Sera picked up her tea again, looking at her over the cup, “Does your mother have the same abilities as you?” 

 

“No,” Melira shook her head, “My father did. He passed it on to me.” 

 

Melira rarely spoke of her father, the Lord of the Brambles- Lord Cadman Halethorne. Not aloud, not even in her thoughts. His name still felt like the scent of moss after rain: fading, but sacred. His death weighed on her like a baby blanket, familiar but lost. She caught herself staring into the pale garden below, where snow lingered in the corners like ghosts. Nothing grew here. Not even ivy. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Sera said quietly, and not in that false, practiced way so many did after his death. It was softer. Sincere, maybe. 

 

Melira gave a small nod, but didn’t respond. The memory of her father’s hand holding hers to the hive- wait, queenie, let them come to you- rose behind her eyes like fog. It hurt. 

 

There was a lull in the conversation. One that could grow awkward, but it didn’t. Sera seemed content to let it stretch, sipping the bitter tea and watching the sky shift through ash-pale clouds. 

 

Finally, Melira said, “What did the queen’s company do? You said your mother served the late queen.” 

 

Sera briefly looked surprised, but only for a passing moment. “She was a lady in her household. She simply listened and spoke when necessary. The queen had her as a close confidant.” 

 

Melira raised an eyebrow, “And you?” 

 

“I’ve learned to be better than her,” Sera smiled. “Be useful. Be someone who can guide a newcomer when they know nothing about… all of this.” 

 

Melira wasn’t sure what this meant. The dress? The stone tower? The inevitable crown? Or the silence inside her that grew a little louder every day? She sifted in her seat, “Did the queen trust your mother?” 

 

“Trust is a tricky word in this place,” Sera turned back to the courtyard, “I trust that the sun rises each day and the stars come out at night. I trust that the King will be the King. I trust my gowns will not fail me.” She turned back to Melira, “If my mother was trusted by the queen, then that is something the rest of the world will never know. Secrets like those go to the grave, My Lady.” 

 

Melira sat back. She understood Sera completely. Trust only goes so far if no one else knows who it is you trust. The question is, should Melira trust Sera? A breeze stirred the loose hairs around Melira’s face, fluttering it like ghost-lace around her cheeks. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders, letting Sera’s last words settle. 

 

Secrets like those go to the grave. 

 

Melira wondered if that was where she was headed- into a grave made of silk, stone, and silence. She reached for her cup, but let her hand fall. Instead, she gripped her skirts tightly with her cold fingers. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly, “how to play the games people play here. In the Brambles, you say what you meant or you’ve said nothing at all.” 

 

Sera’s voice was gentle, but not coddling, “Here, we say one thing to mean another. It’s what’s not said that everyone listens to.” 

 

Melira gave a small huff of breath that could’ve been a laugh, “Sounds exhausting.” 

 

“It is.” Sera offered her a rueful smile, “But you’d be excellent at it, My Lady, once you learn it.” 

 

Melira tilted her head, watching the other girl with a newfound curiosity. Sera’s poise was graceful, effortless. But now that they were alone, she could see something sharper underneath. Not cruel, not false- but watchful. 

 

“And you’ve learned it?”

 

Sera’s eyes flicked towards the terrace's doors to see if anyone was listening, then back to Melira, “You must, in order to make it as far as I did.” 

 

Melira didn’t press. The words hung there, suspended like breath in the cold air. She turned her gaze towards the horizon instead, where somewhere in the distance the Brambles grew the sharp thorns that had molded her into who she is now. 

 

“I will not be a prisoner in someone else's kingdom,” she whispered, not realizing she spoke aloud until she saw the way Sera’s expression softened. 

 

“You won’t be,” Sera said, “But it will take cleverness. And allies.” 

 

“Are you offering to be one?” 

 

“I can be.” 

 

Melira considered that. If Theron did give Sera the assignment to be her lady-in-waiting then there was a reason behind it. She could be a spy making it a dangerous choice for Melira to pick. But, if Sera’s intentions were true, if there was something more under the surface that Melira could feel but not see right away. Than she would be a perfect ally. 

 

Their cups were empty now, the tea had grown cold. But something warm had started to take root between them. Not trust-not yet. But it was something that could grow. 

 

If no one crushed it first.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

That night, the fire in the Rosewing Tower crackled low, casting long shadows against the cold stone walls. Melira sat at the small dining table, across from her mother, hands clenched tightly around her fork and knife. The food- lamb with some type of savory sauce- was quite delicious, but at the moment it tasted like sand in her mouth. 

 

There was no conversation, her mother sat like a shadow. Melira could feel the tension coming off of her, feeling like a deer stuck in a hunter’s trap. The inevitable sword to her neck was currently chewing on the lamb, eyes downcast. Melira knew she shouldn’t feel like she was in trouble. She only asked for privacy. But that was not an option anymore. Lady Halethorne had to know everything now. 

 

Eventually, her mother tapped both sides of her mouth with her napkin and sat back. Her eyes narrowed as she sized Melira up, looking from the half-eaten food to her daughter and back again. Melira’s heart jumped to her throat, her whole body thumping with the anxiety of what was about to happen. 

 

“You forgot yourself today,” her mother murmured, so quiet it barely disturbed the air between them. 

 

“I do not think that asking for a private conversation was a bad thing,” Melira’s voice was shaky, but stronger than she had anticipated. The cut on her lip started to sting a bit. 

 

“You also went to a council meeting.” 

 

“I did.” 

 

“Without me.” 

 

“You were not asked to join.” 

 

Silence. Not the kind that she had found with Sera, warm like a summer garden. Not the kind that settled when she was with Theron, hard like snow. This was the silence before an execution, where everyone held their breath before the swing of an axe. The only sound was the crackle of the fire, but even that held a tension. 

 

Finally, Melira put her fork down, “What would you have me do, Mother? Tell you each time I take a breath?” 

 

Lady Halethorne’s gaze flickered, her mouth tightening just slightly. That was all the warning Melira got. 

 

The slap was sudden. Sharp. It cracked across her cheek with practiced precision, just below the cut on her lip- close enough to reopen it. Melira’s head snapped to the side, breath catching in her throat. Her fork clattered against the plate as one hand gripped the table to rebalance herself, the other went to her cheek. But before she could, her mother was there, twisting it away. 

 

“You forget your place,” her mother’s voice was still cool, still calm, but the hiss of a viper was in there. “You are not here to be clever . You are not here to question .” 

 

Melira tried to pull her arm from her mother’s grip, the blood pulsing in her mouth. The taste of sand was gone, replaced with the sharp taste of iron. 

 

“You are here,” her mother continued, “because I made sure of it. I ensured that the King saw you of value. That you were the only reason the Bramble would bow to him. You think that means you get to act on your own?” 

 

Her mother dropped her arm in disgust, Melira kept her gaze on the ugly velvet rug. She was sure that if met her mother’s gaze she would scream. But that would earn her more than a slap. 

 

“You are the girl I molded from that wilderness to become stone. Do not forget whose hands shaped you first.” 

 

Then came the real punishment-not another slap, not even another twist of her arm- but the deliberate pulling of her chin and the gentle tucking of her hair. A maternal stroke of fingers on her shoulder, pretending at affection. 

 

“You will apologize to His Majesty tomorrow. For stepping out of place.” 

 

Melira’s jaw tightened. “He asked for my presence.” 

 

Another silence. Another snap of a trap. Her mother bent lower, lips grazing her ear, her breath warm and furious. 

 

“Then you will regret that he did.” 

 

And just like that, she pulled away, her hand wiping on a napkin to become clean again. “Get yourself to bed.” 

 

Melira didn’t move. Not when her mother’s footsteps faded into her room on the second floor of the Rosewing Tower, not when the door shut with a hard click . Her cheek throbbed, her lip burned, and her hands trembled as they gripped the edge of the table, but she stayed very still. 

 

“If you were mine, no one would ever raise a hand to you.” 

 

Theron’s voice whispered in her memory. A strange ache welled in her chest- confusion, anger, longing, shame. She didn’t want to belong to anyone. And yet… those words were so tempting, threading themselves between the lines of conversation of the conversation she just had with her mother. 

 

What if she told him? What would he do? Would he care? Would he act? 

 

Or would it make everything worse?

 

She touched her lip gently, feeling the tender split reopen beneath her fingers. He already knows , she thought. He’d seen the cut earlier, touched it with a thumb so gently it made her heart stutter just recalling it. He didn’t need to ask, but he did. Confirming his own suspicions. 

 

Melira stood, carefully, her limbs stiff. She turned away from the dining table and stepped towards the glowing hearth, willing the heat into her chilled skin. The room still smells faintly of lamb and spiced wine, but the taste of blood lingered stronger. 

 

A footstep sounded behind her. Melira tensed, frozen, afraid it was her mother returning.

 

“My Lady?” Sera’s voice was soft, gentle, as if she wasn’t sure she should speak. “I thought I might help you get ready for bed.”

 

Melira gave a small nod, avoiding her gaze as she made her way to her bedchamber. She didn’t want pity, not from her. Sera followed, two steps behind. Once inside, Sera closed the door. 

 

Melira hadn’t had anyone help her undress since she was a little girl. Sera worked gently, not a word said. When the gown pooled at Melira’s feet like a puddle of honey, Sera offered her the nightdress. Melira took it gratefully, stepping behind a screen to put it on. 

 

When she came out, Sera had set up a washing bowl with lavender soap and a white cream. A towel was offered after she was done washing, the cream being some sort of healing salve that was cool on her lip. It made her skin tingle as it got to work on healing the wound. 

 

“Your mother was the late queen’s confidant, correct?” 

 

“She was.” 

 

Melira spun around to face Sera as the girl pulled back the blankets. “Will you be mine?”

 

Sera looked at her, “I already am.”

Melira stood, crossing to her bed. Once tucked under the blankets, Sera turned to put out the candles. “My Lady?” she asked as she did so, “May I ask a question about bees?” 

 

Melira frowned, confusion crossing her face. “You may.” 

 

“When a queen gets hurt, what does the hive do?” 

 

Melira sat back on her pillows, intrigued despite herself. The question felt more like a test than idle curiosity. Her fingers curled against the blanket, steadying her voice. 

 

“They react,” she said slowly. “Violently, if need be. The hive is bound to her through scent and instinct. If she’s injured, they defend. If she falls, they raise a new queen.” 

 

Sera was quiet for a moment. The candle flame she was ready to douse flickered as she overed of the wick of the last taper. 

 

“And if the queen is… being stung from within?” 

 

Melira blinked. The room suddenly felt colder despite the fire that still burned in the hearth. She thought of her mother’s hands. How practiced they were- sharp not just in words but in the precision of pain. She thought of the terms: molded, acceptable, tolerable . 

 

“They remove the threat,” she finally said. Her voice is soft, but certain. “Even if the danger comes from inside the hive.” 

 

Sera met her gaze, eyes dark with meaning. She blew out the candle, smoke curling into the air like a warning. “Goodnight, my queen.” she whispered. 

 

The room sank into darkness, but Melira did not sleep for a long time.

Chapter 5: Forces In Court

Notes:

Thanks for reading and the kudos and bearing with me as I slowly make my way through this.

Melira woke to the sun streaming in through her windows. Her eyes blinked rapidly as she tried to adjust from the darkness of her dream to the current light. The mornings had been quiet so far, the servants being voiceless beings as they swept around the room, but this morning, her room was already in motion. 

 

“Good morning, my Lady!” Sera’s voice was bright and cheerful as she came in. A tray in her hands laden with food and coffee- the northern wake up drink. “It is a beautiful day today, shall I pick out a dress for you?” 

 

Melira rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair from her face. Sera was a bright and bubbly morning person- wonderful. Sera set the tray across her lap on the bed, pouring a cup of coffee and adding three lumps of sugar in it to sweeten it for her. Melira took a sip, finding it still too thin for her liking, and poured some sweet cream into it. 

 

“What is my schedule today, Sera?” she asked as she took a bite of the pastry that was on her table, “Do you know?” 

 

“There is another dress fitting this afternoon,” Sera opened her wardrobe, “But I figured this morning, I can take you to the throne room. That way you can observe the King holding court.” 

 

Melira thought about it for a moment. That would be something, that once she is queen, would have to participate in it alongside her husband. “That would be nice,” she decided, “and pick out something appropriate for me to wear for it, please.” 

 

Sera bowed her head once, then went back to the wardrobe. Melira finished her food in silence, simply watching as the girl skipped over all the grey and white dresses. Her lady-in-waiting had a good eye, pulling out each colored dress until she settled on one that was befitting a queen-to-be. The gown she chose was another of Melira’s, the bruised color of dusky plum. Its fabric was rich and flowy, and would drape over her like liquid shadow. But the sleeves are what made it stand out. Melira had designed them herself, bell-shaped and wide, each one shimmering with a thread of gold- appearing like spun honey. The embroidery she had done was supposed to be the brambles, twisted and climbing up the skirt, small buds of raspberry flowers hinted at Melira’s home. As the light washed over it, they seemed to move. 

 

“Perfect,” Sera said as she laid it out, “This one is perfect.” 

 

“It’s not gray.” Melira pointed out, challenging her. 

 

“You look horrible in gray,” was the only reply. 

 

Melira held back a laugh. At least last night's tension was forgotten. Although the cut on her lip stung like a thorn. She wondered if King Theron would see it and ask her about it again, if he would make those same remarks about when she is his. She felt a tingle in her stomach and immediately brushed those thoughts away. 

 

“Come,” Sera pushed back her blankets and moved the tray away, “Let's get you dressed.” 

 

The dressing went as smoothly as last night. Sera’s hands were quick and gentle as they laced her up. She braided a strand on Melira’s head, weaving a golden chain through it, then looping it to a golden raspberry pin on the other side. She applied a bit of make-up, some khol for her eyes, a small tint of blush, but stopped when she came to her lip. 

 

“Shall I cover it?” Sera asked. 

 

Melira looked at herself in the mirror, “No.” 

 

 For the first time in her life, Melira looked like a force to be reckoned with. 

Melira did not speak as she followed Sera out of the Rosewing and she blatantly ignored her mother as she opened her door. As they began their walk through the high ceilinged corridors. Again, she tried to memorize the path, but it all looked the same, making the task impossible. Servants bowed as they passed, some eyes lingered on her split lip but Melira ignored them. 

 

Let them see my battle wounds, she thought. 

 

Sera soon brought them to the familiar iron doors that towered over them like mountains. Melira felt that wave of nerves start to build, her breath turned shaky. That confidence that she has built up getting dressed had suddenly disappeared. 

 

“This way,” Sera tapped her shoulder, leading her to a smaller door on the right. Opening it, a set of marble stairs led up. Melira followed Sera’s quiet feet, watching to her left as the throne room started to appear beneath her. The stairs opened up to a balcony with a cushioned chair overlooking the throne room. 

 

From here, Melira got a better look at the grandness of the room than she did the first time she was here. 

 

The morning light pierced through the arched stained glass, casting an array of whites, reds, and greys across the marbled floor. The high ceiling soared like cathedral spikes, and banners bearing the royal crest swayed lightly in the breeze that slipped through the castle’s old bones. Silver trimmed columns framed the space, and the room was already humming with movement. Nobles and officials were already lining the court in their various colors, guards held positions in perfect lines, petitioners stood uncertainly off to the side, awaiting the king's judgement.

 

Melira leaned on the banister, looking down over it all, her hands gripping the rail. From here, the throne looked to be carved from obsidian and iron, where Theron already sat up on it, listening intently to Lord Cern. He hadn't seen her come in. 

 

He didn't even look to see if she came in. 

 

Melira bit back the taste of disappointment. Why should she care if he had seen her or not? It's not like he expected her to be here, this was a choice that she made on her own. Her eyes took him in, his crown sitting on his pale hair, the garnet catching the sunlight like a drop of blood. His expression was unreadable, cool and composed as he listened. 

 

“He’s like a statue,” Melira murmured. 

 

“Most compare him to a wolf,” Sera stepped up beside her. Melira turned her head. Sera’s expression had hardened, her eyes scanning through the court like a bird of prey. “Want an introduction?” 

 

Melira paled at the idea of going down there. When Sera saw, she let out a soft laugh, “No, from here, don’t worry.” 

 

Melira nodded. 

 

Sera pointed first to Lord Cern. “Lord Cern Walton of Seamond, he’s the naval commander when there's a war, when there isn’t- he’s here. King Theron’s father, may the Gods guide his soul, and he were good friends. King Theron sees him as a top advisor.” 

 

Her finger moved to the side, where two identical looking people stood side by side. “That’s his children. Lyanna and Maren.” Melira could see the family resemblance. 

 

“That,” Sera pointed to another who Melira recognized from the Council, “is Lord Halven of the Western Front. He’s in charge of the trade routes through the mountains. And I mean in charge of all trades. Anything you want to know, he could tell you. His son is somewhere, but I don’t see him.” 

 

Lord Halven- Melira noted him, sleek man, silver haired, too many rings on his fingers. 

 

Melira absorbed each name, leaning in closer to catch every detail as the nobles below her started to hush. They all fit together like a puzzle she didn’t realize she already had been added into. These weren’t just people- they were pieces on a game board, one should be playing whether she liked it or not. 

 

The first pensioner came forward, his head a shiny bald patch of sweat, but she wasn’t listening. Her eyes landed on a set of players. A young girl, maybe her age, with bright red hair, dressed in a beautiful silver gown. Beside her was an older man, the same red hair but it was graying, his eyes were on the king. 

 

“Who are they?” she asked, her voice a low whisper, pointing discreetly to them. 

 

Sera’s eyes narrowed. “They are a problem, My Lady. The man is Lord Marell of Stonehane and his daughter, Lady Amira of Stonehane. She was supposed to be you .” 

 

Melira let that sink in. Lady Amira was supposed to be her, supposed to be the one standing up here watching the crowd below listen as the common man made a plea to the king. Sera said nothing more, but Melira didn’t need her to. Her stomach coiled as she watched Lady Amira tilt her head and smile at Theron- like she belonged there. Like she knew that throne was to be hers one day, and Melira was the mistake that had taken it. 

 

“I see,” Melira murmured, her fingers tightening on the rail. 

 

And then it happened. 

 

King Theron, from his place on the throne, glanced up. 

 

It was subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes- sharp and pale as frost- swept the court before lifting toward the balcony. Toward her. For a moment Melira couldn’t move. His gaze caught hers like a hook to the chest. He didn’t smile. He didn’t scowl. But his expression changed- just slightly. The faintest curve of recognition. The smallest flicker of something behind his eyes. 

 

Then he moved . 

 

A flick of his fingers. Barely perceptible to anyone else. Just a small crook of his index and middle finger, no grand gesture. But it was clear. 

 

Come down . 

 

Melira straightened. Her throat went dry. Sera, who had noticed nothing, was still scanning the floor below. 

 

“I think…” Melira swallowed as the same plush chair from her first night was being brought out and set next to Theron. “I’ve been summoned.” 

 

Sera followed her line of sight, then drew in a small breath when she saw the new addition, “So it seems.” 

 

“Do I look…?” Melira’s voice trailed off. She didn’t know what to ask, only that she just wasn’t ready. 

 

“Like a queen?” Sera finished, “Yes.” 

 

Melira took one last breath, then walked the length of the balcony to the set of stairs that led down to the court. Each step she took felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of every eye was slowly stacked onto her shoulders. The door at the bottom opened without a sound, and the hush of the court shifted. A ripple passed through the nobles, subtle and quiet, but noticeable all the same. 

 

King Theron watched her the entire way. 

 

She walked towards the throne- not too fast, not too slow- her head high, her hands lightly laced at her waist. The bruised plum of her gown moved like a shadow, catching threads of gold in the sunlight. 

 

Theron didn’t greet her aloud. He simply shifted slightly on his throne, his eyes never leaving hers, as if to say: You’ve finally arrived . And for the first time Melira felt like she was stepping into a story that had been written for her. 

 

She swept into a low curtsy- slow and practiced- just before the dias. When she rose, the murmurs quieted. King Theron regarded her with that cool, unreadable gaze. He said nothing, but lifted his hand again, this time barely beckoning to the chair beside him. 

 

Her feet carried her before her mind could catch up. She stepped up beside him, side-by-side, a spot only reserved for the queen. The seat was the exact same as before, still plush but not comfy, still regal but not royal. But it was hers . 

 

Melira sat without being asked. The moment her gown settled, a steward called, “Sir Beren of Eastmere, step forward!” 

 

A tall, lean man with a hawkish face and weather-worn hands came forward. He bowed once to the king, and then- after a moment of hesitation- to her. 

 

“Speak,” Theron said simply. 

 

Sir Beren cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, My Lady,” he added, with a glance toward Melira. “The matter concerns the Redbrook Crossing. The spring rains have shifted the banks, again. Sir Orwin’s men have begun grazing on what is traditionally Eastmere land. I bring forth our old maps as evidence-” 

 

“Old maps,” a new voice huffed loudly, “Irrelevant maps.” 

 

Sir Orwin was shorter, more red-faced, and fatter than Sir Beren. He was on the opposite side of the room, his scowl firmly in place. “Those borders haven’t meant anything since the last war. That crossing has changed hands three times.” 

 

Melira listened quietly, her gaze flickering between the two men as they bicker over who currently holds the land. Theron had gone still again, unreadable as ever, but Melira could feel his attention on her . Watching. Waiting. 

 

Testing. 

 

The scrolls were opened and passed to the king, but before Theron could reach for them, Melira leaned forward. “May I?” She was surprised at how calm and firm her voice was. 

 

The room froze. The steward seemed shocked. The two men stopped and looked at her. Theron inclined his head and the scrolls were placed in her hands. 

 

She unrolled them on her lap, eyes scanning the faded ink, the delicate marks for topography, the names of rivers and trails. Her brow furrowed, just slightly, as she traced the line of the Redbrook River with her fingertip. 

 

Both men were speaking again, their tones rising. Something about ancestral rites, river patrols, and harvest boundaries. She let the noise fade and looked up. 

 

“You’re both wrong.” 

 

The room fell into silence. Even the countries behind them quieted, as if her words had been a slap. 

 

“Excuse me?” Sir Orwin sputtered, “But what would a little girl-”

 

“The river shifted,” Melira put the map down flat on her lap, “But the dispute isn’t over land or grazing rights- it's about water. The crossing feeds two irrigation ditches. One leads to Eastmere. One to Orwin’s grain fields. When the river moved, it favored Sir Orwin’s fields, but that was never intended.” 

 

Theron said nothing, His finger rested still and poised on the arm of his throne. 

 

Melira continued, voice even. “Rather than continue a dispute over borders that change with every thaw, settle the true problem. Construct a shared irrigation channel- jointly funded. The next spring flood will destroy it otherwise. You’ll need to combine resources to ensure it’s stable.” 

 

A silence followed. Deep and thick. 

 

“That’s absurd,” Sir Orwin broke it first. 

 

“That’s clever,” Sir Beren said at the same time. 

 

Theron leaned forward, “Would you be willing to sign a compact drafted by the crown?” 

 

“I would,” Sir Beren nodded, “Eagerly.” 

 

Theron turned his eyes to Orwin, who hesitated. 

 

“...Yes,” the man said finally. 

 

“Then consider the matter settled.” The king straightened, but his gaze lingered on Melira. He didn’t praise her. He didn’t smile. But something passed between them. A nod. A flicker of approval. She passed the test. 

 

And the whole court saw it. Every. Single. One. 

 

Melira rolled the map back up, hands steady. Let them wonder what other tricks she had hidden behind her honey-sweet voice. Melira stayed composed on the outside but her blood thrummed, that familiar buzz of the bees under her skin. She had passed, in public, without hesitation. Her seat beside the king, the treaty that was signed, was now just that more secure. 

 

Forget what her mother told her about her place, this felt right. 

 

The next few cases passed by without Melira injecting too much. Diplomats, merchant tariffs, land disputes, and a random squabble between twin nobles on their inheritance. She listened, offered a piece of advice when it seemed like the right moment, and suddenly it was solved. Theron didn't directly speak to her, not with words. But his glances, the way he would shift in his throne, suggested that she had grown from ‘tolerable’ and ‘acceptable’ to something better. 

 

When the court was finally dismissed, and the nobles filed out with practiced grace, Melira rose carefully from her seat. She found Sera near the door, the smile on her lady’s face practically glowed. Melira inclined her head to Theron- not quite a bow, but not casual either- and descended the dias. 

 

As her foot hit the velvet rug, his voice echoed in the nearly empty room. 

 

“Lady Melira.” 

 

She paused, turned halfway. He was standing and staring at her.

 

“Walk with me.” 

 

She glanced at Sera, who stood with her hands clasped and face unreadable. Melira gave her a small nod, “I’ll return shortly.” 

 

Sera nodded once and disappeared through the door. Theron was already descending the dias and holding out that polite, gloved hand. She took it and allowed him to lead her along the throne room, under the stained glass. 

 

They walked in silence, which she found rather comforting. Melira didn't know how to start a conversation with a king, let alone one with Theron. He led them through an exit on the far side, into a corridor with frost stained windows that overlooked the courtyard. She could see her bedchamber’s window from here. The air was quiet, still, but only in the sense of a frozen pond.

 

“You handled yourself well,” Theron broke through her observations. A rare and surprising comment. “You did not falter as I thought you might, nor did you stay silent as past queens would’ve.” 

 

Melira blinked in shock. This was the highest form of praise she never expected. “Th-thank you, Your Majesty.” 

 

“Theron.” 

 

Another blink. “I’m sorry?” 

 

He stopped as they reached the midpoint of the corridor, turning so he was fully facing her. “Theron, in private company. If we are to be married, calling each other by titles when no one else will hear, will become… annoying.” 

 

Melira tried to wrap her mind around the shift in tone. Theron- not “Your Majesty” or “His Highness”- but Theron leaned up against the wall, hands clasped in front of him, an almost amused look in his eye. He was no less commanding, no less cold, but the dynamic between the two had shifted and Melira wasn't sure if that was a good thing. 

 

“...Theron,” she tasted it on her tongue. It was heavy, cold, but in a way right . His gaze had dropped, she noticed that, to her mouth when she said it. But then he straightened back up.  

 

“You're injured,” it wasn't a question. It never is with him. “Again.” 

 

Melira straightened, trying hard not to touch the spot. “It was-” 

 

“Twice now, she has struck you.” Theron’s words were deliberate, unhurried. “Twice, I have seen that woman make you bleed. And you brush it off like it's nothing.” 

 

“Because it is-” 

 

“Why do you allow her to do this?” 

 

The question hit her like a gust of wind. Melira’s hands folded in to her dress like she could pull herself into a ball and disappear. That question rang through her mind each time and each time the answer was the same. 

 

“Because saying no never stops her,” she lowered her eyes to the floor, “and it always makes it worse.” 

 

“You shouldn't have to endure that,” the words were soft, almost like he had pulled them from somewhere deep inside. “If you were mine, you would never endure that.” 

 

“But I am not yours.” 

 

“Not yet.” 

 

The silence that followed was heavy in a way that made the whole world seemingly stop. Charged with a lightning that could zap her to dust if she let it. 

 

Then, without another word, Theron removed his glove and lifted his hand to the window, brushing the frost that cling to it. She watched, in fascination as the frost begun to grow. 

 

She gasped, stepping closer to it. 

 

The frost wasn’t growing- it was changing . The frost spiderwebbed in delicate fractal lines that slowly hardened into fine etchings that looked like carved veins on a marble statue. The glass beneath it stayed, she could still see right through it, but the marbling from the frost had etched across it. A maze of gray lines. 

 

Theron then tapped the center of it with his knuckle and the whole window made a cracking sound and turned dark. 

 

Melira reached out a hand, brushing it with her fingertips. It was stone . His touch has turned the window into a perfect, carved, statue tapestry. There was no crack, not a jagged line that should've been there to indicate that glass has broken. Just one moment, it was ice and glass, the next smooth marble. 

 

Like the statues. 

 

Like the garden beds they walked in yesterday. 

 

And it all made sense. 

 

“That-” she was breathless. She had thought that the rumors of him turning a person to stone was just that- a rumor. No one else has been blessed like she was. At least no one she knew. But here he was, standing next to her. A man who could petrify something with a touch. “That is incredible. ” 

 

Theron did not respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on her, to which Melira blushed and leaned back, straightening her spine. The sunlight from the other windows bounced off it, casting them both in a shadow. 

 

“I was born with it,” he said quietly, “I've always wondered if it is a blessing or a curse.” 

 

“It doesn't seem like a curse to me.” Melira responded.

 

“You have not seen me lose control,” he tapped the window again, “This is power, Melira. One I cannot allow to go unchecked-” 

 

She didn't let him finish. Instead she reached past him to a stone trellis, and pushed. The hum filled her bones, the buzz flowed through her fingertips. A breath left her, a sigh. Life wasn't forceful, you can't force something to live if it doesn't want to, you must be gentle. The trellis warmed beneath her touch, and slowly, ever so slowly, color started to flow along the trellis. 

 

Dark woody brown, emerald greens, white blossoms, all flowed from her grip. The stone softened, unfurling itself back to what it once was. A relic of Theron’s magic was now trembling beneath her palm, remembering what it meant to live . Not an illusion. But true growth. Real, living ivy locked away beneath stone. 

 

Melira released it, watching how the branch soaked in the sun. Theron reached out tentatively, as if worried he would turn it back into what she just took it from. When he hesitated, Melira gripped his hand and placed it there herself. 

 

“It’s alive,” his voice was hushed. This was the most emotion she had ever seen from him. This broke him. 

 

“It is.” 

 

“I was informed you only speak with bees.” 

 

“I do.” Melira released his hand, “Bees are life themselves, but this-” she gestured to the ivy, “this is the true root of my power.” 

 

He looked at her and for the first time since before her father’s death, Melira felt seen . His eyes, although still cool, had softened, a sense of recognition. A kindred spirit, maybe. He understood, he had to. Why else would he look at her like that? 

 

“So, Melira,” her name sounded like soft snowfall on his lips, “I ask again. Why do you allow anything from those who hurt you?” 

 

Melira looked down at the ivy, now swaying slightly as if catching a breeze that didn’t exist. Her hand still tingled where she had held his. Her voice, when it came, was quiet- but sure. It carried the weight of too many nights spent explaining herself to no one but the dark. 

 

“Because I didn’t have a choice.”

 

Her hands clenched gently around the folds of her gown. “I learned how to survive by accepting that choices don’t exist. I let her hurt me because… refusing her never stopped her. It only made it worse. I figured, if I endured enough, it would end.” 

 

Theron didn’t interrupt. He stood still, his gloved hand resting where the ivy had bloomed under hers, watching her with the kind of focus that could chip stone. “And now?” he asked, not as a king, but as something else. Something quieter, closer. 

 

Melira lifted her chin. “Now… I’m beginning to wonder if that was wrong.”

 

A pause. Then, quietly: “They were.” 

 

Melira’s breath caught. The words weren’t grand. There was no dramatic gesture. But coming from him- Theron, not the king, but the person- those two words struck something in her that nearly brought her to her knees. She turned from him slightly, pressing her hand to the cool stone window, needing a moment to gather herself. Pull her thoughts back in order. 

 

Theron didn’t press her for more, didn’t try to touch her again or offer empty reassurances. He simply stood beside her, the silence between them now a kind of shelter instead of a threat. 

 

Outside, a storm began to build. A low rumble rolled through the castle walls, not thunder, but a howling wind as it tore through the high peaks of the towers. Snowfall started, fierce and hurling itself against the windows in thick, sideways sheets. Melira watched for a moment, eyes unfocused, before finally turning away from the window and back to him. 

 

“Thank you,” her voice was soft, “for showing me what it means to have power.” 

 

“Will you use it?” 

 

She glanced back at the ivy, the question hanging in the air between them. She didn’t need to answer it, not aloud. Yes, she would, the real question is how? 

 

They lingered in that shared space for a beat longer- two souls weathered by a power that was necessary, one who wielded it like a knife, the other unsure if it could even be a weapon. Melira didn’t reach for his hand but she didn’t flinch when his arm gently brushed hers as they walked to the other side of the corridor. 

 

No one was waiting when they arrived at her chamber doors. The hallway was hushed, save for the storm raging outside. He turned to her again, eyes catching hers in the flicker of a scone’s flame. 

 

“You did well today,” he said quietly, “In court. In general.” 

 

Melira glanced at her feet, then gave a half-smile, “Does that mean I am more than acceptable, Theron?” 

 

“Much more,” he reached for her hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a chaste but warm kiss to it. Her heart thrilled in response, which she immediately stomped down. 

 

And then, he was gone. 

 

She stepped into the Rosewing Tower, leaning against the door once it closed. Her mother was calling her name, chastising how she left earlier, but Melira couldn’t hear her. Her mind was still on the ivy, the storm that had built up inside and outside of her. The cold didn’t feel sharp anymore. And neither, she realized, did the fear. 

Chapter 6: A Falcon's Cry

Notes:

Hello again! Thanks for reading and the comments!

The next day was a flurry of wedding preparations, seeing as there was now only a few short weeks before Melira was to be married. The storm had left a fine crust of frost along the windowsills. But, sunlight spilled into her rooms, golden and sharp as a blade. Melira was sitting with her mother and Sera, discussing flowers and other nonsense that Melira didn’t really care for. She had a dress fitting soon, and was at this point just dreading seeing the ash-white dress on her again. 

 

Melira wasn’t listening, she didn’t sleep. Her mind was still wandering back and forth over her conversation with Theron yesterday in that corridor. The show of power, the questioning of her own. She didn’t have a response, at least not then. When her mother started going after her when she got back, Melira simply swept past her and locked herself in her room. At dinner, she feigned a headache and ate by herself. Breakfast was easier, Sera had joined them. But eventually, Melira would need to face her mother head-on, confront the problem rather than avoid it. She just wasn’t sure how .

 

A knock on the door broke her thoughts. Sera moved to answer it without being told, and a steward stepped through, the tailor and seamstress with her apprentices at his heels. Between them, was a mannequin, draped in a white cloth, hiding the dress beneath it. 

 

All bowed, and the steward left. Melira sighed and stood. She was ready to get this fitting over with, she hated the dress. It felt like iron shackles across her entire body, stiff and cold. But before she could step behind the screen, the tailor stopped her. 

 

“Lady Melira,” he said, his voice quivered with nerves, “You should know that the alterations are complete, but-”

 

“-there have been some changes to the dress,” the seamstress finished, her voice much more confident. 

 

“Changes?” Her mother stood, “What changes?” 

 

The white sheet was pulled off, bundled into the arms of one of the apprentices and Melira’s breath left her body. 

 

The gown was not white. Not ash-grey. Not cold. Not hard. 

 

It was something else entirely. 

 

The bodice began in a deep elegant gray-like the mountains at dusk- then faded at the waist into a soft, amber gold that melted into liquid honey near the hem. The gradient was seamless, subtle, beautiful. It looked like a sunrise breaking over stone, something that remembered how to warm. Delicate gold embroidery crawled up the sleeves and hem- curling ivy, tiny bees tucked between brambles, and bursts of wildflowers that were native to the Brambles themselves. It wasn’t just a gown. It was a message. 

 

Melira reached for it and, as her fingers touched the fabric, she remembered their conversation- just as the window turned to stone, as the stone-cold ivy came to life in her hands, their magic unfurling for each other like a bloom after the frost. She had been afraid. She told him as much. 

 

“ You let her hurt you. ”

 

“ I don’t have a choice. ”

 

But he had looked at her like she did . Like she could . Like that raw, tangled thing inside her wasn’t something to be hidden or trimmed into shape- it was to be sharpened. Used. They were opposites of each other, a delicate balance in grey and gold. 

 

“Who did this?” Her mother demanded, hands reaching out in disgust as she lifted the sleeves. “What happened to the other dress?” 

 

The tailor wrung his hands, “His Majesty, King Theron, requested this personally.” 

 

Melira’s eyes snapped to the man, her fingers froze where they traced the gold ivy along the hem. 

 

His Majesty, King Theron, requested this personally.

 

She wasn’t sure if the warmth that had surged through her chest was pride, joy, or something else. 

 

Her mother made a scoffing noise, rounding on the tailor, “The king is not a designer. This wasn’t agree upon-”

 

“It was his choice, Mother.” Melira said, louder than she intended. 

 

The room stilled. 

 

Her mother blinked at her in disbelief. “Excuse me?” 

 

Melira turned fully to face her, shoulders squaring. The dress still glimmered behind her, gold catching in the light like fire on honey. “He is the king. If he wants the gown changed, then it is changed. If he wants it burned, it is burned. That’s how it works now, isn’t it?” Her voice remained calm, but there was steel in the words. 

 

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, but something in her expression flickered. Uncertainty. Surprise. 

 

Melira didn’t wait for another tirade. She turned back to the seamstress, voice quieter now. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.” 

 

The older woman dipped her head. “His Majesty was very particular about the embroidery. He gave us sketches. These flowers… they are the ones that grown in the Brambles, correct?” 

 

Melira nodded slowly, a lump in her throat. “Yes.” 

 

Sera stepped closer, touching a single thread of golden ivy near the shoulder with reverence. “He had this made for you . Not just the queen he needs.” 

 

Her mother scoffed again, but Melira ignored it this time. She was still staring at the dress, heart thudding, the image of Theron’s hand on the ivy in her mind- how he had hesitated. How she guided him. How they met in the middle of their powers and not broken each other . 

 

The meaning behind the colors hit her then, deeper than before. Stone to light . Coldness to warmth. Survival transforms to strength. 

 

He had chosen this. 

 

He had seen her.

 

“Help me try it on,” Melira said to Sera and the seamstress, already stepping behind the screen. 

 

She heard her mother start to object again, but this time Sera stepped away, cutting in- gently but firmly. “My lady, perhaps we should prepare the jewelry. The collar you picked won’t suit this neckline.” 

 

Melira didn’t hear the reply. The screen closed around her, and the moment became still again. As the dress slipped over her shoulders and fastened carefully down her back, Melira stared straight again. Her skin prickled when the fabric touched it- cool at first, then warming as it settled. When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman who starred back. 

 

Not a flower plucked and displayed. 

 

Not a girl made of shadows. 

But a woman wrapped in balance. 

 

Melira breathed in. Deep. Slow. And she wondered, for the first time- what would it be like to be queen ?

Her fingers brushed the fabric of the dress as the seamstress fussed over the hem. The gown shimmered like a promise- stone-grey at the shoulders, bleeding into a rich, honeyed gold by the hem. It moved like starlight on marble, like a storm passing into warmth. It had been Theron’s choice. Not her mother’s. Not hers. 

 

She should’ve hated that. But she didn’t. 

 

Sera came back with a satisfied hum. “The King might not be a designer, but he has taste.” Melira wasn’t sure if that was a warning or a flattery. 

 

She turned slightly, studying the fall of the sleeves. “He knows what he wants,” she murmured. She wasn’t entirely certain whether that was flattery or a warning either. 

 

Melira turned around, wanting to see the back and realized that her mother had left the room. Thank the Gods, she thought to herself, admiring how the embroidery flowed up her back and outwards on her shoulders. The dress felt like a second skin- one not chosen, but given. And somehow… right. 

 

A soft knock broke her thoughts. She startled, watching wide-eyed as the tailor and seamstress all bowed low. Her heart leapt, she didn’t know why. He’d seen her fine gowns, but something about this one- with his presence- made her pulse catch. 

 

Theron slipped inside, cold and stiff. He waved off the workers, making them scatter like mice to another room. Once they were gone, he came closer, his eyes dipping to where the bare skin of her collarbone sat, just above the neckline. Then back up to hers. 

 

“It suits you,” he decided, “Lady Sera was right. You look horrible in white.” 

 

Melira felt herself flush. “It is a stunning wedding dress, Your Majesty.” 

 

“We are in private company, Melira.” 

 

“The servants are listening in, My King.” 

 

She turned back to the mirror, watching him. He was appraising her, taking in how the gold complemented her skin, how the grey seemed to match perfectly. She felt something clench, her breath hitched and turned shallow. Melira liked how he raked his eyes over her, how he seemingly soaked her in like a flower does to a sun. She felt herself straighten a bit. 

 

“When are you done?” He asked. 

 

“I just put it on, they need to make sure it’s sized correctly.” She replied. 

 

“When you are finished, you will join me in the courtyard.” It was not a question, not a request. “Dress warmly. Come alone.” 

 

With that he was gone, turning on his heel and walking out without waiting for her to answer. Sera and her mother both came in right after him. The tailor and seamstress as well as the apprentices all appeared from whatever hole they had hidden in. 

 

“What did he want?” Her mother demanded. The warmth that she had been feeling suddenly drained again. 

 

“To see the dress,” Melira responded, “And invited me to join him outside.” 

 

“I shall go-”

 

“No, Mother. You shall stay.” Melira turned around slowly, the tailor moving fluidly with her to adjust the length of the sleeve so it fell just above her knuckles. Melira was done letting her mother dictate her life, done with the woman inserting herself where she was not wanted. 

 

Lady Halethorne straightened, “You dare-”

“Ask for you to remain inside while I join my husband-to-be?” Melira narrowed her own eyes. The hum under her skin started to grow, flowing down to her fingertips, begging for release. “Yes, Mother. I dare you to join me when the King explicitly told me to come alone .” 

 

Her mother’s mouth snapped shut, the indignation smothered by something else-uncertainty, again. Melira didn’t wait for another word. An hour later, the seamstress declared the fitting complete, and Sera was already retrieving her cloak and gloves. 

 

Once outside, the cold bit at her skin, but she welcomed it. The frost still clung to every branch and stone, the world glazed in ice and sunlight. It was sharp and beautiful. It reminded her of him. 

 

Theron was waiting in the courtyard. He wasn’t dressed in royal finery, only a dark fur-lined cloak and simple gloves. He looked more like a hunter than a king, a shadow cut clean against the pale garden. 

 

“This way,” he said, without preamble. And she followed. 

 

They walked in silence for a while, through a narrow gate, past frozen hedges and stone trees. Melira reached out, removing her glove and slowed her gait, brushing her fingertips against the bark. It bloomed beneath her, flushing the brown outwards and up into the leaves. Theron stopped and watched, eyes betraying nothing of what he might have been thinking. The energy that she had built up inside when denying her mother’s company had come out. She just had to find something to channel it into. 

 

“Sorry,” she blushed when the tree finally stopped growing. 

 

“Never apologize for power, Melira.” 

 

They continued walking. It was so strange, to be near the palace but feel a hundred miles away. When they came to a tall gate, with a single lock on it, Theron pulled out an iron key and ushered them inside. The path continued between short little stone buildings, at least five on each side of her, with iron bar windows on each. She heard the familiar cries of falcons coming from inside, the smell of hay and dirt hitting her nose. 

 

“Mews?” Melira asked, “You have falcons?” 

 

“Come,” he made her follow to the farthest one on the left, and used the same key to open the door. Inside, there were no birds, but racks of thick gloves and other falconry tools that Melira did not know anything about. He selected a smaller one off the wall and held out his hand. She gave hers willingly. He slipped it on, it was thickly padded, too thick for her to close it fully into a fist. The glove came up to her elbow, with what looked like a leather feather hanging from the elbow end and a ring on the wrist part. He then selected a larger one for himself and two ropes with loops on the end. 

 

“Follow,” he led her back outside, then down a row to another mew. Unlocking that door with the same key, she followed him inside a small room with white walls. A small table was pushed up against the wall next to the door, with a crate and some strips of leather. He opened the crate, pulling out a long rope with what looked like a stuffed rabbit on the end and a small bag, both of which got handed to her. 

 

“I’ve never handled falcons before,” Melira felt her panic set in. The birds in the wild were often her nemesis. They tended to attack hives or drop small, dead animals on them. And the men who kept falcons in the Brambles were often mean and coarse, giving her a bad taste in her mouth when they came to her manor. 

 

“You will learn,” he slid open the door to the inner room. She hesitated, willing her feet to step forward. When he saw her start to slip, he turned back and held out a hand, “Melira. Come.” 

 

She swallowed, taking his hand and stepped inside. She jumped when he slid the door closed behind her.

 

It was warmer than she expected. The falcon sat on a single stick jutting out of the wall. On the opposite wall was a ledge with two bowels, one held something red, the other was water. The creature itself was beautiful. Dark brown wings that seemed feathered with tan and white spots. Its legs were a bright yellow, its beak a matching shade. The eyes were sharp, bright, and stayed steady on her as the two people got settled. 

 

“Where’s that bag I gave you?” Theron asked, when Melira produced it, he took it from her hands. Opening it up, he handed her a piece of dry meat from inside. “Hold it up, over your arm with the glove. Let her come to you.” 

 

Melira followed his instructions. She assumed that he wouldn’t let her get hurt, but when the bird took the short flight to her arm, she flinched and closed her eyes. Only releasing the meat as soon as she felt the beak tap her fingers. Once the bird seemed settled, she opened her eyes. Up close, she could feel the power in the bird’s grip, sense the ability it had at destruction with the way it watched her. It was terrifying. 

 

It was beautiful . 

 

Theron was moving, looping the rope around the ring on her glove and through a cuff on the bird’s leg. The bird sat obediently, not flinching when Theron lowered a hood over its head. He positioned Melira’s thumb over the bird’s foot, pressing it down as a silent instruction to keep it there. Then he opened the door again, leading them out into the sunlight, down the path, to a wide open field. 

 

“Aren’t you going to get a bird?” Melira asked as he stopped them. 

 

“No.” He stood beside her, “I cannot teach if I am occupied with my own.”

 

He undid the bird’s hood, “Melira, this is Hollow. She is my youngest, and the easiest to work with. The first rule is if Hollow decides that she is done with me, done with living in my mews, then we go our separate ways. I am not her jailor, she is not my prisoner.” 

 

That felt personal. 

 

He lifted her arm, tapping her finger so she could release her thumb. Hollow did not take off right away, instead she just looked at the two humans in front of her, as if confused by her sudden freedom. Then she took off, Melira almost falling backwards at the force of it. They watched as Hollow circled once over the field, before moving out of eye line. 

 

“How does she know when to come back?” Melira asked. 

 

Theron held a whistle, thin and silver, up, “I blow this and swing the lure around. If she wants to come back, she does. Usually, she doesn’t go far.” 

 

“Do you hunt with her?” 

 

“No,” Theron said simply, like it was obvious, “She is not my pet, Melira. I do not force her to work for me, I do not impose my will and power on something innocent. I use horses and hounds to hunt, bows and arrows to kill. My birds are simply friends.” 

 

Melira nodded, completely understanding. It was how she felt about her bees. Yes, her hive was cared for by her. Yes, she had taken them from the downed tree when she stumbled across them. But if the queen of that hive had decided to take her workers and go, Melira wouldn’t stop them. They were her friends, and you don’t keep friends as prisoners. 

 

“In the Brambles, I kept a honeybee hive.” She explained, “I had the same feelings about them.” 

 

“Do you miss your bees?” 

 

“Would you miss your birds if you were forced to move away from them?” She turned to him, “They are a part of who I am, it’s as if my soul is on the other side of the world.” 

 

He didn’t say anything to that. His eyes were on the sky, where Hollow had started circling again. For a long moment, the only sound between them was the wind and the distant cries of the falcons left in the mews. 

 

“Why did you not bring your bees with you?” The question was soft, as if intended for her not to hear it. 

 

“I had no way of taking them,” Melira sighed, “Besides, my mother would’ve actually killed me.” 

 

Theron turned to her, his eyes hard, like he had just come to a decision about something. He reached for her hand, holding it between his own, “Do you feel like a prisoner here?” 

 

“I-” Melira blinked. How could she respond to that question? Of course she was a prisoner here. The treaty between her lands and his was written that way… or at least that was how it seemed when it was read to her. But now? She certainly wasn’t feeling like a prisoner.

 

“I do not want you to feel that way,” Theron explained, “I want you to feel like my birds, like your bees. You have a home here, but should you wish to leave at any point- return to the Brambles, go across the sea- I will not stop you.” 

 

“I-”

 

His hand slipped further up her arm, until it found its way to her neck, slow and steady. Melira could feel her heart tremble, her feet stumbling over themselves as he drew her closer. She could smell the clean scent of leather and smoke, stone and cold wind. Soon, she was almost a breath away from him, one hand on his chest, the other still in his grasp. Her whole body tingled, but not in the same way it did when her powers felt like they were about to explode from her fingertips. This was unfamiliar, unknown, and she was unsure if it should continue. 

 

“Theron,” she breathed, unsteady, shaky. 

 

“Yes?”

 

She looked up at him, Gods was he tall. Melira had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Theron’s eyes were sharp, intense- but not cold. Not now. They glimmered with something unreadable but not cruel. His fingers at the back of her neck weren’t tight, not possessive. Just steady. True. His thumb moved once, barely brushing her jaw, and she shivered at the warmth it sparked. 

 

She had never been this close to him before. Not like this. She could count every fleck of silver in his eyes, every line of tension at the corner of his mouth- like he, too, was waiting for something to break the stillness between them. Her heart thundered in her chest, wild and uneven, as if her magic had moved beneath her skin to make room for something entirely. 

 

“You said,” she whispered, unsure if it was courage or fear that shook her voice, “that you would not keep me prisoner.” 

 

“I did.”

 

“But what if… I- I choose to stay?” Her breath hitched, “What if I wanted to stay here?” 

 

His fingers stilled. He did not smile. He did not soften. But something in him shifted- quiet and vast. Like ice cracking on a lake beneath a warming sun. It wasn’t visible, not entirely, but she felt it. A slow thaw. 

 

“Then I will ask,” he said, low and steady, “not as a king. But as a man who has seen your power. Who has seen you use honey to make yourself heard- will you stay? Will you stand beside me?” 

 

Silence. 

 

Not the heavy kind, but the kind that feels sacred. Like the moment before a storm hits. Melira stood still, within his grasp, her breath visible in the air. The weight of his question settled in her chest- not like a burden, but like a seed. 

 

Did she want this?

Gods yes . 

 

But she didn’t know how to be that woman. Her mind went back to the day she joined the court, listening to petitions. That girl, what’s-her-name, Lady Amira. That was a woman who knew what it would mean to stand beside him. To be a queen. A partner. A guide to power, not just a vessel of it. 

 

Then a sudden rush of air and feathers cut through her thoughts. Hollow returned. 

 

The falcon’s cry broke the quiet, and Theron lifted his arm, dropping her hand. The bird landed with grace, talons catching against leather, wings folding neatly. Hollow settled, alert and patient. Melira stared at the falcon, then at Theron- his posture strong and steady. An outline of someone who had carried his solitude like a second skin for too long. 

 

“I will stand beside you,” she said, her voice clear now, “If you show me how.” 

 

Theron’s thumb did one last swipe of her neck, then moved to her cheek, tucking a lock of loose hair behind her ear. He wasn’t smiling still. She hoped that her request did not anger him. 

 

A beat. 

 

A nod. 

 

“I will,” he said. 

 

And that was all. 

Chapter 7: Wedding Bells

The wedding day came with silver sunlight and stillness. The world outside her window was glazed in what Rime called “autumn's warning”- a soft layer of snow and frost. It was as if the world had draped itself in silk just for her. Not heavy, but enough to cover the walkways and make servants wake up early to shovel off the layers. 

 

Melira sat at her vanity, watching as two hair stylists- under Sera's watchful gaze- pinned in small stones to her hair. The dress was laid out behind her, its gold shimmering, the silver glistening. Melira couldn't wait to put it on again. 

 

She had not had another conversation with Theron since that day in the mews. At least not one of that caliber. He had spoken to her briefly after council meetings and court, pointing out where she soared or failed. But both of their duties would get in the way before any more could be done about it. Melira was taking each success and failure to heart, using a journal to record what she had done and what had worked. Sera thought she was mad, but didn't question her beyond that. 

 

So, she learned. Slowly, carefully. Each word, look, and walk she had taken through the castle was a power move. She tested the waters with other court ladies, inviting them to a tea to get to know them. Lady Amira was in attendance, but kept her responses short. There was definitely an animosity there, Melira just had to figure out how deep it ran. 

 

But during it all, she had begun to learn something about Theron. About how power actually works. 

 

“Breathe, My Lady,” one of the dressers spoke as she slipped into her gown. Even here, Melira wielded power like it was a knife. She moved through the motions of getting ready this morning, using facial cues to show her displeasure when they tried to wrap her hair in a tight coil. But with the dress now on her, like she had been born into it, and the stone pins that Theron has gifted her, Melira felt unstoppable. 

 

Outside the bells began to ring, deep and low. The call for the nobles and visiting dignitaries to assemble in the chapel. Her mother has already gone ahead, most likely to stake out a spot in the front to “Ensure her obedience”. 

 

Melira took one last look in the mirror, Sera behind her. “Shall we, My Lady?” 

 

Melira nodded once and led the way to the chapel, her feet sure and steady. The halls were nearly silent as they made their way through them. Nobles and servants who were still lingering stopped and bowed to her in respect. The royal steward greeted her at the door, bowing the lowest of them all. Behind him, she could hear the murmurs of the guests, then silence as angelic sounding chords came through. 

 

The doors opened. Melira stepped through alone. 

 

Her father was not here to give her away. The escorts that might have replaced him had all been killed during the war. That was the cost of the treaty, the cost of this union. She had been traded like a token- her marriage to the king in exchange for her people’s obedience. Today she walked with will power alone. The stone arches of the cathedral rose high above her, laced with stone ivy and silver threaded tapestries. The long carpet beneath her shoes were the deep, holy purple that the Gods favored. But aligning the aisle were flowers, a mix of native ones from the Brambles and Rime, a touch that both her and Theron silently agreed on. A signal of that union. 

 

When she reached the dias, she paused. 

 

Theron turned. Dressed in a deep ash gray, lined is white and silver, his crown nestled at his brow. He stood like the king she had met only a few weeks ago- cold, hard, unstoppable. Melira curtsied, her head inclining as expected of her. Theron responded, then offered his hand to assist in having her climb the stairs. Melira took it, without hesitation. Her fingers slid into his, and the moment that their hands touched, her heart steadied. 

 

The priest began his rites, his voice deep and reverberating across her ears. Theron leaned in just enough for her to hear, his voice low so no one could catch it over the man before them. 

 

“You still have time to choose,” he murmured. 

 

She glanced at him through the corner of her eyes, keeping her face forward, “And here I thought you were giving me the power to stay.” 

 

He chuckled at that and corrected his stance. The words that were being uttered now were all a formality. Asking the Gods to bless the union, begging for mercy if either of the couple strayed, granting Melira the ability to provide a perfect heir- it was all for show. But they spoke their vows- protection, guidance, and tenderness from him, servitude, submission, and love from her. And when the final blessing was given, Theron lifted her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.

 

Melira’s brows creased for a moment, trying to figure out why, but he shook his head, telling her to wait until later to ask. They turned back to the crowd and waved, listening to them all declare: 

 

“Long live the King! Long live the Queen!” 

 

The chapel doors had barely shut behind them before the palace bells changed their tune- no longer solemn, but triumphant. A signal. A celebration. 

 

Melira descended the stairs of the dias, her hand still loosely in Theron’s as they walked side by side toward the great reception hall. Guards flanked them, but they felt far behind her now- like ghosts in the old world she had just stepped out of. The corridors were lined with well-wishers and nobles in their finest dress, each one bowing as the newly anointed queen passed. Melira met none of their eyes directly, but noted each expression- fawning, curious, calculating. 

 

The doors to the reception hall opened with a fanfare of horns. Melira, her hand resting now lightly on Theron’s arm, led the procession, not stopping until they reached the raised table at the center of the hall. Despite the cold that came through the open windows, the room seemed to be filled with silver light and warmth from the people that crowded in. The room has been transformed into nothing but decadence and elegance. 

 

The moment they sat, Theron leaned towards her, angling his hand to cover his mouth. “You will not leave my side tonight.”

 

Melira frowned, but didn’t look at him. “Is there a reason for that?” 

 

“Because you are not here to enjoy the feast,” he leaned back, lowering his hand, “You are here to command it.” 

 

Another test. This one though spilled out in front of her like ink running off the table. There was too much, out of control, and spilling over the sides. Her gaze shifted across with slow precision, trying to pinpoint what he wanted her to see. The music masked conversations, wine made each person’s emotion jump to various heights, and the colors twisted around like a rainbow. How could she figure out what to command when there was too much to control?

 

“Don’t look,” Theron whispered, “ see .” 

 

Melira inhaled once, then let her gaze sweep the room again- sharper this time, honed. A servant paused too long by the wine, a steward whispered into the ear of a visiting ambassador with a pointed look towards Lord Haven. A cluster of young nobles forming near a pillar, their eyes wandering over a too young serving girl, their laughter just too loud.  

 

Melira shifted, straightening her spine as the first drinks and food were served. She picked up a fork, biting into the small morsel that had been plated for her. It was good, but she barely focused on it. Her first problem was that the steward and the ambassador, whatever they were discussing, weren't innocent. She leaned slightly towards Theron, “The ambassador and steward?” 

 

He flicked a finger, giving her permission. Melira lifted her glass and caught the eye of the steward standing behind the head table. She tilted her head toward the cluster by the ambassador, then gave a subtle tilt of her cup. It wasn’t empty, but she simply needed to separate the two. When the steward approached, she leaned in to whisper instructions for him to ask the ambassador to come speak to her at his earliest convenience- an elegant summons that would remind him she was watching. 

 

She didn’t look to see if it was followed. There wasn’t time for that. 

 

She moved on to her next problem, the servant lingering at the wine. He was already sliding towards a mistake, his movements too sluggish, his eyes too wide. Melira reached for her fork, letting it clatter slightly against her plate, then turned her head. 

 

Sera approached without spectacle, her pale pink dress a whisper of movement. “My Lady?” 

 

“That server by the wine,” Melira murmured without looking at her. “Find out if he’s drunk or ill. Get rid of him. Quietly.” 

 

Sera dipped into a curtsy and vanished into the crowd like a wisp of smoke. One problem swept away like the dust under a rug. 

 

The nobles were an uglier stain. They were laughing with their eyes locked on the serving girl- Melira could feel the girl’s discomfort from here. The poor thing kept her tray in a death grip and tried not to make eye contact. She knew that feeling from when the men would leer at her in the Brambles during festival seasons. She went to stand, but Theron caught her wrist. 

 

“What part of ‘stay’ did you not understand?” He mumbled. 

 

Melira swallowed a retort, “I told you, obedience was never my strength.” 

 

That earned a small, quiet chuckle from him. But his grip remained. She wasn’t going anywhere. Melira huffed softly, but recomposed herself. How could she handle lecherous men from this far away, without moving? Without saying anything that would direct attention to the poor girl? 

Her eyes scanned the crowd again, looking for an idea. Then she saw it. She didn’t speak, just tilted her head to one of the royal guards stationed along the wall and tapped two fingers against her goblet. The guard followed her gaze as it swept back to the nobles. They both saw the boys. Melira said nothing. She took a sip of her wine. By the time the boys noticed the guard’s approach, it was too late to look innocent. 

 

They were escorted- firmly but politely- out of the main hall. 

 

“Nicely done,” Theron hummed, “A royal correction without a word.” 

 

Melira simply smiled. “I have a very good teacher.” 

 

The feast continued with music and dancing, and when it came time, Theron stood and extended his hand toward her. 

 

“Lady Melira,” he said, formality thick on his tongue, “Shall we?” 

 

Melira rose, letting her hand fall into his. Together, they stepped down from the dias. The crowd parted as they crossed the floor to where musicians waited, bows poised and breath held. Their first dance. The King and Queen. 

 

The music began- something slow and elegant, a waltz filled with minor chords. Theron pulled her close enough to lead, but not enough to touch more than her hand and her back. 

 

“While we circle,” he murmured, “there is a situation. Locate it. Address it. Do not stop dancing.” 

 

Melira’s jaw tightened. She had hoped the test was over. But no, with him it seemed, she would never be done with tests and power plays. 

 

He spun her out, Melira’s eyes landing on her mother who was talking with Lord Cern. She looked entirely too happy and Lord Cern looked smug. Something was happening between the two, something dangerous. Something that threatened Theron and Melira. She wasn't sure what, but she didn't like it. 

 

Melira’s steps didn’t falter, though her spine stiffened as Theron pulled her gently back in. Her mother was smiling-too much. Lord Cern leaned in, murmuring something just under the hum of the music. Melira saw the tilt of his goblet, the subtle flick of his fingers as he gestured towards the dais where she and Theron had just stood. Her mother’s hand fluttered at her chest as she laughed like a woman who had just been delightfully scandalous. 

 

Melira had seen that exact expression during festivals in the Brambles- mothers positioning their daughters in perfect spots and whispering secrets that weren’t bribes. 

 

“And?” Theron asked, their turn bringing them into full view of the nobles clustered at the side. 

 

“My mother and Lord Cern,” she murmured back, “They’re making a deal.” 

 

“Deals made behind chaos, invokes chaos.” 

 

The dance moved them away again, giving her a moment to think. She couldn’t speak with either of them, not without drawing attention or revealing that she saw them. No. She needed discretion. She needed secrets and gossip. 

 

Her eyes turned towards Lord Haven, who was definitely not listening to Lady Amira and Lady Lyanna. His eyes were on the royal couple, but he had that tilt in his head that showed his attention was elsewhere. What was it that Sera told her about him? He traded in secrets and gossip, not just merchandise. 

 

“I’ll need to speak with Lord Halven.” She decided, “A man who trades in everything should know what’s being traded here.” 

 

Theron nodded, “You’ll need to get him on your side first. Lord Haven is not one to let go of his information easily.” 

 

She hummed in agreement, but for now a plan was in place. She could work on it, mold it, make something out of it. The song ended, the applause faded. Replaced by the silks and the renewed murmur of conversation. Melira barely had a moment to redirect herself to the dais when a hand caught her arm. 

 

She turned, finding herself face to face with Lady Amira and Lady Lyanna. Up close, she could see that Amira’s hair was truly red. Crimson if she had to paint it. Her eyes were a pale green, her skin darker than most. She wore a dark grey dress, the neckline slopping down in a dangerous ‘v’ with off shoulder long sleeves. Amira was the definition of elegance carved from stone. Lyanna was pretty, her hair was blonde, eyes blue, like her fathers. She wore a blueish grey dress with stone colored seashells embroidered into the hems. Both curtised, although not as low as others have done today. 

 

“I wanted to introduce myself,” Amira spoke, her voice was soft but it held the cadence of a person who knew how to be in charge. “I am Lady Amira, daughter of Lord Marell of Stonehane, and this is my closest friend. May I present Lady Lyanna, daughter of Lord Cern Walton of Seamond.” 

 

She noticed that neither young lady addressed her title, or used Sera to introduce them as was customary. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Melira gave a small nod of her head, “Thank you for attending today.”

 

“It was our honor to attend a wedding to His Majesty,” Amira eyes danced, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. Her words clinked together like silverware- polished, correct, and cold. Melira recognized it instantly, not the warmth of a woman offering peace, but the veiled posture of one staking ground. Amira didn’t bow lower because she didn’t think she needed to. She hadn’t been announced because she didn’t intend to give Melira the advantage of formality. 

 

A chill ran through Melira’s spine that had nothing to do with the open windows. 

 

“Stonehane is quite a journey,” Melira noted mildly, “I hope it wasn’t an unpleasant one.” 

 

“We’re used to long roads,” Amira replied, her expression unreadable. “And I couldn’t miss such an important occasion. Especially after all that time waiting.” 

 

Waiting. 

 

Melira kept her face smooth, but the meaning coiled sharp in her chest. It was true. This was the woman who was poised to be married to Theron before the war. Before the treaty. The bitterness that dripped from Amira’s words made it plain: she had expected to be Queen. And now she was not. 

 

“That wait must’ve been… difficult,” Melira replied, her voice a shade warmer, the buzz under her skin started coming alive faintly. “The King has exacting standards.” 

 

That got Amira’s attention. Her eyes flickered, just briefly, before she smiled. One dimple. Sharp as a blade. She and her mother would get along swimmingly . “Indeed. He does.” 

 

Lyanna, sensing the air shift, looked between them like a child caught between her parents before the punishment came. She tilted her head, and in full sweet honesty said, “I was telling Amira how beautiful you are! Your gown is quite lovely, My Lady. So different from what was expected.” 

 

Melira gave a little smile but didn’t move her eyes from Amira’s. “I imagine there’s quite a bit you didn’t expect.” 

 

It was a small blow, but it landed. Amira’s chin tipped up a fraction too far, her breath quickened for a moment. It took a moment for the girl to compose herself again. “Stonehane has a long memory,” Amira said smoothly, “We honor our commitments. Even when they change.” 

 

Ah, so this was the game. Veiled threats disguised as civility. Rivalry cloaked in politeness and lace. Melira gave them both a calm, pleasant smile. “Then I am certain we will have much to discuss. Perhaps over tea?” 

 

A silence stretched between the three and Melira suddenly thought of her hives. Of how a queen bee, when she sensed a rival, would order her soldiers to suffocate or tear the newcomer apart before the threat could rise. It wasn’t cruelty. It was instinct. Control. The hive will not serve two queens. She knew that despite the vows being said, the title Queen under her, there was no such thing as being safe in this court. That was the whole point of Theron teaching her to wield power. Control what cannot be controlled. 

 

Keep your enemies close enough to sting. 

 

“I look forward to that, My Lady,” Amira’s smile twisted into something taller, “Perhaps we can share more time together as I join your household. Loyalty is better when it’s not questioned.” 

 

“True,” Melira tilted her head to the side, “And yet-when left unattended, it sours.” 

 

A beat. Then Amira laughed, “You are clever. No wonder he chose you.”

 

“And no wonder you’re still watching.” 

 

With that, Melira spun on her heel and walked back up the dias, to where Theron was watching with a small smile on his lips. Not enough for anyone but her to notice, but it was there. The games had begun. Let them keep their distance if they liked, but Melira would not make the mistake of underestimating them. A queen doesn’t hope for loyalty. She commanded it. And when necessary?

 

She knew how to kill a queen. 

 

Melira kept her smile in place, measured and composed, until the last of the courtiers retreated to their corners, conversations swirling once more with wine and speculation. She felt their eyes, of course- Lady Amira’s most of all- watching her every move like a predator waiting to see if the new queen would flinch. 

 

She didn’t. She wouldn’t.

 

Final toasts were made and the dance floor thinned. Nobles turned toward their own intrigues and indulgences for the evening. Only then did she allow her shoulders to relax, only then did she feel the ache in her cheeks from holding her expression just so. How did he do this every day?

 

Theron returned to her side with the quiet confidence of someone watching everything- and everyone. “Well done,” he murmured, offering his arm. “You commanded this feast better than I had thought.” 

 

She suddenly realized the feast was over . The night had begun. The first night with her now husband had begun. A long line of swears ran through her mind. Melira took it, fingers curling over the embroidered sleeve. “Did you find it acceptable?” She fought to keep the shaking out of her voice. 

 

“More than,” the crowd parted for them once more. A sea of courtiers and sycophants bowing and curtsying as they passed, but she barely acknowledged them. She was terrified about what was about to happen. 

 

When they reached the door that led to the royal wing, a guard opened the door for them. The corridors were warmer here. There were no windows, just outlines of what once might have been openings into the outside. It was quiet too, though Melira’s heart thudded loud enough she was sure it was echoing off the walls. 

 

Neither of them spoke as they entered the royal chambers. The door closed behind them with a soft, final thud.

 

His rooms were beautiful. Melira expected opulence. Silver filigree. Gray velvet drapes heavy with dust and ceremony. A throne disguised as a bed. Instead it was quiet in its power. Stoic. And much like him, not what she had expected. 

 

The walls were a deep stone grey, veined faintly with silver that caught the low light of the hearth and shimmered like moonlit frost. Tapestries in shades of garnet and iron black hung at measured intervals, each bearing the ancient crest of the mountains cleaved in two with a sword. Not one piece of art, no unnecessary trinkets. Everything here served a purpose. 

 

The air was cool, scented faintly with cedarwood and worn leather. A high, vaulted ceiling arched above them like the ribs of some ancient cathedral, shadows nesting in the beams. A fire cracked in the hearth- not for show, but necessity. Its glow flickered over the stone floor, warming the cold angles of the room, dancing in the reflection of a single tall mirror in the corner. A table, low and stuck between a couch and a very plush, deep, leather chair, had wine and slices of their wedding cake ready for them to eat.

 

She tried to keep her eyes from the bed, but even that spoke of quiet controlled power. Large but spare. Its frame is carved from dark, knotted oak. No canopy, no gauze or embellishment. Just thick furs folded across the foot and charcoal-grey linens that looked as soft as snow. The pillows were few. Practical. Not for pleasure. A sword rested above the head of the bed, laying across hooks. Not decorative, she decided, defensive. A weapon recently sharpened. 

 

This was not a king's chamber- this was a man’s room. A retreat. A shield from the court outside. A place carved out of solitude and war. Clean. Ordered. No chaos. No clutter. 

 

She liked it. The discipline in the space, the restraint. It was very fitting for him. 

 

“You look terrified,” Theron said, his tone unreadable again. Not mocking, not exactly gentle either. Just honest. 

 

“I’m not,” Melira turned to face him. He had discarded his overcoat, now standing in just his blouse and black pants. 

 

A brow arched, “Liar.” 

 

She swallowed, moving to trail her hand on the couch. “I’ve never-” her voice failed her. He expected her to be a virgin . All men did. And while Melira was , she had never even considered what this moment might be like. Her mother wasn’t exactly a teacher on the subject. She took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before talking. “No one’s ever touched me. Not like that. I don’t even really… I don’t even understand what people mean by ‘lying with a man’. Just vague metaphors and servant whispers.” She was rambling now. 

 

“I mean, I know it results in a baby but- but how ? My mother wouldn’t explain it and my lady’s maid back at home kept saying I would understand when I marry. I’ve seen animals mate. I had horses, I wasn’t naive to that. But still-” 

 

“Melira.” 

 

She snapped her mouth closed with an audible clap. Turning, she found him just staring at her. He made this so much worse. She felt humiliated. “I just…” she lowered her gaze, “Do you find that acceptable?” 

 

She felt his presence grow closer, just until he was in front of her. His hand came under her chin, tilting it up, forcing her to look at him. “It simply means no one had earned the right to touch you before me.” 

 

She swallowed, her lips parting slightly. “But I don’t know what to do .” 

 

“I will show you,” he moved in closer, if that were possible. His hand moved to that spot he had found on the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the skin there smooth. “And if you do not like it, if you want to stop, I will stop. I will not continue until you want to continue. Even if that is a hundred years from now.” 

 

“Do you want this, Melira?” 

 

She closed her eyes. His voice sounded like a soft winter wind, the dripping of water over stones. She wanted something to happen. She nodded, unsure what exactly she was saying yes to. 

 

“Use your words.” 

 

She whispered, “Yes.” 

 

Melira felt his lips before realizing what was happening. They were sure, purposeful. Nothing purely romantic, but just testing. Seeing where she was in terms of comfort. His hand on her neck slid upwards into her hair, pulling the pins out to make it fall, then angling her back gently. She started to follow the pattern, her hands resting on his chest. When she started to return the kiss, his other hand gripped at her waist, pulling her in closer. 

 

“Still yes?” he breathed. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

His hands moved, caressing her body in soft, gentle, but sure till he was at her back. Unlacing the dress slowly, his lips never leaving hers. She felt something, the buzz beneath her skin, the warmth pooling in her belly. Once it was done, he asked again, “Yes?” 

 

“Yes.” She hated how breathless she was. 

 

He slid the rest of the gown from her shoulders, unwrapping her like a present. His hands were cool on her skin, his eyes watching as the dress caught on her elbows were like mini stones-hard, unflinching. Theron moved his hand back up to her hair, trailing the tips of his finger up her back, making her shiver. He gripped her hair and tilted her back, lips moving from hers to her neck, her collarbone, the top of her chest. 

 

Her breath hitched, her hands clenched on his shirt. A low gasp broke from her mouth. She felt him smile. “Shall I keep going?” 

 

Melira squeezed her eyes shut, sure that he could feel how hard her heart was beating. “Please.” 

 

“May I touch you?” 

 

She nodded, but frowned. Wasn't he already touching her? “Yes.” 

 

One of his hands slid from her waist to her front, palm flat against her stomach, coming up slowly until it was just under her breast. His thumb ran over the clothed skin, not quite brushing her nipple but coming close. He did the same with the other, feeling, brushing, testing. 

 

Everything was a Gods-damn test. 

 

Theron dipped his face to kiss that sweet spot between her shoulder and neck, Melira let out a sigh, one of her own hands moving to his neck, brushing the hair there. He seemingly liked it, because the sound that came out of him was almost like a groan. 

 

Then he lightly circled her nipple with his fingertip through the dress. Melira felt her entire body freeze. But at the same time, her legs turned against her, she almost fell if he hadn't caught her. He repeated the motion, his finger catching on it once, then pinching it slightly. Melira arched into the touch, a whimper coming from her mouth. 

 

“ Ah .” The gasp left her throat before she could stop it. 

 

Theron actually laughed against her, muffled and warm into her skin. It sounded like thunder, but the kind that came with the storms that brought snow here. She liked that sound. He pulled back, “Are you alright?” 

 

Melira's eyes widened in shock, her face paled. “I am so sorry, I don't know-” 

 

He covered her mouth with a hand, “If I do that again, will you gasp like that again?” 

 

Melira could only shrug. He grinned, “Then let's try, shall we?” He released her mouth and pinched her other nipple, hard . 

 

“Ah! Fuck!” She yelped but it wasn't painful. It felt good, it felt wonderful. She was lightheaded and grounded all at the same time. 

 

“That's interesting,” he mused, “Do you want me to stop?” 

 

Melira opened her eyes again, this time lowering her arms completely and letting the dress fall away, pooling at her feet. All that was left on her body was her underdress and underclothes, both of which were flimsy and see through in the current light. She felt herself flush, “I don't think I want you to ever stop.” 

 

Theron quickly united the dress, letting that fall and lowered her breast band, letting it loop around her stomach. Nothing was left to the imagination now, he was seeing her almost completely bare. His hands roamed her body, smoothing along the skin as if touching a precious artifact. Then he braced her waist and pulled her along until they stood directly next to his bed, not once breaking eye contact. 

 

He moved forward, one hand guiding her down to the bed, the other tilting her head back so he could kiss her again. His tongue scraped along her top lip, and when she gasped as her back hit the bed, it pushed its way into her mouth. Her legs felt slick, just enough for her to notice. She arched into his touch, a small moan leaving her. He leaned back, and she watched through hooded lids as he pulled his shirt off and unlaced his pants. 

 

The amount of scars on his chest made her sit up. She couldn’t imagine what horrors gave him those. Melira wondered if any of those scars matched hers, from whip marks and thorns. He grinned, but that was because he thought she was just admiring him, when in her mind, she wished she could heal them all. His hand smoothed over her leg, just above her kneecap, “May I?” 

 

She nodded, unsure if her voice would work at this point. Theron pulled her legs apart, slowly, reverently. He leaned over her, one hand ghosting up her thighs, the other coming back to her breasts to cup them. His mouth went down, and Melira gasped loudly, arching up into his mouth as it covered her breast. His tongue was wet, rolling her nipple before biting it gently. Melira’s hands wrapped around his shoulders, digging her fingernails into the skin. His hand came further up, pressing into her folds with small, hesitant pushes. 

 

“You’re so wet, Melira,” he whispered, “Even through your underclothes- you are soaking for me.”

 

She whined at that, unsure what it meant or why it sent a shiver through her spine. Her body arched upward, hands fisting the blanket by her head. His hand pushed harder into her, his lips touched every inch of skin before returning to her mouth. Melira returned the kiss with a fever, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in closer.  

 

Theron’s fingers wrapped around the band on her waist, “Can I remove this?” He mumbled into her. When she nodded, he stood up and slid the cloth down her legs, helping her lift her feet so it could be thrown to the side. His hand came back up, sliding along her calf then thighs until he was back at her center. That point between her legs. The one he proceeded to run his fingers through. 

 

Melira jumped at the sensation, trying to clamp her legs shut at the sudden intrusion, but Theron kept them separated, nearly by his own body. His hand kept up the menstruations, pushing, petting, using his thumb to circle and indent the feeling on her soul. Gods, it felt so good . Her sighs and moans came through a bitten lip, not wanting to swear aloud any more than what she already did. 

 

“You’ll need to be stretched,” Theron whispered in her ear, “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

 

Stretched ? She already felt loose and light, what needed to be stretched? “You won’t.” 

 

Theron leaned in again, his hand at her core slipped up and down once before going in . Melira sucked in a breath, her hip bucking underneath him. But he didn’t stop. He pumped one finger, making her arch and moan and whine at each one. Then, he slipped in two, and she felt blood on her lip from how hard she was biting it. When he curled his fingers inside her, she groaned, “Oh Gods!” 

 

“That’s it,” Theron kissed her again, “that’s a good girl.”

 

He moved his fingers faster, his mouth biting and sucking at her breasts. Melira was no longer coherent, but maybe that was a good thing. She couldn’t formulate a thought if one came to her. If this was what everyone made vague notions to when she asked, then it was clear why it was never fully explained. She squirmed, her hands pulling him closer if it was possible. She felt something on her inner leg through his pants, hard and long. She tried to rub herself against it, but only succeeded in matching her hips to his pumps. 

 

Her eyes suddenly snapped open, something was happening. Something was building and it was about to explode out of her, “The-Theron- I feel like- I need-”

 

“Come for me.” 

 

She must’ve because she felt like she exploded. All Melira could see was white, she couldn’t even hear herself fumbling over words and swears that didn’t make any sense. Her legs felt so wet, slick, and loose. He didn’t stop his movements, he kept going, letting her feel but not feel at the same time. 

 

When she came down from being in the sky, she was breathless. 

 

“Melira?” His voice came from somewhere above her, his hand was brushing hair from her face. “Melira, are you alright?” 

 

She nodded, a breathless laugh came from her. “That was-”

 

“Can I enter you fully?” 

 

She sat up, or at least tried to, then immediately fell back on the bed. Her legs were spread on either side of his. Theron had at one point, unlaced and dropped his pants, revealing what had been rubbing against her thigh. 

 

She’s seen penises before, she had horses growing up. Stallions were her favorite and she helped the stable hands with picking out mares to breed. But what Theron was palming, his hand rubbing up and down- was thick, hard, and big . It matched him perfectly- clean, perfect, no nonsense, like a rock . Was he going to put that in her ? 

 

How? How was that going to fit? 

 

“Melira,” it was no longer a question, her name was no longer a test to see if she was listening. “Answer me.” 

 

Her body clenched, she felt empty. It needed something inside her. And if that was being offered, what choice did she have?

 

“Yes.” 

 

He grabbed her waist, lifting it and pushing her higher on to the bed. He held her legs apart, bracing his hand on her waist. Then guided himself to her core. It pressed into her, just the very tip, and she flinched at the sensation. He paused, letting her settle, then pushed in. 

 

“Oh fuck,” Melira groaned around it. She understood why he ‘stretched’ her out. It hurt . He was slow, methodical, not gentle-but trying to be. It took a few moments of her adjusting then him pushing in more, adjusting again. But when he was fully inside, he leaned over her, as she tried to buck her hips to get some friction going. 

 

“Good girl, Melira,” he murmured, “Very good girl.” 

 

She reached for him, hands wrapping around his neck. “ Please. ” It came out as a sob, she needed him to move. She needed to feel more than just the pressure inside her. 

 

“Please what?” 

 

Melira pulled his neck down until his forehead was touching hers, “Move, Theron.” 

 

He grinned, “As my Queen commands.” 

 

He pulled back, just until he was barely inside then slammed back into her. His rhythm at first was uncoordinated, but it soon turned smooth. With each thrust, Melira jerked back on the bed, moans and whimpers falling from her like a waterfall. His pace was relentless, lifting one of her legs so it was almost touching her stomach. 

 

“Fuck, you feel so good, Melira,” He groaned, “So tight. So wet.” 

 

Melira couldn’t respond. That blinding white light was coming back, rolling over her in waves. She felt her entire body clench up around him. He moved, if possible, faster. His own groans become animalistic grunts. 

 

“That’s it, come for me.” 

 

Melira let go for another time that night, shouting his name and how good it felt. This one was more coherent. “Fuck, yes, Theron!” Her fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him down, as close as humanly possible. He shifted his hands and pulled her up, using the new leverage to hit a slightly different spot that made her collapse against his chest. 

 

Theron growled, “I’m so close. I’m so fucking close.” He guided her through the motions, then pushed her down hard, making her yelp. When he stilled, she felt something leaking into her, warm and gooey. 

 

He rolled so that he was able to pull her on the bed with him, face pressed into his chest, his penis flopped out of her, much smaller than when she first saw it. Melira put her hand between her legs, then held it up. White, sticky, liquid that smelled musty was all over her fingers. Theron pushed her hand away. “Leave it alone,” he commanded, “I want an heir.” 

 

She listened, wrapping her hand around his chest, the other flopping uselessly next to her. Theron pulled one of her legs to hook around his hip. “Sleep, my Queen.” He ran a finger down her nose, “I plan on enjoying you again.”

Notes:

Well thanks for reading!

I really hope you enjoyed this so far. I apologize if the wedding night wasn't as "detailed" as you hoped. Most of the time I kinda just glaze through scenes like that. Updates will come soon!

Chapter 8: Roles and Rules

The next morning, Melira stirred before the sun rose. She felt her body waking up before her eyes even opened. She felt sore, stretched, like after a hard day working out in the garden. Every sensation, from the smooth sheets tangled around her legs, to the sunlight just peeking in through closed blinds, felt heightened.  Heavy and weightless all at once, pollen on the wind. The hum beneath her skin, pleasant and begging for release. 

 

She felt something brush her shoulder. 

 

Fingers- rough and calloused, familiar- traced a line down the curve of her back, stopping just a dip above her waist. Her breath hitched, her eyes fluttered open. 

 

Theron. 

 

She was on her stomach, arms trapped under a pillow, her hair a tangled mess around her. She must’ve looked awful. He didn't seem to care. He was propped up on his elbow, eyes following his fingers. He was bare chested- which Melira found rather distracting- the sunlight illuminating shadows of the scar just under his eye. His own hair, the stone grey that was usually perfectly brushed, looked messy. Melira blushed remembering how tightly she gripped it last night. 

 

“Good morning,” he said, voice deep and heavy. 

 

“Good morning,” Melira twisted her neck to look at him fully. 

 

“Did you sleep well?” 

 

“Better than I ever have. Did you?” 

 

Theron’s fingers paused, “Thoroughly.” The look on his face had changed, his eyes had darkened. “Although, waking up was quite a nice sight.” 

Melira blushed and buried her face into the pillow. When she peeked out at him, he was smiling, continuing his grazing along her spine. “Was it…? Was I-” 

 

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her lips. “You were perfect.” 

 

Melira fell back into the pillows. She liked this feeling, that warm melty feeling that coursed through her veins. She felt like she just woke up in a dream, that it would all disappear if she blinked. But when she did, nothing changed. “I never felt like that before… grounded but also like I was flying?” 

 

His hand slipped down to her waist and pulled her up against him. His fingers threaded through her hair, attempting to untangle the snags. “Did you enjoy it?” 

 

“Thoroughly.” 

 

Theron chucked at the echo, but it was short lived. His fingers brushed her hair from the base of her neck, a frown started to form. “Where are these from?” 

 

Melira sucked in a breath. She had hoped he would ignore the raised lines on her back. Pretend that they were just childhood scars that never healed. That's what she always pretended they were. “Birch switch.” 

 

“Your mother?” 

 

“I was ten? Spoke out of turn during dinner. One switch for every word spoken.” 

 

She felt him shift, pushing the blanket down. His lips replaced his hand, as if kissing the scars would make them disappear. He found the next batch near her hip, “These?” 

 

“I was twelve. Went out into the Brambles without permission. I wanted to fix a hive that fell from a tree. Mother claimed I looked like a peasant girl.” 

 

Another kiss, another small bit of comfort. “This one?” He tapped the ones on her thighs, making her legs tense under his touch. 

 

“I ate dinner with the servants while she was sick. I don't remember how old I was.” Melira propped herself up on her elbows, looking back at him. “I want to get rid of her.” 

 

Theron paused, “I can help with that.” 

 

That settled the matter because his hand reached down to her ankles, his lips leaving teasing bites and kisses on her hip. “Did she cause these ones too?” 

 

Melira laughed, “No, that’s from being stupid and running through thorn bushes without shoes on. My maid claimed that was punishment enough.” 

 

He came back up, peppering kisses along her spine until she fell back into the pillow, sighing. His hand followed but stopped between her legs. His thumb grazed the spot there, making her moan his name into the pillow. “You are already wet for me Melira.” 

 

He said that last night too. He must like that, she decided, he likes how she feels under him. He likes that her body responds to him in the way that her bees might respond to her. Willing, open, ready. 

 

She ground her hips, trying to give herself some relief, but he placed another hand between her shoulder blades, effectively stopping her. “Theron,” she whined, feeling that wave start to rise as his thumb pressed a little spot and pushed it in a circle. 

 

“Look at you,” his voice was rough, “So needy. Desperate for me. And you can't even use your words to say so.” 

 

She turned her head so she could speak. “Theron, I need you. Please.” 

 

He rolled so he was on top of her back, pushing her legs apart. She could hear him positioning himself, the blankets falling to her ankles. She felt him at her entrance, no preparation besides his menstruations. He started to push in, she groaned at the sensation- 

 

A knock completely interrupted them. 

 

“Your Majesty,” a soft voice came from the closed door. “I’ve come to deliver breakfast.” 

 

They froze, he was barely in her. It was a tease, the way she could feel the tip of him brushing her like a cat tail. She wanted to scream at whoever was behind the door, tell him to leave and never come back. 

 

“Deliver breakfast later.” Theron’s voice boomed behind her, cold and harsh. 

 

“You have meetings today, Your Majes-” 

 

Theron growled- actually growled like a dog who has its bone taken away. “I said: Fuck. Off.” 

 

A beat, then “Of course, My King.” Then silence. 

 

Theron thrusted into her hard, making Melira yell out in surprise at the intrusion. It wasn't unwelcomed, but it was harsher than she expected. He leaned down, and growled in her ear, “You are staying like this all day today. Wet, naked, and in my bed.” 

 

She could only whine in response, though it was muffled into the pillow. Melira liked that idea. 

 

“You’re mine, Melira,” he accented each word with his thrusts, “My. Fucking. Queen.” 

 

She wasn't sure how long she'd been lying there. At one point he flipped her around, bending her legs so that her feet brushed the wall. The feeling from that was delicious. Another time he had her head hanging off the bed, her legs locked around his waist as he released himself inside her. Each position made her squeal and squirm and tumble into that white bliss that came over her. For what felt like hours, Melira was in ecstasy. 

 

Now she was on her back, the blankets and sheets tangled up in a ball at her feet. Theron was beside her, one arm covering his face, the other was draped across her stomach, fingers making lazy circles on her side. A faint sheen of sweat covered both of them. 

 

Melira turned her head to look at him, propping herself up on her elbow and traced a scar down his chest. She wanted to ask the way he did, but she didn't want to know the answers either. Instead she just said, “You know, breakfast is still waiting to be delivered.” 

 

Theron grunted, not moving his arm away from his face, nor from her waist. “Let it rot,” his grip tightened, pulling her closer to him, “I’m not hungry for food.” 

 

Melira rolled her eyes, but it was gentle. This side of him was different. Was it romance? Or simply pure, animalistic lust? She couldn't be sure. “We have a council meeting today.” She reminded him. 

 

“And?” 

 

“We should go to it?” Melira pulled his arm from his face. His eyes were dark and hooded. He pulled again, this time forcing her to straddle him. The soreness stretched. It didn't hurt, it wasn't painful. It was a reminder of what he'd done to her. A claim. And she surrendered fully to it. 

 

“I don't want to.” he rolled her hips. She could feel him harden beneath her, growing to be that weapon that utterly destroyed her. She let him control her motions, leaning forward on to his chest, bracing herself with her hands. Her breath started coming out in short little puffs as she tried to focus on keeping herself up. “Lean back,” Theron grunted, “Hands on my knees.” 

 

She complied. The angle made her breasts pop forward, her back curve just so. Theron rolled her hips again, this time slipping into her. She gasped at the sensation, then moaned as he lifted her and let her fall. Melira felt like he was hitting the core of her very being, something deep and needy. 

 

“Theron,” her voice sounded like a whine. She lifted herself this time, moving at a pace that worked better for her. Theron only watched, on hand sliding up and cupping her breasts, the other holding her waist with his fingers digging into her side. 

 

“That’s it,” he said, his eyes hard, “You look so good like this.” 

 

Melira felt that wave start to come back, that buzzing feeling that washed over her. She let out a mewl, high pitch and whiny. She rolled her hips and bounced faster, chasing that feeling. Theron moved his hand from her breast to the spot where their bodies joined. She watched as he started rubbing that little spot he seemed to favor with his fingers. Her head fell back, her moans got louder, Theron’s grip got tighter. She felt herself grow tight, clenching around him.

 

Melira’s arms gave out, and she almost fell backward. Theron pulled her forward and wrapped his arms around her, keeping her trapped against his chest. He then moved fast, thrusting up and into her as she let out little sounds that were incoherent and loud against him. Then he gave one last, hard, thrust and spilled into her. He held her there, letting her soak in his release. 

 

“So beautiful,” Theron smoothed a hand through her hair as she panted on to of him, “So fucking beautiful.”

 

Another knock on the door, “Your Majesty, I know you said you did not wish to be disturbed,” the footman sounded terrified, “But the council has already gathered and are awaiting your presence.”

 

Theron huffed out a breath, “I swear to the Gods-”

 

Melira sat up, “You might not be hungry, but I could do with breakfast.” She slid off him slowly, wincing with satisfaction at the soreness settling into her bones. It made her feel claimed. Marked. The ache was not unwelcome. She grabbed her underdress and used it to wrap around herself like a robe, her thighs felt sticky with him. She padded toward the door and opened a crack. The footman bowed and she spied the breakfast cart behind him. “If we can start with breakfast,” she pointed, “Then have my Lady come help me dress. Ask her to pick something out from my wardrobe-”

 

“Gold,” Theron demanded from behind her. “It should be gold.” 

 

Melira sighed, “Tell her to bring me something gold to wear.” 

 

The footman nodded and pushed the cart to the door, handing it over to Melira with a bow. “Thank you,” she smiled at him and pulled it the rest of the way. She settled it near the two chairs and the small table, uncovering the silver tray to reveal a now cold breakfast of toast, jam, and bacon. There was also a small pot with coffee and some cream. “Come eat, Theron.” 

 

He groaned but stood, then flopped down into a chair. He reached forward, looking like he was going for a cup that Melira was currently pouring some of the coffee in. Instead, he reached past that and undid the ties that kept her dressing gown closed. “That’s better,” he took the cup from her hands, sitting back and smiling as she blushed. 

 

Melira served herself, but avoided the coffee. She sat across from him, taking a bite of the toast with the purple jam that she had chosen. It was cold and hard. The toast was practically sand in her mouth. “I wasn’t joking about my mother,” she broke the silence. “About getting rid of her.” 

 

“I know,” he took a piece of bacon and made a face as he ate it. “But it needs to be strategic. Political. You cannot risk a scandal within your first few days as Queen.” 

 

Melira sat back in the chair. “How do I do that?” 

 

“I’ll show you, over time.” 

 

“How long?” 

“That depends on you,” He leaned forward putting his now empty cup down. “If we do this fast, it’ll be painless. A blink in existence. However, if you want to make it last- torture her so to speak- drag it out so it is humiliating for her , that is also an option.” 

 

Melira thought for a moment. Both had an appeal to it. Getting rid of her quickly was beneficial, no more having to worry about her mother doing something behind her back. But the long way- the way that would humiliate her as revenge for Melira’s upbringing- that gave her a buzz. 

 

“Don’t decide now,” Theron advised, “Cern is also a problem that would need to be dealt with at the same time. And there is also Lord Marell, he’s had a distaste for the Brambles since the treaty was signed.” 

 

“You set aside his daughter to marry me,” Melira set her plate down. “I’d say that he has a right to have a ‘distaste’ for the Brambles.” 

 

Another knock on the door, then Sera’s voice, “My Lady? I’ve brought you a dress, would you like me to come in?” 

 

Melira hesitated, not wanting someone to intrude on this conversation. But they had to go to a council meeting. Or at least, Melira did. She needed to step into her official role, become the queen that didn’t just gain the title through marriage. 

 

“Are you going to stay naked when I tell Sera to enter?” She asked lightly. 

 

“There’s a dressing room through there,” he pointed to a door behind her, “She can join you from that room. I only allow servants in here if they are delivering something.” 

 

Melira stood and Theron joined her, wrapping an arm around her waist, “When the meeting is over, I’m having the servants move your belongings in here. You are not returning to the Rosewing Tower to be scrutinized by your mother.” 

 

“As you wish,” Melira kissed him on the underside of his jaw, “Your Majesty.” With that she left him standing there, moving to the dressing room he had pointed at. 

 

The room was sparse, just a raised circular platform and a mirror. Sera had already entered, the dress in her arms. She looked up from the bundle in her arms and gave a little curtsy, “I thought you might like this one,” she said with a smile, holding the gown out so Melira could see it in full. 

 

It shimmered like sunlight on honey- gold, but not in the garnish way that Melira had seen amongst the nobles. No sequins or heavy embroidery. No cloying perfume sewn into the seams. The fabric was soft, flowing, and fine, cut to skim her waist and flare gently at the hips, the kind of gown that whispered rather than screamed queen . The bodice was tailored with precise seams that drew the eye upward to the square neckline, modest but firm, while the sleeves tapered to the wrist with thin cuffs of embroidered thread- just a touch of clean, as if gold had been woven into spider silk. 

 

The hem was long but not cumbersome, brushing the floor just enough to make her walk seem deliberate. At her shoulders sat two fine clasps shaped like thorns, cast in deep bronze- subtle nods to her home, her history, her resilience. 

 

“It's beautiful,” Melira said simply, stepping toward it. Sera moved quickly to help her change, slipping the underdress away and using a damp cloth to wipe her legs. Then she held the new gown open allowing Melira to step into it. 

 

“It’s understated,” Sera said as she fastened the back, “but no one will forget you’re the queen when you walk past.” 

 

Melira smirked faintly at the mirror. “Good.” 

 

As Sera tied the final loop, Melira caught her reflection again. She looked… royal. Not in the way her mother had always preached- with pearls and posture and perfection- but in the way blade clinks when pulled from its sheath. She looked like something that couldn’t be bent, and it wouldn’t be broken.

 

“Jewelry?” Sera asked. 

 

“Just that,” Melira pointed to a hair pin shaped like a bramble branch, with thorns and golden bees. 

 

Sera gave an approving nod, “They’ll remember this.” 

 

Melira let her hands fall to her sides. She was ready. Let the council wait. Let them squirm and whisper about timing. She would walk in when she pleased- and the dress would speak for her before she ever opened her mouth. 

 

“Come,” she said, already striding to the doors that lead back into the castle, “It’s time the court sees a queen.” 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

The council chamber was already full when Theron and Melira arrived- stone-faced men draped in their respective colors, seated around the table like vultures waiting for a kill to weaken. Theron said nothing as he led them to the head of the table, waiting for her to sit first. Melira felt regal in her dress-untouchable. But she knew that this meeting would be a test of her own nerve. Theron was silent, eyes hard as he watched everyone follow suit. 

 

Everyone except her mother- Lady Eardine Halethorne was already seated. 

 

She smiled faintly when Melira’s eyes landed on her, “As per the final terms of the treaty, upon the day of my daughter’s wedding, the Brambles shall have a seat at the table.” 

 

Melira tensed. She did not know this. In fact she barely knew what was in the treaty besides marriage. She pushed that aside, promising herself to ask Theron for it later. She was ready to respond but was stopped before she could even try. 

 

“It’s odd, though,” Lord Halven leaned forward, his rings hitting the table. “I had assumed that by the wording in the treaty, Her Royal Highness would be the one who speaks for the Brambles. Upon the marriage, Queen Melira has her full inheritance, including the lands she was born in. Please correct me if I’m wrong?” 

 

“I don’t believe you are, Lord Halven,” a soft voice came from opposite her. Melira’s eyes moved, focusing on the unfamiliar cadence. Dressed in pale yellows and oranges, the emblem of a ring of fire, was Lord Vellian Fallt of House Illiar. He had dark skin, with curly black hair and topaz eyes. He was smaller than the other men, but he held the room with his lack of care on how unpolished he looked in his chair. “I had read that as well, which is why I question why Lady Halethorne is here.”

 

“I am here as the representative of the Brambles,” Melira’s mother sat forward, her eyes narrowing, the smile dropping. “That is what the treaty-”

“But it is incorrect,” Lord Vellian pulled a knife from his pocket and started carving out the table in front of him. “Her Highness and King Theron are now the Lord and Lady of the Brambles. You are no longer relevant.” 

 

The silence that came from that statement was heavy. 

 

Lady Eardine’s lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest tremor flashing across her jaw. “I may no longer hold the title,” she said slowly, “but I rebuilt what your war destroyed. I kept it alive so that you may have the lands.” 

 

Lord Vellian didn’t look up from where he was slowly peeling curls of wood from the table, “And we thank you for your service, my lady,” he said lightly. “But the era of caretakers ends with the crown being passed. You don’t outlive your own succession.” 

 

“I’ve earned my seat,” she snapped. 

 

Theron shifted, speaking at last, “No one earns a seat by written words,” his voice was cold. He was devoid of any heat. “You entered my council chambers without invitation. You are not welcomed.” 

 

Melira felt the ripple it caused- not in volume, but in weight. 

 

Her mother opened her mouth, but Lord Halve cut in with a politician's calm. “The Brambles’ political transition aside, perhaps we could return to the matter of governance.” He gestured broadly. “Several of us have business to present before the Queen.” He gave Melira a shallow bow of his head, lips curving into something that might have passed as friendliness if not for the glint in his eyes. 

 

But before anyone could respond, Lord Cern’s voice cut through the room like a frosted wind. 

 

“And if she were Queen, you could.” 

 

The room stilled again. Lord Marell nodded, and leaned back in his chair. “She has yet to provide an heir to the kingdom,” he added, “But until then, we are queen less .” 

 

The words struck like stones dropped in still water. Melira blinked. She felt more than heard the subtle shift beside her- Theron’s stillness hardening into something colder. 

 

“I was not made aware of that condition,” he said, his voice even. Melira felt her skin buzz. Looking down, she saw that his hand was gripping the arm of the chair, the wood turning grey- turning to stone. 

 

“It was not formally written on our copy, Your Majesty,” Lord Cern’s voice was smooth, “We amended it afterwards upon Lady Hawethorne’s request to hers.” 

 

Of course her mother did something like that. She would die before her daughter gained any power over her. 

 

Walton had continued the conversation, “As per the treaty, the queen consort must provide a legitimate heir within one year of marriage to ensure the continuation of the joined bloodlines. If she fails, the throne must consider alternate consorts of highborn standing.”

 

Theron’s voice was dry, “Alternate consorts?” 

 

Cern nodded, “Contingency plans, Your Majesty. Should Lady Melira remain barren- or suffer misfortune- we must consider the kingdom’s future.” He looked around the table, the lines of his mouth tightening with practiced solemnity. “In which case, I would humbly put forth two potential candidates- my daughter, Lyanna, and Lord Marell’s Amira. You forget both were options before the war.” 

 

The room didn’t speak. Not even Lord Halven smiled now. Theron’s jaw flexed, his chair turning grey beneath him. He was building a response, one that wouldn’t be pretty or controlled. Melira put her hand on his, rubbing her thumb over his skin. He glanced at her, but his grip didn’t loosen. 

 

“I find it odd, Lord Cern,” Melira leaned towards him, her voice honey over steel, “that a man would concern himself with the inner workings of a woman’s womb. It strikes me as not just inappropriate- seems almost… predatory.” 

 

She paused, letting the word hang in the air. 

 

“I advise you to keep your daughter out of such conversations.” She smiled, a wasp ready to sting, “I’d hate for her to be the subject of such scrutiny one day.” 

 

The silence after her words were different this time- warmer, if only because the temperature in the room seemed to rise with discomfort. A few of the lords looked down, others shifted in their chairs. Even Walton’s mouth drew taut at the veiled reference to his own daughter’s name being tossed so lightly into the succession pool. 

 

Lord Cern, to his credit, did not blink. 

 

“Of course, Your Highness,” he said finally, tone perfectly smooth. “I only meant to safeguard the future of the realm. You understand how fragile dynasties can be.” 

 

“Only when they’re built on sand,” Melira said, “Luckily, this one seems to be made of stone.” 

 

Theron rose beside her, slowly, putting closed fist on the table. A quick glance told Melira that the chair had remained in a halfway state of wood and stone. He was in control again. “Then the matter of succession shall remain closed. If it is raised again, before my wife has even taken the crown, it will be considered an act of treason.” 

 

No one argued. He wouldn’t allow it. 

 

Lord Vellirn cleared his throat, “Then can we move on?” 

 

One by one, the council returned to its business- petitions from the eastern grain provinces, troop distributions to the borders, a request for aid from some minor house in the flooded marshes. Melira listened, responded when needed, nodded where expected. Theron’s hand had found its way to her thigh, she rested hers on his. But her mind was elsewhere, fixed on the tremor in her mother’s jaw, the way Lord Cern hadn’t denied his intent, only disguised it. Every smile in the room felt like a blade wrapped in velvet. 

 

By the time the meeting adjourned, the sun had dipped low behind the stone-paneled windows. Lords filed out in pairs, speaking in hushed tones, some bowing more deeply than others. A few avoided her eyes altogether.

 

Theron moved to the small room he had taken her to the first time she joined the council, but Lord Cern was lingering, discussing something with the guards. 

 

She needed to protect the hive. 

 

She crossed the room, footsteps light but deliberate. With a wave, the guards left them. 

 

“My lady,” he said smoothly, offering a bow. Too deep. Too mocking. 

 

Melira smiled tightly, “Your concern for the realm is touching, Lord Cern. Truly.” 

 

“I only act in the kingdom’s best interest.” 

 

“Oh, I believe you,” she said, “Which is why I know you’ll understand when I say this plainly: if you involve my womb, my crown, or any other part of me in your calculations again…” 

 

She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a whisper only he could hear. 

 

“...I’ll ensure that your daughter’s future is as barren as you hope mine to be.” 

 

Cern froze. 

 

“And your son?” she added with a sweet smile, “I think should stay far, far, far, away from the training courts. Accidents happen when ambition outpaces sense.” 

 

She didn’t wait for a reply. She swept to the back, head high, spine straight. To where Theron waited for her with a very proud look on his face. Melira barely waited until the heavy doors closed behind her before she exhaled- once, slow, controlled. The air still tasted like frost and blood. 

 

Theron reached out without a word, drawing him to her. His hand swept up her back, pulling her so that she was forced to tilt her head back so he could kiss her. “You were amazing in there,” he murmured. 

 

“They threatened the crown,” she tried to formulate a response against his lips, sighing when he moved down her neck and on to her collarbone. “I wanted to remind them of that.” 

 

He chucked, “And poisonous too.” 

 

Melira gripped his head as his fingers pulled up her skirt, “People have died from bee stings before,” she gasped when his hand found her core, “I’m not afraid of doing it again.”

Chapter 9: Control

 

 Melira watched as another gown was pulled from her wardrobe, it was grey and silver, with pearls adorning the bodice and lining of the sleeves. A servant presented it to her, letting her decide if it would be one to follow her to Theron’s chambers or remain behind to be forgotten. 

 

She studied it for a moment. It wasn't the ugliest dress in that color and there would be times where she would need to wear something with Rime’s colors, but it looked heavy. She sighed, shifting on her old bed. “I don't know. Sera? Keep or discard?” 

 

Sera looked up from the embroidery she was working on. “I'd say discard. The pearls are awful. If you want to take one like that, take the diamond one.” 

 

Melira nodded, “It can be left here.” 

 

The servants slipped the dress back into the wardrobe, pulling out a linen brown one that Melira had brought from home. “That's coming with me,” she said without hesitation, “It was my favorite.” 

 

“It's so simple,” Sera noted. 

 

“It's comfortable ,” Melira corrected her. She studied it for a moment longer, pulling it out of the servant's grip. It was still soft, still unadorned, still smelling like woodsy air and honey. A reminder of everything she was before all of… this.

 

The door creaked open, and stepped, her mother. The servants all took a moment to bow their heads, as now befitting of her station. Her mother took a scan of the room, her eyes narrowing on the trunk and the dresses that still remained in the wardrobe. 

 

“Are you going somewhere?” She asked, voice soft. 

 

“The King has requested I move into his chambers,” Melira squared her shoulders. This was going to be a battle. “I'm deciding what I should take.” 

 

“That's not traditional.” 

 

“We are aware of that.” 

 

The hush in the room felt like a blanket doused in water- heavy, thick, and uncomfortable. Melira knew what was coming, this wasn't unfamiliar to her, but she'd be damned if she let her mother win this round. 

 

“Leave us,” her mother's eyes narrowed. The servants were the first out, dropping what they were holding and booking it to the door. Sera hesitated, looking between the two women. 

 

“It's alright, Sera,” Melira raised her head, “This will only be a moment.” 

 

Sera gave a searching look, then dipped her head and left, shutting the door softly behind her. 

 

Silence settled like frost. Lady Eardine stood in the center of the room, eyes glazing over the open trunk, the half-packed jewels, the sense of separation heavy in the air. “So,” she said, voice even. “You’re playing house.” 

 

Melira’s jaw tightened, “The King requested it.” 

 

“How convenient for him,” her mother replied. “How disappointing for me.” 

 

Melira pushed her brows together, “I didn’t realize that your comfort was my concern.” 

 

Lady Eardine crossed to the window, clasping her hands behind her back. “It is when it’s the only power I have left. Who do you think they’ll go to when they need something from the Brambles? When you're tucked away, playing whore to the King, they’ll have no one to speak with.” 

 

“I don’t plan on being ‘tucked away’, Mother.” 

 

Eardine whirled on her, face sharp. “Oh you don't plan on it? That's sweet. That's naive.” Her voice was cutting down, preparing to slice Melira to shreds. She recognized the tone. “You think bedding a king and sitting pretty in a council meeting makes you a queen? Makes you safe? You’re an ornament, Melira, one that will last as long as your nativity lasts.” 

 

Melira didn't answer, her fingers though tightened in her skirt. The buzzing in her blood was so loud, it almost drowned out her mother's voice. 

 

“You think they’ll respect you because you dress and act like they should? Because you are married ? You’ve done nothing to earn their loyalty or their respect. You haven't secured power.” Eardine’s voice turned colder, “And now, because of your pathetic attempts at being queen, I am no longer a gate to your seat of power.” 

 

“That does not sound like a failure on my end.” 

 

Her mother’s laugh was joyless and empty. “You really think this about you ? This isn't about the pretty dresses or the crown. While you cried over bees and pulled weeds, I ensured you had a future.This is about our legacy, our people-”

 

“I married the king to save our people!” Melira burst, her hand latched onto the bedpost. “I carry their weight inside me, Mother! If the treaty hadn't been written, if I had been born a son, you would be dead! It is thanks to me that you're even standing here.” 

 

Her mother didn’t respond, instead her eyes were moving up the bedpost, mouth widening. “Melira-” 

 

“No,” her voice turned low, venomous. “While you were busy hating the hand you were dealt, I learned. A queen bee will sting to protect her hive, even if it means death. I am not afraid to use mine .” 

 

“Melira-” 

 

“I will not let you displace me, Mother,” She lowered her voice, “Because if you try so much as try, I will destroy you. ” 

 

“Melira, stop!” Her mother had backed up against the wall, a hand over her heart. “Whatever you're doing, stop!” 

 

Melira followed her eyes to the top of the post. From where it met the ceiling, a vine has started to grow. It had reached slowly towards her mother, thick and filled with thorns. Small yellow flowers had blossomed along the post. She released the post, fear and confusion took over. Her powers had never done that before. 

 

It took her a moment, a beat to figure out what to do. The vine froze, but it did not shrivel up and die. Instead it seemed to relax, like it could stop growing for now. Smaller white flowers started to bloom across it, similar to the ones that she would see in the Brambles at home. 

 

“You insolent girl!” Her mother snapped back before she could, “You lost control!” 

 

Did she? Usually, new growth had to come from something that was planted in dirt and had already grown a bit. This was a living plant that came from a carved piece of wood that had been cut from a tree and polished years before her time. If Melira had lost control, if it truly was a fluke, then this was the first time. 

 

“I knew that ‘gods blessing's your father swore you had was a curse!” Her mother was still rambling. “It's dangerous! I should've never allowed you to use your magic as a child. Look at what's happened!” 

 

Melira could only stand there and watch as her mother hissed about how stupid she was for raising her. Her mind was racing. Theron lost control earlier today in the council chambers. His chair had turned halfway to stone. He didn't seem bothered by it. But then again, it was aimed at a human being. She lifted her hand curiously, and placed it back on the bedpost. 

 

The buzz flowed from her fingertips and silence filled the room. 

 

The vine started to grow again, her mother’s stammering off. Melira watched wide-eyed as the vine crept closer, the thorns growing longer. Then as it reached Lady Eardine’s foot, she removed her hand again. 

 

“Power’s a funny thing, isn't it, Mother?” She asked, surprised by how calm her voice was. “Some use violence to assert it. You taught me that. But here you are, terrified of one, little vine.” 

 

Eardine didn't move, didn't speak, didn't blink. One hand was on her stomach, rising and falling with quick shallow breaths, the other was outstretched as if she could stop it from cooking around her. But she was not the one in control. Not anymore. 

 

Melira stepped forward, slowly, with purpose. “You had always shown me power was something you take. Force someone to be weaker than you, and just like that you are the most powerful person in the room. But I’m no longer your pawn to use. I am not your stepping stone to be passed over just because you think you can.” 

 

“You don't have… power, ” her mother tried to have a calm voice but it came out cracked. “You have a parlor trick. Something wild and unstable-” 

 

Melira tilted her head, “If it's just a parlor trick, then why are you so afraid of it? Don't act like you're worried about me. Be worried that I don't need you .” 

 

That landed, that got her to truly flinch back. The threat of being utterly useless now. 

 

Melira didn't stop, “You built me into your shadow, under your thumb, and called it protection. Obedience. You thought you could beat me into the girl you wanted me to be so you can save your own hide. You wanted me to be a shadow.” Melira plucked a flower from the vine, and held it open on her palm, “But look at what happens when the shadow no longer covers the garden.” 

 

“You think this will make you invincible?” Her mother hissed, although it lacked true venom, “You think the court will bow to a pretty girl who plays with weeds?” 

 

“Oh, Gods no.” Melira leaned forward and placed the flower in her mother’s hair, “But it might just make them think twice.” 

 

There were no more words spoken. There was nothing left to be said. Melira turned back to the brown linen dress, dusting off the pollen that had landed on it. Then she placed it in the trunk with the other gowns. 

 

Behind her, she heard her mother slip out the door. The door banged closed behind her. Only then did Melira drop her shoulders and turned back to the vine. She just stared at it, unsure what to do now. The servants would be back any moment, and she wasn't keen on her powers being the gossip of the evening. 

 

But the power that it held. The symbolism of how growth could come from nothing.

 

 It felt intoxicating. 

 

__________________________________________________________________________

Melira stood watch as her trunks and belongings were brought in. The small jars she had packed what felt like lifetimes ago had been placed delicately on the table, catching in the light. Her three books that she risked bringing were bundled together with twine in her arms. Dresses were being delivered to the dressing room, jewels were inspected and counted. But all Melira could truly focus on was what had occurred in her old rooms. 

 

Her ability had never pulled life from something that wasn’t alive. She wasn't a necromancer, that was repulsive in her mind. But, she had done it. She had brought life from something that was killed, carved, and polished. Melira wasn't quite sure what that meant, or why she even lost control in the first place. 

 

Her thoughts were pulled away when she felt a hand on the small of her back. She jumped slightly and looked up. Theron stood tall, his eyes carefully looking at what had been laid out so far. “You took your time,” he mused. 

 

“I wanted to make sure I only brought my belongings,” she said, “I apologize for the inconvenience.” 

 

“It does not inconvenience me,” he decided as if it was a momentous occasion. 

 

Melira fell quiet, turning back to watch the servants organize and place. She closed her eyes, clutching her books tighter. She should tell him. Part of their wedding vows was that she would not hide any secrets from him. Submit to him in all things. 

 

“I have a gift for you,” he spoke before she could. 

 

Melira frowned and jerked her head back, “A gift?” 

 

“Consider it a token of our marriage,” he pushed her back, making her move forward a few steps. In a fluid motion, he pulled the books from her hands, reading the spines before placing them next to her jars. He stepped away from her, moving to the window that opened to a balcony. He pulled the curtains back, revealing stone pots with plants. 

 

Melira stepped towards them, reaching out to brush their leaves. Rosemary, sage, thyme, raspberry, roses, and lavender all planted neatly in each one. The smells were wonderful, the mix of them reaching her soul like fingers plucking a harpsichord. She fell to her knees so she could plunge her nose into the red roses that had already bloomed. Her fingers skated over the raspberry leaves, touching at the delicate blooms that were sure to ripen in a few days. 

 

“They’re wonderful,” Melira sighed, “Thank you.” 

 

“It was mentioned there was ‘nothing alive’ in my court,” she could hear the laughter in his voice, “I figured this should fix it for now.” 

 

That earned a blush, she had mentioned it to Sera. Once she had regained some composure, Melira looked up at him, “For now?” 

 

“Consider it a small preview of what is to come,” he held out a hand to her. She took it, letting him pull her to her feet. She raised an eyebrow but he ignored her, instead leading her back into the room. He sat, gesturing to her to do the same. 

 

Melira hesitated, her hands hovering over the arm of the chair. The buzz was gone, for now, but the fear of losing control was fresh in her mind. 

 

“Sit, Melira.” His voice was hard but not impatient. 

 

“I don't know if I should,” she looked at him, “Something happened.” He waited, letting her take the time to figure out how to explain. She took a breath, letting it out slowly. “I… I lost control. My mother- we had an argument. I touched my bedpost and this vine grew from it. Usually, I can only cause new growth to happen when there's already something growing. But… I've never made something grow from a thing . It shouldn't be possible. And this wasn't just some dead vine, there were thorns and-and flowers, and it seemed to want to attack her, like it was responding to what I was feeling.” 

 

Theron leaned on his hand, she could feel him thinking. When he finally spoke it was slow, steady. “You were angry, yes?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“It is said that the Gods granted blessing to those that feel their presence. This, to me, has always implied that our emotions are what governs it. Perhaps, you're finally feeling what the Gods want you to feel.” He spoke so calmly, as if explaining it to a child. 

 

Melira frowned, “I’ve never heard of that.” 

 

Theron hummed, “I did say I would teach you, didn't I?” 

 

Melira blushed, then slowly lowered herself in the chair. She was careful not to touch the arms. Her heart fluttered at his words, and she really didn't want to risk another vine. She needed his guidance, she needed to understand control. 

 

Theron watched her for a long moment, letting her settle, but not relax. “Tell me,” he asked once she was looking at him, “What exactly were you feeling? Not just anger, be precise.” 

 

She swallowed, recalling the emotions that had flooded her system. “Betrayal. Disgust. Fury. Belittled. But then… clarity. Like I wasn't scared of her anymore. Just furious with how she treated me.” 

 

He nodded, “You weren't in control, Melira. Someone else was. It's a simple power dynamic. And as promised, I will teach you to wield it.” 

 

She thought about that. Her mother being the one in control, the one who made her lose her own emotional power. If that was the problem, if that was why something grew from nothing, then she has no idea how to prevent it from happening. 

 

“Come,” Theron interrupted her. He hadn't moved from the chair. She didn't either. 

 

“Where are we going?” She asked. 

 

“ I’m not going anywhere,” he shifted his legs, “You are coming here.” 

 

She stood slowly, moving around the table. He gripped her wrist and pulled until she fell on his lap. He turned her around, until her back was flush against his, legs straddled around his. He pulled her ankles with his own legs until Melira was effectively trapped against him. His chin was over her shoulder, a hand wrapped around her stomach. His breath, the smell of cedarwood and stone, enveloped her like a blanket. Melira felt her whole body flutter at the sensation. 

 

“Grip the chair, where the wood is,” his voice was like a winter’s breeze in her ear. She followed his directions, wrapping her fingers until it dug into the wood. “Let's see what happens when you are being asked to feel something different.” 

 

“It didn't happen on our wedding night,” her own voice was breathy. He ignored her, instead sliding one of his hands up to her breasts, cupping it gently. The other hand moved down until it was on her skirt, scrunching it up onto her lap. She felt the now familiar warmth start to pool in her belly. 

 

Once the skirt was in her lap, his fingers slid downwards, tracing the bare skin until he reached her. She felt her breath quicken, each movement of his fingers made her clench her hands tighter on the chair. His breath was on her neck, making her shiver. The buzzing was starting to come back. She tried to control her breathing, but his movements, his touches were getting increasingly harder to ignore. 

 

“Don't ignore it,” he whispered, his lips ticking her ear, “ Feel it.” Theron pushed her band to the side, sliding his fingers up and down. She could feel how slick she had become from him. Melira closed her eyes tightly, biting back a whimper. She couldn’t focus on anything but Theron, his fingers, and how he was sending her straight to the edge. Her hips twitched, and his fingers slipped inside. 

 

“Oh, fuck,” Melira’s head fell backward, resting on his shoulder, the buzz growing, “Fuck, Theron, please.” He pushed in deeper, harder, but not faster much to her dismay. Her hips started moving on her own, the buzz growing down her arms. Soon, his hand was moving in the same pattern as her body was. She wanted more, needed more. Melira was so close, she was ready to explode. 

 

“That’s it,” he purred in her ear, “Feel something for me, Melira” 

 

He moved the hand that had pulled down her dress from her breasts to join his hand below her skirt. He pushed one finger against that little spot near the top, and that sent her right over the edge. She let out a sharp cry, the buzzing pushed out of her. 

 

And the chair grew. 

 

Blossoms, honey yellow, spiraled down the legs of the chair, staring from where her hands were. From the bottom a vine burst through, unfurling like the moans that were leaving her lips. Like sighs, the blossoms bloomed into flowers. There were no thorns this time, thankfully. As she came down from the high, she rolled her head to actually study it. This wasn’t a vine, this was a root . 

 

“Beautiful,” Theron breathed in her ear, slowing his fingers down, but not removing them from inside her. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

 

“It’s- it’s different then the one I grew be-before,” she panted. 

 

He made a noncommittal hum. Instead he finally pulled his hand away, undoing his legs to release her from his hold. Melira almost groaned at the absence but didn’t push it. He turned her around in his lap, scooping her up and then throwing her on the bed. She squeaked at the toss, bouncing once before settling herself up against his pillows. Looking at him, he had already unlaced his pants and was now pulling off his shirt. He grabbed her ankle and pulled her until her legs were off the bed. 

 

He shoved his pants down, his eyes had grown a thousand shades darker. “You make me so fucking hard, Melira,” he growled, “So fucking hard.” He kneed her legs open, positioning himself at her entrance. She moaned as he pushed into her, his hand going up to her bodice and pulling it as far down as the bones would allow. Her head fell back into the bed as he pushed and pulled at the same time. His thrusts weren’t hesitant, they were hard, fast, and almost punishing. One hand stayed at her hip, gripping her hard enough to bruise, the other found its way to her neck, applying just enough pressure to make her think about the risk of losing air. 

 

Melira moaned into it, enjoying all the sensations that were flooding her body. His hand on her throat shifted and his thumb brushed at her lip. On instinct, she opened her mouth, and he pushed it in. It tasted salty, slightly sweet. “Do you taste that, Melira?” He asked, “Do you taste yourself on my finger?” 

 

She nodded, or at least tried to. The moans were breathy around his finger, but he didn’t pull it out. Instead, he pushed it in further, adding two other fingers to join it. Melira closed her mouth around it, using her tongue to lick it like the honey pops she used to make as a child. “Fucking hells, Melira, that-” he shook his head, increasing his pace. She had to agree with him, there was something completely… erotic about having him in her mouth. Her hands fisted the sheets, he was pushing her again over the edge, but this time, she didn’t feel like she was going to lose control. 

 

When he groaned again, he pushed into her with all the power he held- or at least that's what it felt like. He spilled himself into her, and his fingers in her mouth pushed towards the back of her throat. She gagged, and then exploded again. The sheet of white came over her like a wave. She was seeing stars, galaxies, moons and planets. When Melira came back down, Theron had collapsed on top of her his hands now pulling her to his chest, pumping slowly and lazily into her. 

 

“Are you alright?” He mumbled in her ear, brushing the hair from her face. When she nodded, a shiver ran down her spine. Then another. Then another. She couldn’t stop shaking. “No you’re not,” Theron rolled off of her, positioning her so that he could take off her dress. “I didn’t mean to do that to you.” 

 

Do what? Make her see the world from a different angle? She wasn’t complaining. Her body felt so light and fluffy. Everything around her was fuzzy, like she was seeing things through clouds. “It’s alright,” her voice was hoarse, “I think I liked it?” 

 

Theron let out a gruff laugh, “Oh, thank the Gods.” He didn't elaborate what he was thanking them for , but she didn't care. 

 

Each time they did this, it was one step closer to being the queen. She closed her legs as tight as possible, Cern’s warning about the treaty and Theron’s need to vote on the merit of his kingdom fresh in her mind. She be damned if she wasn’t pregnant by the end of this month. 

 

He rolled so he could look at the chair. “It seems that anytime you experience a heightened emotion, you grow a vine.” 

 

“That's a root,” Melira tried to say, but it came out like a cough. Her throat was burning . Her fingers brushed her throat, it was tender, like she tried to swallow something without chewing it. Wincing, she dropped her hand, curling up next to him instead. 

 

He brushed a lock of hair from her face, then leaned down and kissed her, slowly and deeply. She sighed into it. Again, she wasn't sure if this was love, but she certainly liked whatever it was. 

 

“You are going to destroy me,” he whispered. She didn't answer, instead bundling up into his chest, breathing in his scent. 

 

Melira stirred sometime later, the sun had set at least. She could tell from the shadows. Her body was sore and warm, legs tangled around Theron’s. He had the blankets covering her shoulders, but he was sitting up, reading papers beside her on the bed. The calm after the storm, the chill after a snowstorm. He didn't look at her, not right away. 

 

“What are you reading?” She pulled herself up, wrapping herself around his arm, resting her head against his shoulder. When he didn't move to push her away, she decided this was a good position to be in. 

 

Her eyes saw only a few words: Brambles, trade routes, and estate repairs before he flipped the paper over on his lap. “Nothing,” his hand slipped under the sheets, tracing a line up her leg. 

 

She frowned but didn't push. “Was it something to do with the council?” 

 

“It was nothing, Melira,” he pulled his arm from her grip. Theron let it curl around her waist, pulling her closer so she was forced to straddle his leg. She could feel his length against her thigh. 

 

She let the matter drop, for now. Instead she sat up, holding back a whimper from how she rubbed against his leg. “I want to see the treaty.” 

 

“Right now?” 

 

Melira ran her hands down his chest And shrugged, “No, but soon. I’ve never read it and-” 

 

He grabbed her wrists, holding both of them to the side. “What do you mean you ‘never read it'?” 

 

It took a moment before her voice could work again. His eyes had turned hard. “I never read it. Mother read it to me, and never let me read it in full. To be honest, I didn't really think it was important.”

 

“It pertained to you, why did you not think it was important?”

 

Again she shrugged, suddenly feeling rather stupid. Maybe her mother was right. She was naive, an ornament. Not reading a treaty that talked about her and her people… what a stupid move.

 

When the war ended, Melira’s people didn't bow immediately to the throne. Rime has always been the one in power, but they never fully recognized the stone fortress to the north of them. They saw themselves as wild, governed by the Lord and Lady of the estates that collected their taxes and provided for them. The Brambles were so far away, it seemed impossible for anyone else to control them. 

 

Then came the final blow, Melira’s father’s death on the battlefield. With him gone, the people turned to her mother, but she turned her back to them. She saw them as untamed, uncouth. Melira was the final option. People seemed to respect her, admired her abilities to be at one with the nature around her. The priests worshiped the ground she walked on because of how the bees followed her. Over time, Rime took notice and the treaty was drawn up. 

 

Melira marries the king, and Rime finally has full control of the Brambles. Or they burn. 

 

Melira was sure there were other details, more important ones. Like the heir, the new Lord and Lady of the Brambles, the seat on the council her mother thinks is hers. But to be honest, all Melira cared about was keeping her people safe, protecting the home that she grew up in. Burning the Brambles wasn't going to happen. Losing her people wasn't going to happen. And if the treaty had some information on what would happen if she does not conceive a child, then she needed to know. 

 

Theron’s grip on her wrists eased, though he didn't let go right away. His thumb rubbed the blue vein, thinking carefully. 

 

“You should've read it,” he said slowly, voice low. 

 

“I know that now ,” Melira didn't pull away, “I want to understand it. All of it.” 

 

He tilted his head, studying her, “Why now?” 

 

She leaned into his chest, “Because I’ve started to realize that the people around me aren't telling me the truth. Not my mother. Not the council. Not even you.” 

 

At that, Theron’s eyebrow twitched. Not in anger, not annoyance. Something else. 

 

He finally relented, “Tomorrow then. We can get the treaty tomorrow.” 

 

She leaned back, not fully, he still hadn’t released her wrists. She admitted to not trusting him, not believing that he was fully telling her the truth of things. But the fact that he was willing to let her see information that she should automatically have access to, that was something. 

 

But did she actually trust him? Sera said trust is a secret you bring to the grave. To be honest, she wasn't sure if she should trust Theron. 

 

Melira shook her head, thinking about trusting him while grinding herself on his leg… bad timing. 

 

Theron released one of her wrists, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “You're thinking about something.” 

 

Melira froze, stiffening under his touch, legs tightening around him. She should not say that she doesn't trust him. That would be a very dangerous thing to do. “I’m thinking about the root,” she lied, “It’s not the same as the other one.” 

 

He leaned his head back against the wall. He saw right through her, she was sure of it. But he didn't push, “Perhaps what you grow is what you are feeling? For example, you were angry with your mother so it turned into a weapon. But with me you were feeling… what?” 

 

Absolute pleasure, Melira thought as she bit her lip and blushed. 

 

The grin on his face was rueful, “I see. Either way, if what you grow is related to what you feel, then perhaps you simply must harness each emotion to control it.” 

 

“How?” 

 

Theron lowered his hand to her waist, guiding her movements slowly, “I’ll teach you. Control is something you learn, not something you can just have.” 

 

She whimpered, feeling one specific spot get hit a certain way. Her hand lunged out against the headboard, supporting herself as he moved her. The buzz was slowly building back up. He leaned forward and kissed the spot between her neck and shoulder, nipping it lightly before moving across her collarbone. 

 

“Teach me,” she gasped as one hand pushed her legs to either side of him, “Teach me before anyone else can control me.” 

 

“ Gladly .”

 

Chapter 10: Making Amendments

The next day, the sun filtered through thick, frost-laced windows, casting fractured silver across the stone floor. Melira sat in the middle of the training hall- if one could call it that. It was more of an abandoned solar, cleared of furniture and draped in velvet shadows. Dust modes swirled where the light touched. She had kicked her shoes off earlier, preferring the feel of the cool stone beneath her bare feet. Something about it made her feel rooted. She was wearing her brown linen dress, one that she learned that Theron enjoyed as it was easy to pull down or up at his pleasure. 

 

Theron, at the moment, was standing opposite her. His sleeves rolled up, watching her with the patience of someone who had already seen her fail three times. 

 

“Again,” he said, folding his arms. Melira sighed, digging her hands into the clay pot of soil. The piece of stick had barely twitched when she pushed into it. 

 

“You’re holding back,” he said. 

 

“I’m trying not to feel too much.” 

 

“That’s not control.” 

 

Melira closed her eyes, sitting back on her heels, exhaling slowly. Her magic had never been disciplined like this. Usually she just used it at will, letting it bloom when it wanted to, tangling itself into her emotions and whatever she was touching. But now, Theron wanted her to channel it, shape it into something usable. The problem was, she didn’t know how to be angry on command . Or joyful. Or even afraid. Her feelings weren’t something she could simply light like a lantern. 

 

She opened her eyes, “I can’t do this.” Melira looked up at him, “I can’t just call up an emotion like it’s a dog.” 

 

“You can,” Theron crossed over to her, running his hand over her hair and cupping her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You will. Think back to your mother. To Lord Cern’s words. Use those.” 

 

When he let her go, she looked back down at the pot. The familiar feel of cool soil, the smell of wet dirt- it was absolutely perfect. Her mind went back to the council chambers. To her mother’s cold eyes. The way Lord Cern had looked at her- like she was nothing more than an ornament, a weak, little girl wrapped up in ribbons. The sting of her mother’s dismissal of her role in the court. How, this morning, during the council meeting, Lord Marell had waved a hand at her when she asked to see the agricultural reports. “You wouldn’t understand,” he had said, “Too many numbers for that pretty little head.” 

 

She didn’t even feel the buzz in her hand when the vine had cracked through the bottom of the pot. It was violent, lashing once, then stilled, swaying like a struck serpent. 

 

Theron raised his eyebrows, “Better.” 

 

Melira felt her chest rise and fall sharply. Her heart raced, “I didn’t even feel that coming.” 

 

“You’ll learn to.”

 

She looked back up at him, silently hoping he would cup her chin again. The buzz was back, lingering under her fingertips. “What happens if I don’t? What happens if I can’t feel it and it hurts someone?” 

 

“Then they’ll learn,” He stroked a finger through her hair, lifting strands to let it fall through his fingers. “But, if that’s what you are worried about, then that’s what I’m teaching to keep that from happening. I won’t pretend it isn’t dangerous. Especially once the council realizes you’re not just a figurehead.” 

 

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. The words sobered her more than she expected. She had thought once- long ago- that marrying the king would mean peace. Safety for her people and an end to a war. But the war never ended. It only changed shape. It sat behind closed doors and wore rings on its fingers. 

 

“I don’t want to be a weapon, Theron,” She whispered. 

 

“You’re not a weapon, Melira,” his voice was quiet, but there was steel in it. “You’re learning to wield power. That, in of itself, is the weapon.” 

 

She shifted and pulled her hands out of the pot, already missing the familiar feel of dirt under her nails. Standing, she brushed her hands off on her skirt. A smear of soil streaked across the fabric, but this dress had seen much worse. Her magic was still humming beneath her skin, delicate but alive. It never felt so present before. Like it was watching her, waiting to be called on again. Theron’s gaze followed her movements. Not hungrily- she’s learned the difference at this point- but carefully. Like he was assessing something. Measuring it. 

 

Melira turned her gaze away, moving to the windowsill. It was one of the few that overlooked the mountains, just outside the stables. Beneath the dust, she could feel the cold grain of old wood- oak, she guessed. Something that had once lived and breathed, once stretched towards the sun. Her magic stirred faintly in response, soft as a breath. 

 

She closed her eyes, grounding herself in it. 

 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she murmured. “I never learned how to control it. My father, Lord Cardman? He was the only one who understood it, the only one who knew what it meant and how to use it the right way.” She turned back to him, the tears already falling down her face. “He called it a gift. My mother called it an inconvenience. Said I’d never be taken seriously with dirt under my nails and bees in my skirts. When the priestesses told her, she brushed it off as woodland superstition.” 

 

“Did you stop using it?” He broached quietly. 

 

Melira shook her head, “Only around her. Only around the people who refused to witness it. My bees were usually the only witness. I don’t think I lost control recently. I think I lost it when my father died.” 

 

“So remember it,” Theron stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He didn’t touch her, but he stood close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body. The steadiness of it. That sense of rock and stone beneath the skin. He reached around her, to the dust that had built up on the window. His fingers skimmed it, turning them into little pebbles. “Remember the way he taught you. Not the anger or the desire. Just whatever it was he showed you.” 

 

Wait, Queenie, she heard his voice in the back of her head, let it come to you. 

 

Melira leaned back against the wood, her hand pressing between her back and the window. The buzz flowed out of her without the push, without the extreme emotion. Small green strings of pearls, sprung up from the surface, pulling itself out of the grain. She didn’t flinch away this time. This time she plucked the oak blossom and tucked it in her hair. 

 

Theron’s mouth curled-just faintly. Not a smirk, not quite pride. Something deeper, more private. “That’s the first thing I’ve seen you grow on purpose.” 

 

Melira nodded, smoothing a hand over her hair to press the blossom in place, “It listened.”

 

He stepped closer, the space between them crackled, “No, you listened. You’re guiding it now. You’re not reacting. You’re commanding.” 

 

The word hit her like a cold splash- commanding . She had always been told to smile, not command. To charm, not control. Even when they spoke of power, they said it was something beautiful, not useful . But now, she had grown something from a memory, from something quiet and soft. Not rage, not pleasure. Just purely knowing . 

 

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she said. “Like… part of me. Is that what it’s like for you?” 

 

“It’s more like a release for me,” he said, “And there’s so much more, Melira. So much more you haven’t touched yet.” 

 

Those words felt like they had a double meaning, but she wasn’t sure which meaning he was alluding to. “And when I do… touch it?” 

 

Theron gave a small bow of his head, eyes serious, “Then you will be untouchable .” 

 

That shouldn’t have frightened her. But it didn’t. 

 

Melira turned back to the window once more. The snow that had fallen began to melt into thin slivers along the edge of the stone. Beneath it, hard marble garden beds. She could bring life back to Rime. The stone life that had been hidden away called out to her. “I can make them grow again,” the words were soft. 

 

Theron stepped behind her, brushing his fingers along the back of her neck, another around her waist. “One bloom at a time.” 

 

She leaned back into him, letting his hand dip lower. “And when I falter?” 

 

“Then I’ll remind you of who you are.” His lips brushed her temple, “What you're capable of.” 

 

Melira nodded once, but in her chest something pulsed quietly- something steady and alive. 

 

The blossom in her hair was beginning to open. 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, Melira sat alone in a solar that had been assigned to the queen, the treaty stretched across her lap. The parchment was older than she expected- the edges had yellowed, the ink faded in some places. A candle burned low on the table beside her, though daylight spilled through the frost-etched windows. She hadn’t slept. Not really. 

 

She traced each clause with slow, deliberate fingers. The legalese made her head ache, but she was starting to piece it together- a woven web of demands, expectations, and veiled threats. Some of it was expected: the marriage requirement, the heir clause, the shared governance between Brambles and Rime. But others….

 

“Should the sovereign Queen of Rime, Lady of the Brambles, be deemed fit and recognized by no fewer than three seated council members, she shall retain autonomous command over local matters, including but not limited to estate appointments, defense management, and border trade. ” 

 

Melira blinked. Read it again. 

 

So, power hadn’t been entirely stripped from her. It had simply been buried- disguised beneath layers of flattery and assumption. The problem wasn’t the treaty, it was her stupidity of not reading the details. 

The door creaked open behind her. She did not turn, “If you are here to take this away, I will burn your hand off before you touch it.” 

 

A soft laugh answered her, “Far be it from me to come between the Queen and her contract.” 

 

Melira looked up to find Lord Halven standing in the doorway. Always over the top dressed, overly jeweled, and takes up more space than what was available. She did enjoy the way he moved through the court though, as if he was simply strolling along the side of a river. Silent, seemingly lost, but always listening. 

 

She turned the page she was on over, “Come to see a Queen lose her mind?” 

 

He laughed, “Goodness no!” He pulled the chair opposite of her out, and settled himself in it, fluffing out his velvet robes. “I’ve come to see if she has finally found it.” 

 

Melira narrowed her eyes, “That’s quite bold, My Lord. You weren't invited.” 

 

“You didn't need to, Your Majesty,” he reached towards her untouched tea tray, pouring for himself. He swirled in four lumps of sugar, taking a loud sip before sitting back in his chair. “But when you hear word that the Queen is looking through a treaty that does not require her attention, I tend to take notice.” 

 

Melira said nothing, just stared at him. 

 

He pointed to the papers, “They’re quite interesting, aren't they? Lots of information in there that might surprise you-” 

 

“What surprises me is how much is hidden from the reader,” Melira snapped, “You seem to be familiar with this document, Lord Halven.” 

 

“Why shouldn't I be?” He shrugged, “I read it. I signed it. Although I do agree, Your Highness, many things are hidden. But that's the same in all things, I find.” 

 

Melira regarded him for a moment. Despite the known fact she was not considered the queen yet, he addressed her as such. And he was also stating that despite reading it, there was still much he didn't know. Hidden secrets, juicy gossip that was Halven’s motives. That was his whole demeanor. 

 

“What do you want, Lord Halven?” Melira sighed and sat forward, “Why are you here?” 

 

He grinned, which she was seriously starting to hate. “I’m here because of those hidden secrets, Your Majesty. I’m harmless, to the right people. Too bejeweled, too loud, too frivolous to be a true threat. But you must not forget, merchants trade so much more than goods. Whispers, secrets, lies, and truths are all sold and bought in markets.” He leaned forward, the smile dropping. 

 

“And I’ve bought plenty about you .” 

 

Melira straightened, her fingers curling around the edges of the treaty. “What have you bought?” 

 

“That you’re reading,” he tapped the top of the treaty with his knuckle. “You're cleverer than most girls, a formidable opponent to those that cross you. A little queen bee with a very sharp stinger.” 

 

“Is that a threat, My Lord?” 

 

“Gods no!” He folded his hands across his wide chest, “It’s a warning. Some would like to see the crown in someone more… governable. But some like to see the crown on you. You have silent supporters, ones that are simply waiting till you make your move.” 

 

“And what ‘move’ do they think I should make?” 

 

Lord Halven leaned back, gaze flitting towards the frosted windows, as though considering how much to say. Then he looked at her again, the lazy smile doing nothing to hide the sharpness in his eyes. 

 

“They think,” he said slowly, “that Brambles should have much sharper thorns.” 

 

Melira felt her pulse quicken and the buzz started to slowly build. But she kept her face neutral. 

 

He continued, swirling the tea with a spoon. “You’ve been playing it safe. Being the obedient, dutiful, and simple queen. Yes, you've had some power moves like that snap at Cern. But that wasn't a thorn. That was a reaction. You have the treaty. You have the king. You have everything you need to solidify your place. All you need to do now is to collect voices that echo your own.” 

 

“I suppose you’re offering yours?” she asked, trying to imitate Theron’s cold demeanor. 

 

Halven shrugged, but this time, the shrug felt calculated. “I’m offering something more valuable than a vote. I’m offering access. My merchants whisper with the cooks in every noble house. My agents sweep across taverns like spilled wine. They can tell you who is susceptible to flattery. Which are in debt. Who have secrets buried just beneath the surface.” He sipped, “I can tell you which ones are frightened of you.” 

 

“Why would you help me?” 

 

“Beacuse you’re the only one in the room who hasn’t underestimated me, yet.” He said simply. “Because we have more in common than you think. We both understand the game. We both know power rarely wears a crown. It moves in the shadows, behind curtains, between the lines of a contract no one bothered to read.” 

 

“And in return?” 

 

Halven’s eyes glinted, “Allow me to keep my job. Let me trade. With your blessing, of course. Give me your trust. I don’t want the crown, Your Majesty, it’s much too heavy for me. I just want to make sure I don’t get stoned.” 

 

Melira sat back, letting the silence stretch. Then, slowly, she rolled the treaty closed and slid it off her lap. Her fingers felt warm- tingling with the magic that seeped up in her bones. She looked at him. 

 

“I’m not playing anymore, Lord Halven.” 

 

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Queen Melira,” he said, his voice soft as a whisper of cloth, “you’ve been playing since the day you arrived. You just didn’t know which game you were in.” 

 

Melira watched as he stood, slowly. He continued, “Do you think standing in the court, hands folded, head bowed, voice careful- do you think that wasn’t a move ?” He tapped a finger on the table between them. “You may not have laid the board, but you’ve been moving pieces since your coronation. The question is- are you ready to write the rules in your favor?” 

 

She didn’t respond right away. Her fingers hovered over the treaty still lying beside her, the sharp black ink bleeding through the aged vellum. The clause about succession. The language around lands reverting to Crown control. The veiled threat about loyalty. It was all there plain and cold. Rewriting the rules, that was an idea. That was a move . 

 

Havlen leaned back, “I’ll have a list sent to your chambers,” he said. “Council members who owe more than they earn. Who keep lovers in rooms that are not their own. Who owes debts to merchants I own. I’ve already heard whispers about additional taxes on your people’s grain collection.” 

 

“Who?” 

 

“Lord Marell.” 

 

Melira’s fingers gripped the table, a cluster of white and yellow-green flowers blossomed just underneath her nails. Theron and her spoke excessively about this man. How he worked underneath Theron like a worm rotting and apple. 

 

She had learned, from her lessons as a child, that Stonehane was their closest border and the one enemy that the Brambles couldn’t keep out. Stonehane had a large army, one that was controlled with a fist that hit first and asked questions later. Her father was killed when Stonehane worked with the last king to invade the Brambles, plans to burn the area were enacted as soon as they did. It was no wonder that Marell had weasled his way into her treaty. 

 

It was payback. 

 

Last night, when Melira and Theron looked back at the pregnancy clause together, they found his initials were the first ones there. Theron said that it was his handwriting that had it added. A form of treason, underhanded with security for his own daughter. The fact that two others had agreed with him made Theron throw a goblet against the wall. 

 

“It's the same from when I was boy,” he had snarled. “There is no one real in this place.” 

 

Melia didn’t know how to respond then. The throw of the goblet made her flinch but not enough to walk away. Her mother had done worse when she was in one of her states. Instead she just reread the clause, trying to decipher the time frame more clearly. She had a year. One year to produce an male child. The anxiety of being able to do so bubbled up inside her like a geyser. But before she could focus on that she needed to focus on the rest of the treaty, figure out what each part states. 

 

“He is the father of Amira, the one before you,” Halven was saying, dryly. “I did remind him that he was asked to send her home after your wedding. Lovely celebration by the way, much better affair than what I’m sure Amira was planning.” 

 

“Your initials were next to that amendment,” Melira’s gaze flicked up to him, thoughts returning tot he problem at hand. 

 

“I did,” Halven didn't change his tone, still calm, still easy. “I look out for the good of the kingdom, Your Highness.” 

 

Silence stretched between them again. Ideas were forming, strategies aligning in her mind like honeycombs. A threat has entered the hive, the question is would it leave or be burned? A rogue queen can be dealt with. Easily. 

 

Marell and the rest of his vipers who had signed off on that change would take a while longer. 

 

Halven gave her a long look, “You can still play, Queen Melira. But this time, you decide what winning looks like.” Then he walked away.

 

She studied him as he sauntered out. He wasn’t an ally. There was no possibility of that. He said so himself, he wanted to live through this. To him, this was a game of survival. He was her dealer, holding the cards to her and letting her pick her poison. Everything else was up to her. When the door closed, Melira picked up the quill and ink. 

 

It was high time to start making amendments. 

____________________________________________________________________________

The council chamber smelled of old stone and politics. Cold light poured through the arched windows, pooling like silver over the round, darkwood table where the council had gathered. The councilors had all gathered in expectant silence, their polished rings drumming faint rhythms against the wood. Theron sat like a statue carved from frost- calm, inscrutable, unreadable. 

 

Melira was the only one standing. 

 

She was not sitting beside him, her honey brown hair was coiled in a single ringlet down her shoulder, a golden laurel sat on her head. The treaty- her treaty- rested rolled and sealed with her crest beside an untouched glass of water. She wasn’t wearing silk today. No fluttering sleeves, no embroidery. Just a clean yellow dress, belted at the waist. Functional. Serious. 

 

Powerful. 

 

“I’ve brought forth a list of proposed amendments to the treaty,” Melira said, her voice even and low, “and some clarifications that I believe are due.” She paused, letting the words settle. No one interrupted. “They pertain specifically to jurisdiction, taxation, and personal entitlements.” 

 

A stir around the table. Lord Halven gave a little hum of amusement behind his bejeweled fingers. 

 

Malaria found Lord Marell first.

 

Walton flinched, just slightly, when her gaze settled on him. Enough for Melira to notice. Enough for everyone else to pretend they didn’t. 

 

“I find it curious,” she said, voice calm as snowfall, “that a councilor tasked with ensuring the prosperity of both Rime and now the Brambles would attempt to increase grain tariffs in the outlying farms within the southern borders, without formal votes or royal approval.” 

 

Silence dropped like a blade. Theron shifted beside her, but did not speak. No one did.

 

Lord Marell cleared his throat, “That was- it was merely a proposed adjustment. Nothing formally filed.” 

 

Melira raised an eyebrow. “Then your agents are wildly overzealous, considering farmers in my lands have already been told to prepare for a thirty percent increase.” 

 

He opened his mouth to object- then wisely shut it.

 

“I suggest,” Melira continued without waiting for his reply, her fingers sliding the treaty papers apart in a fan. “From now on, no changes may be enacted without co-signers from both Rime and the Brambles’ sovereign representatives, especially seeing that the farms are on shared territories.” 

 

“That will slow down response time in a crisis,” Her mother muttered- exposing her knowledge of the clause. Melira didn’t react. 

 

“Efficiency is no excuse for exploitation.” 

 

Lord Halven gave a low chuckle at that, barely audible. Lord Vellian’s brow furrowed. 

 

“I also believe,” Melira went on, her voice turning stronger, “that the heir clause needs to be amended. I propose that if no heir is born by the end of the year, as the treaty currently demands, then the matter should not fall to uncertainty or manipulation.” She started to circle the table, her eyes landing on each councilor's face, “Instead, at the end of the year, three or more members of this council will lend their vote. If- and only if- three or more councilors agree, I shall be instated as Queen in my own right. With full authority to rule both Rime and the Brambles.” She stopped behind Lord Marell’s chair, her fingers gripping the top of it, “Let there be a choice, not chaos.”

 

There was no immediate answer. The silence twisted tighter, cords drawn taut between glances and clenched jaws. 

 

Lord Marell’s chair creaked beneath him, but he didn’t move. Melira could feel the eyes on her. She felt like she could hear the quiet calculations, how the weight of her words measured against old allegiances. 

 

“Bold,” Lord Vellian, laced his fingers under his chin, leaning forward on the table. “Very bold.” 

 

“And your husband?” Lord Cern spoke sharply, accusingly, “Will he cast his vote?” 

 

Theron’s voice answered before Melira could speak. Cold and flat. “My vote will be based on merit alone. If the time comes, I will vote in the best interests of the kingdom.” 

 

A shiver of unease passed through the room. 

 

Melira stepped around again, returning to her place beside Theron. She did not sit. “This proposal is not a demand. It is a safeguard. I will not let this realm be plunged into another war because men cannot bear to see a woman rule without a crown forged from someone else’s spine.” 

 

A few glances darted towards her mother, who was uncharacteristically silent. 

 

Lord Halven leaned back in his chair, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a clever solution,” he said mildly, “and far more generous than some here deserve. You ask for votes instead of blood.” 

 

“Since you all found it appropriate to go behind my King’s back and write my womb into the contract, I took it out. It covers your own betrayal,” Melira said calmly, evenly. “It’s a clear, kind, path forward.” 

 

This time Lord Cern was the one to speak. His jaw was tight, arms crossed, but his tone was curious, “And if you don’t get the votes?” 

 

“Then I step down,” she didn’t flinch, “You can pick someone else. I hear Lady Amira was once considered for this position.”  

 

Lord Halven let out a low hum, pleased by her answer. 

 

“This council is dismissed.” Melira waved her hand. Chairs scrapped and rings clicked against wood as the councilors slowly rose- some cautious, some curious, some already retreating into their own whispered calculations. Lord Halven lingered the longest, tipping his head to her in a gesture that almost looked like respect. 

 

Almost. 

 

The doors closed with a final thud that echoed through the stone room like gravel. Silence fell. Melira still stood, rooted to her spot. Her hand was on the edge of the table, pulse unsteady, and her mouth dry. She turned toward Theron, about to ask- 

 

“How did I-”

 

He was already moving. 

 

His hand found her waist, spinning her toward him. Her back hit the table with a soft thud. “You’re incredible,” he breathed, staring at her like she was both battle and balm. 

 

Melira blinked. “I was going to ask if I did well.” 

 

“Do you honestly think I care about that right now?” 

 

She opened her mouth, but he caught her face with one hand before she could speak again. His lips found hers, rough and insistent, not asking for entrance but demanding it. His coolness and cold demeanor was gone, replaced by heat. Frustration. Pride. Desire. 

 

She gasped against his mouth as he lifted her onto the council table, sending a stack of scrolls toppling to the floor. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that this was reckless. Someone could walk in at any moment, let alone the two guards who were positioned outside. But she didn’t stop him. 

 

His voice was low, dangerous, brushing against her ear like velvet and iron. “You think I didn't notice the way they looked at you? Like you weren’t a threat until you opened that pretty little mouth. And then-” 

 

They listened , she moaned as his hands pinched at her nipples, whimpering when he rolled her over so her stomach was flat against the table. She scrabbled for a handhold but found nothing, instead digging her nails into the wood itself. 

 

His hands pulled up her skirt, pushing it up on her back. His hands skated up her thighs, lips leaving a wet trail on the back of her neck. She felt how slick she was becoming. His fingers found purchase between her legs, pressing and pushing. The weight of it was punishing, making her groan and whimper. 

 

“Yes,” she gasped as his fingers slid into her, “Yes, Theron!”

 

“You need to be louder,” he growled in her ear, “I want the whole fucking castle to hear you.” 

 

Melira groaned at that, the idea that the whole castle might hear her. She felt him push her legs apart, his fingers still pinching and pulling on her. She needed him inside her, she needed to feel him. She pressed her forehead to the table, her breaths short and pained. She felt his length against her, sliding between her with ease. 

 

The noises that came from under her. The wet sounds as his fingers thrusted in and out of her and his member rutted against her- it was addicting. She tried to wiggle her hips, just to show how needy she was starting to become, but he stilled her by moving his hand from her waist to the back of her neck, squeezing tightly. 

 

“You needy girl,” she heard him chuckle, “If you beg, I’ll give it to you.”

 

“Please Theron,” her voice was pained, “please…” 

 

“Please what?” 

 

Melira groaned, not really knowing the exact words she wanted to use. She just wanted him in her . But that felt wrong to say. “I don’t know!” she wailed finally. “I just need you!” 

 

“You need me to fuck you?” He growled, he had stilled his movements which was miserable for her. His fingers just sat at her entrance, lightly tracing the shape. “Make you scream as you cum around my cock? Need me to destroy this beautiful, wet cunt? Which one?” 

 

“All of it,” Melira gasped, “I need all of it!” 

 

He removed his fingers altogether and then plunged into her with a fever. His motions were fast, making her whole body get pushed up on the table, her feet barely brushing the floor. Her hands scraped at the wood, looking for something to hold on to, but finding nothing. Theron had branched himself with one hand on her waist, the other staying on the back of her neck, squeezing. Melira’s whimpers and moans turned into little shouts of pleasure. The harder he thrust into her, the louder she became. 

 

His name tumbled from her lips, loud and unrelenting. He was grunting behind her, now both hands pulling at her waist. She slipped her hands downward, grabbing on to his wrist before switching to just holding on the edge of the table. Her mind went blank, her head fell to the side. The sounds that emerged from her was inappropriate for a lady, let alone a queen. 

 

He pulled out of her, pulling a whimper from her. Theron easily flipped her around, helping her sit up, and lock her legs around his waist. Melira put her arms around his neck, he rested his forehead against her. 

 

“I don't care about the clause,” he groaned as he slipped back into her, “You will remain by my side until the day you die.” 

 

Melira barely registered the words, her hips twitched and bucked, practically begging for him to ruin her. And he did. 

 

It was slower this time, much to her dismay. She wanted him to go back to that grueling pace he started with. His hand slipped down to join his motions, pressing and rolling in time with his thrusts. Melira gasped and moaned, her sounds growing with each movement. 

 

The wave this time was just as intense as always, but it was slow, budding like flowers after a rainstorm. She would've fallen backwards if it weren't for Theron holding her against him. When he pinched her core, she shouted. The world grew fuzzy and white again, and she was floating above the mountains in that haze. 

 

As she came tumbling back down, still trapped in his embrace, he had pulled her into his lap, now sitting. She was absently riding him, sliding up and down. Her legs were on each side of his, hands pinched and pulled at her breasts, a mouth was somewhere on her collarbone. 

 

He must be close, Melira decided. There's no way he wasn't. 

 

She used his shoulders as a way of keeping her going, but her legs were giving out on her. The muscles screamed in weariness with each motion. But she kept going, anything to just have him feel the same way that she was feeling. 

 

Soon his hands found her hips and he pushed her down hard, a loud half-sigh, half-groan filling her ears. She felt him empty, what felt like everything, into her. Melira’s head rolled down to his shoulder, she was panting heavily. 

 

“Fuck,” Theron whispered in her ear, “Fucking hells, Melira.” 

 

She wanted to ask if that was a good reaction, but she couldn't move off of him. She felt limp, like a dead leaf, unable to muster the strength to right herself. Her legs weren't sore this time, at least not at the moment. Her body felt like she was in the heavens, light and airy. 

 

Theron was running his fingers up and down the bare skin on her back. His lips were tracing the curve from her ear to her neck. She shivered as he nipped a spot with his teeth, relishing in the jolt of pain it gave her. 

 

“No flowers, my Queen?” He asked, voice low and raw sounding. 

 

Melira could only shake her head, a shiver passing through her body again. 

 

“That feels like control,” he shifted, pulling out of her. She whimpered at the loss, feeling empty.” Excellent job.” 

 

“Thank you,” the whisper was so soft coming from her mouth, almost a breath. But the small bit of praise, that hint of pride in his voice, completely validated her staying up until the morning light to work on the treaty. 

 

 He maneuvered her so she was braced between him and the table, her arms still around his neck. He tilted her chin low, enough for her to be level with his. 

 

Then he kissed her. 

 

This wasn't his normal, demanding entrance type of kiss. The heat was there but it was slow, sweet, gentle. Filled with a question that Melira couldn't quite answer because she simply didn't know how. It felt nice, familiar. 

 

Something has changed. Melira just didn't know what. 

Notes:

Hello! Thanks for reading!

I was on vacation this week, so thank you for your patience.

Also, just curious, I have been working on backstories for a few of the characters. Is there any character you specifically would like a backstory for? I'm merely curious. Keep in mind, more about various characters will be coming out, but there are a few that I would love to dive deeper into if there is interest!

Thanks!

Chapter 11: Her Sanctuary

Notes:

Hello!

I did a lot of editing this week. My work is picking back up soon, so chapters might come out a little bit slower, but I'll seriously try to keep up with it as much as I can.

Also, please check this out. It's got those backstories I have working on. https://archiveofourown.org/works/69606251/chapters/180555766

Melira sat in a stone garden, another gift from Theron for her to practice her power with. The chill seeped through the wool dress and cloak she had chosen. All around her, the garden lay in quiet symmetry- pale gravel paths winding through grey square-cut hedges and clusters of broken, weather-worn statues. Pale white and grey stone flowers dotted along the edges of the path, just begging to be brought back. What looked like ash was moss, clinging to corners like secrets. Even the wind moved cautiously, as though it, too, respected the silence. 

 

She hadn’t meant to come here. Not really. Her feet brought her here before her thoughts caught up. But it was the only spot in the palace that didn’t carry someone else’s voice. The treaty still buzzed through her head- every clause she proposed, every flicker of calculation that she read in the councilors’ eyes. Her heart hadn’t slowed since she left that chamber. 

 

Theron . His name came to her like a ripple over still water. That kiss… that sweet, savory, unfamiliar kiss. The question that he asked without speaking, the one Melira didn’t have an answer for. It rolled through her mind like an avalanche. It left her feeling all sorts of confusing feelings. 

 

She was resigned, when she married him, to never feel love for her husband. Ever since she was a little girl, the adults around her made it clear that love was for your children- not the person you share the bed with. Arranged marriages happened across all castes, if you were in love with them, it would fade out over time. The best, Melira had been told, to hope for is mutual respect and admiration. 

 

So when the treaty was signed, Melira swore she would respect the man on the throne. That was required of her. She spoke the vows, said the lines that meant feelings of love were an afterthought. There was no possibility for her to fall in love with Theron, right?

 

Right?

She reached out and pressed her palm flat against the cold stone of the hedge closest to her. It didn’t pulse the way living things did- not yet. But something stirred beneath the surface. A faint tremor. The garden listened to her, even if it didn’t move for her. 

 

Her fingertips curled. She could feel it now, that root-deep thrum of magic buried like seeds under frost. Maybe that’s what Theron saw in her. Not love. Not even partnership. But power- shaped and sharped like a blade. Something useful. 

 

But then why that kiss?

 

Melira bit the inside of her cheek. She could still feel it: the warmth of his lips, the question he didn’t voice, the maddening tenderness that broke through everything cold and calculated. Do you want this to be real ? That’s what it felt like he was asking. Do you want me?

 

She didn’t know. 

 

And Gods, that terrified her more than anything. 

 

Melira groaned and lied down on the stone bench, she felt like a little girl. Love was not safe. Love was not part of the plan. Love was for children and things. Not this. Not for queens. 

 

“Your Majesty.” 

 

She sat up sharply at the sound of the voice, her heart thumping out of her chest. She twisted towards the entrance of the garden, bracing herself on the hedge, just in case. At the entrance, Lord Vellian bowed low. 

 

He wore the gold and white of his house, the fabric fitted with just enough ease to suggest both elegance and readiness. A slim sword hung at his hip like a statement. Melira studied him- commander of the military, rumored to be Theron’s oldest friend, and, from what she gathered, a favorite in every court whisper worth ignoring. 

 

Melira stood, bobbing her head in respect, “Lord Vellian.” 

 

“I apologize for the interruption," he stepped forward, coming around the hedges. “I, too, often spend time contemplating life in the middle of a stone garden.” 

 

Melira narrowed her eyes. She knew very little about him, he wasn’t mentioned on Halven’s lists. He walked like someone who didn’t need to prove he belonged anywhere, which made her all the more certain this visit wasn’t just a coincidence.

 

“I was told you might be here,” he said, coming to a stop beside her. “Lady Sera told me you liked to disappear to various spots in the palace.” 

 

She said nothing at first. He moved with precise, but bouncy steps, like he was trying to act as if nothing mattered. “I didn’t think I was disappearing.” 

 

“Queens disappear, but never truly hide from sight,” he turned to look at her, “That’s why it’s good to have people keep track.” 

 

Melira arched her brow, “Including you?” 

 

Vellian didn’t flinch. “Including me.” 

 

Their mannerisms were the same, Melira decided. He was as cool as Theron was, but in the way that fire gets so hot it feels cold to the touch. Her fingers twitched against the stone again, a pulse beneath it answered. Not much, but enough.

 

Vellian’s gaze flickered briefly to her hand on the hedge, but he said nothing. Just watched, curious, a fraction too long to be proper. Then returned to her face, “You are much more than I had expected,” he said. “The gossip made you sound… quiet.”

 

“Brambles have thorns, my Lord,” she replied dryly. 

 

“Clearly,” he lips twitched, “But I meant quieter in temperament. Instead I find you… deliberate. Calculated. Clever. That’s rarer.” 

 

Melira narrowed her eyes, “Is that a compliment or a warning?” 

 

“Would you be more receptive to one over the other?” 

 

She huffed a laugh. So the rumors were true, he was disarming with a sword. Charming, elegant, the clear choice in harmless flirtations. “Which one will get you what you want?” 

 

He stepped closer- not enough to threaten, not enough to crowd. Just enough to force her to look up at him. “I haven’t decided, Your Highness,” Vellian said, tone almost thoughtful. “Which is why I’m still here.” 

 

She studied him carefully now, and the sense she got from him in the council meeting settled more firmly. This was a test. A subtle measure of weight and wit. Of how she’d play the game. 

 

“They claim charm is one of your best qualities, Lord Vellian,” Melira stood up, smoothing out her skirts, “I must say, I’m not impressed.”

 

He actually smiled at that. “I usually save my best work for those that expect to fall for it.” 

 

“And you don’t think I would?” 

 

“I think you’re dangerous enough to be honest with,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Which is much rarer than charm.”

 

Melira tilted her head, “So tell me honestly- why are you here?” 

 

Vellian gave her a look that didn’t quite smile. “Curiosity. And a sense that something important has shifted.” He looked around the stone garden, as if seeing it for the first time. “This place was built for the last queen. Turned to stone by the current king. And when you are gone, the paths will remember your footsteps.” 

 

Melira glanced at the pale gravel and stone moss, “And you truly believe that?” 

 

He looked back at her, “I certainly hope so.” 

 

She blinked at him. “Is that your idea of flattery?” 

 

“No,” he said, starting to turn. “That was honesty.” 

 

And with that he left her standing in the stillness, unsure if she’d just been warned, watched… or wooed. 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

The next morning, Melira and Sera were eating breakfast, enjoying the first snowfall of the fall season. Sera was showing her designs of dresses that the tailor had sent over for the fall harvest festival. When a servant found her, breathless with nerves. 

 

“His Majesty requests your presence,” they stammered, bowing low, “He said to bring you at once.” 

 

Melira frowned and looked at Sera. She had been informed that the day was hers. Theron was supposed to be in meetings, and Melira had planned to meet with Amira and Lyanna to deal with the contingency plan on that end. This was not what was expected. 

 

Sera shrugged, “You cannot deny the King. Would you like me to accompany you?” 

 

Before Melira could reply, the servant interrupted, “The King said you are to come alone.” 

 

She sighed, “Alright then.” 

 

The servant led her to the east wing, where the palace had doors that opened out to the stables, kennels, and mews. Melira wondered if she should’ve brought her cloak, but they passed the door to the mews and kept moving forward. Eventually, the servant stopped and bowed in front of a large arched door with carvings of flowers and vines. 

 

“His Majesty is waiting for you inside.” The servant said as they opened the door. 

 

Melira stepped through the arch and stopped short. 

 

The smell hit her first- wild clover, bee balm, and daisies. Damp dirt and wet leaves. The sunlight that filtered through the glass-domed roof brimmed with warmth and light. The stone paths curved in loops, nestled between foxglove and sweetfern. Bramble bushes of blackberries, raspberries, dewberries and thimbleberries bent in mismatched ways. But what lured her down the path the most, was the sound of buzzing in the distance. 

 

She knew that sound, the way a person knows the sound of their own heartbeat. Melira crossed through the path on quick feet until she reached the center. And there, standing on a pedestal was her hive . Carved from dark cedar, burnished with age. Bees moved in lazy, contented circles, as if they never left home. 

 

Her breath caught and she stumbled forward, holding out her arms. The bees sensed her and came in a wave, circling around her, flitting through her hair. They were happy, she could hear it on their wings. Some landed on her fingers, dancing their way around them. Others found solace on her collarbone and shoulders, tickling the skin there in ways she had almost forgotten. 

 

“How?” Melira breathed, the bees avoided her mouth, “How are you here?” 

 

“I had it transported the day after our wedding,” a voice said behind her. Melira spun, the bees coming off her then resettling in their spot. Theron was sitting on a bench, made of curved stone. He wasn't wearing his normal attire. Instead, he wore a loose grey wool shirt and black pants tucked into boots. His crown was also missing, letting his hair fall into his face. He looked devilishly handsome. 

 

“You did this?” She asked, giggling as one bee wound its way under her chin. 

 

 He smiled, “I wanted to bring some of your home here. I thought it might make you feel less like a prisoner and more like…” he trailed off, eyes scanning up her body. 

 

Melira stepped towards him, silently telling the bees to go back to what they were doing. He opened his legs so she could step between them. Her arms wove around his neck, “Thank you.” 

 

“You’re welcome.” His hands bracketed her waist. “I like watching them.” 

 

Melira twisted so she could look back at her hive, “Me too.” Then she turned back to him, “Promise me you won't go near the hive without me.” 

 

“Melira, I doubt one little bee sting-” 

 

“I’ve seen people die from one bee sting,” she told him, “Bees are much more dangerous than people tend to believe.” 

 

Theron’s fingers dug into her waist, “Then I see where you learned that from.” 

 

Melira flushed in spite of herself, his voice brushing like velvet on her ears. The sincerity in his voice was as clear as day. Something had changed between them. Melira was certain of it. 

 

“But I'm serious,” Melira told him, “There was a man from my estate, a servant, who worked in the gardens. He got stung by accident, his wife found him dead hours later.” 

 

Theron sighed, “Melira, this is your sanctuary the way my mews are mine. I will not ever enter here without your permission.” 

 

She leaned back from him. He was the king. Any room within the walls of his palace was open to him. Studying his face, she saw no sign of anger or discontent. It was very raw looking, the scar under his eye much more ingrained than usual. He looked… honest. Unguarded for once. 

 

When she didn't respond, he unlatched his hand from her waist and reached into his pocket. Unfurling his hand between them, he showed her an iron key with an engraving matching the door. 

 

“This is the only key,” he told her, “that unlocks this room. It's yours now.” 

 

Melira took it hesitantly, feeling the warm weight of it in her hand. He was trusting her. Genuinely trusting her to have a spot that he couldn't access. 

 

“Why?” 

 

“Because I want…” he shook his head, “I need you to trust me. I want to build that trust beyond our bedroom, council chambers, and court proceedings. Friendship is an important thing in relationships like ours.” 

 

Melira shifted the key in her hand, her thumb brushing against the engraving. It felt heavier than it should've- because it meant something more than just a room. More than a hive. More than a gesture. 

 

It was a choice. A line drawn. Not between them, but around them. A shield. 

 

She looked at him, studying the openness on his face. “You think we can be friends?* 

 

“There are times I think we already are.” 

 

She didn't know what to say to that. Part of her wanted to believe it. Part of her hoped for that foolish notion of love between partners actually occurred. But the other part felt like autumn, when the cold wind blew right through your bones without warning. Expect betrayal. Expect to have nothing between you and your marriage. 

 

My voice will be based on merit alone, he had said in the council meeting. If the time comes, I will vote in the best interests of the kingdom.  

 

If he wanted her to trust him, then why use that line? It was a clear sense of the unknown. An open declaration to the council that there was no real bond keeping them together, let alone love. 

 

He sensed it, the trepidation in her thoughts. That fear of actual trust. She could tell from the way his thumbs brushed her sides, his eyes watching hers, the slight crease in his forehead. When Theron was like this, he was so much easier to read. 

 

“I heard you spoke with Vellian yesterday,” he broke the silence between them. 

 

“I did,” Melira said slowly. How did he find out about that ? Was she worried that he knew? Nothing happened. Nothing will ever happen between her and a lord who saw himself as the best. She wasn't that foolish. 

 

“I want to warn you about him,” Theron pulled her closer, forcing her to lean back into his hands with her knees pushing into the bench. “He covets power. When he senses someone or something that would better his standing, he stops at nothing to get it.” 

 

Melira kept her face as passive as possible, but her voice came out teasingly, “Are you saying I'm something he wants?” 

Theron's lips gave a twitch of a smile, “I'm saying he's not as harmless as he pretends to be. Vellian has charm, yes- but he wilds it like his sword. Shape, precise. You wouldn't feel it until the blood starts to flow.” 

 

His words were jealously, nor defensive. They were concerned. 

 

Melira studied him, her hand coming up to cup his face. She swore she felt him press harder into her hand. “You think he will try something.” 

 

“I know he will,” Theron’s voice grew hard, “He already has by speaking privately with you. Vellian just doesn't know what to make of you yet. That makes you interesting. And in his world, interest is valuable.” 

 

“And you're telling me this because…?” 

 

“You deserve to know the players on the board,” Theron said simply, his hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “And I know that if I tried to hide the pieces of the game, you'd find them anyway.” 

 

Melira huffed a laugh, “More like they'd find me.” 

 

Theron smirked at that, but then his face fell. He leaned forward until his forehead rested on her stomach. Something in her shifted, her hands treated absently through his hair. 

 

 “I want to protect you, Melira,” the vibrations of his voice sent a shiver through her. If anyone were to walk in, they would be convinced that there was more than mutual friendship between the royal couple. “I cannot imagine anything terrible happening to you. You don't deserve it.” 

 

“You don't need to worry about me,” she said softly. 

 

He said something under his breath but Melira didn't hear it. She pulled his head back and ran finger down his cheek before kneeling in front of him. Once they were level, she could see the guard on his face start to return, that coldness that seemed to have broken came back like frost. But the space between them had stilled. 

 

She reached up, gently, and kissed him. 

 

It wasn’t grand or heated. It wasn’t meant to prove anything. It didn’t demand or promise or declare. It simply was- warm and unexpected, more question than answer. A soft steadying press of her mouth to his, like she was anchoring something fragile between them. When she pulled away, her eyes searched him, not for approval- but for understanding. Maybe even hope. 

 

He didn’t speak. The whole conservatory went silent around them. He looked at her like he wasn’t sure what had just happened- only that it happened. Then he stood, leaving her waist cold and empty, her hands dropping onto her lap. He bowed his head slightly, almost reverently, and said, “I’ll give you some time.” 

 

Then he turned and left through the carved doors, his footsteps quiet against the stone. 

 

Melira stayed where she was, but turned so she could lean against the bench. Her hands were trembling- not with fear, but with something more disorienting. A pull she hadn’t meant to follow. That hadn’t been a part of any plan. She didn’t even know why she’d done it. She just… did. Like a branch bending towards light. 

 

She raised her knees and outstretched a hand over it. Her bees came. 

 

First a few, then more, until the air shimmered with wings and golden hums. They spiraled gently toward her, brushing against her skin, settling in her hair, along her sleeves- a quiet reassurance that she wasn’t alone, even if she didn’t understand what had just cracked open inside her. 

 

“Hello again,” she whispered. One of the bees found their way through her hair. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of their hums surround her like breath. The air thickened- no, deepened. Something inside her had opened. Not physically, but like a door in her chest she hadn’t known was locked. 

 

Bees were safe. Bees were creatures that saw the world simply and easily. They go out, find some flowers, come back and make honey. Yes, there were intricate dances and steps to the process, but at least their feelings for things were clear. Not like people. Not like she had to experience. 

 

But bees also knew threats when they saw them. They reacted, defended themselves without permission. The key was a lot more than just a key. It was trust. Theron stated without words that he expected her to act and defend herself. 

 

Merit alone . 

 

That was his permission. That was his way of telling her to be reactive, get defensive. 

 

And Melira had every intention to. 

Chapter 12: The Hive In The Palace Walls

Notes:

Hello!

First of all, I am so grateful to everyone who has read this and has enjoyed it! I wish I had time to go through and respond to everyone who's commented but my work has picked up and I am practically dead when I get home. But know that I did read them, I just want to come back actually awake and functioning before responding.

Again, I am so grateful and honored and just.... amazed at how many people have read this and want more!

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

The air in the conservatory was warm and thick with the sweet scent of raspberries and honey herbs. Sunlight filtered in through the glass, bathing the space in golden light. It shimmered on the slow drift of dust motes and caught in the wings of a dozen bees lazily flitting between blooms. 

 

She was rather proud of how much she had shaped it, these past few days. 

 

No longer were the paths perfectly graveled, now dirt and moss covered it. Ivy climbed the walls in long tendrils. Wildflowers of bee balm, daisies, and clover grew through any open spot between the twisting bramble. A small fountain had been installed on an outer wall with stones that rose above the water line so that the plants could have water and the bees could drink. It was beautiful. 

 

Melira was sitting at a table that she had brought in. It was small, enough to seat two people- three if squished. A bottle of wine and two honey cakes sat on the table. It was in the perfect spot to watch her bees, with the sun hitting at just the right angle to not be glaring during any time of day. Usually, she would be reading through papers or writing reports, but right now, she was waiting. 

 

Amira and Lyanna were in the threshold of the doorway, their fine court dresses stark against the lushness of the green world around them. They looked out of place- too stiff, too polished. Like statues someone had set down in a living garden. Their eyes were taking in the life around them. 

 

“I appreciate you both coming,” Melira said softly, her voice carrying through the quietness in her garden. “Please, come join me.” 

 

Amira smiled that hollow court smile, bowing slightly. “Thank you, My Lady.” Then led the way to sit in one of the open chairs. Lyanna followed suit, copying her friend’s movement exactly. Both sat stiffly, properly. 

 

“Wine?” Melira asked, pouring herself a glass. 

 

“Thank you, My Lady,” Lyanna replied. 

 

“Yes, thank you,” Amira picked up the goblet after it was poured and took a sniff. Melira was sure she was trying to figure out if it was poisoned or not, so she took her own sip of it to prove it wasn’t. 

 

“Your garden is beautiful,” Lyanna said after taking her own sip. 

 

Melira smiled, “Thank you. It was a gift from King Theron. Wasn’t it generous?” 

 

“Too generous,” Amira smirked. “But he has a kind heart.” 

 

Melira only nodded in response. The bees were beginning to gather near the fountain now, dipping low to drink. Their hum rose and fell, a steady rhythm beneath the stillness of the conversation. Melira took another sip of her wine, watching her guests over the rim of the goblet. 

 

“I’m glad you both accepted my invitation,” she said lightly, “I know court life has kept you both… occupied.” 

 

Amira shifted in her seat, offering a careful smile. “It was an honor, My Lady. We’ve been meaning to offer our congratulations. The kingdom is eager to see what blossoms under your rule.” 

 

Lyanna nodded quickly, though her eyes were on the bees now- uncertain, a little too still. 

 

Melira leaned forward, her tone still soft, still pleasant. “And tell me, Lady Amira, what is it that the kingdom hopes will bloom? Surely not just flowers.” 

 

“An heir, of course,” the response was too fast, too eager. “It would put so many hearts at ease.” 

 

“Of course,” Melira leaned back, but put her elbow on the table, holding her hand up. “But it is such a dangerous thing to let hope feed too heavily on one outcome. Especially when it begins to hunger, right?” 

 

The two women stilled. 

 

Melira continued, tone light as a bee landed on her outstretched fingers, crawling in a spiral down one of them. "Bees are interesting creatures, they tend to stay away from people. They avoid things that might threaten them. One of my most favorite things about them is how they only attack when they feel the need to.” 

 

Another bee joined the first, landing on her wrist and climbing upwards. Melira watched them, enjoying the tickling sensation they gave before continuing. “They sense what belongs. Protect their home. And when that protection is broken?” She looked at Amira, and narrowed her eyes. “They sting .” 

 

Amira visibly swallowed. Lyanna flinched when a bee landed too close to her hand. 

“Is that a threat, My La-” Amira was about to ask. 

 

“Your Majesty.” Melira corrected her, “And no. It was not a threat.” Her eyes flicked to Lyanna, “It was a warning.” 

 

The two girls paled. Melira had won, she knew it. They, of course, wouldn’t bother claiming their loss. But they would walk away with the knowledge that Melira was here to stay. She was the Queen and she wasn’t going to let two others simply get in the way. 

 

“You know, Your Majesty,” Lyanna spoke quickly, “My mother wrote to me recently. She misses me. I think I might take a respite from court life, with your permission of course.” 

 

Melira’s smile widened. “Of course! Who am I to keep a daughter from her mother? Enjoy it. Come back to us when you’re ready.” 

 

Amira stayed silent. Melira had no doubt that Lord Marell had plans for her, here in the palace. But the warning was clear: If you stay, you will regret it.  

Amira set her goblet down a little too carefully. “The court will be very quiet without her.” Her words were light, but her fingers were white-knuckled against the stem of the glass.

 

“I’m sure we can find ways to fill the silence.” Melira replied smoothly. 

 

The bees had begun to return to their blooms now, sensing the tension ease, drifting lazily between stalks of clover and bee balm. One crawled along the edge of Amira’s chair. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but Melira saw her tracking it. 

 

She stood, slow and graceful, stepping away from the table. “It’s funny,” she said, letting her hand trail through a thick bramble branch. “I used to worry about being sweet enough. Being soft enough. Being acceptable and tolerable.” 

 

She turned back towards them, sunlight haloing her frame through the tall windows. The bees gathered around her, hovering in a gentle arc. “But, honey is thick. Bees are soft. And when they are rooted deep enough, the hive can survive even the toughest winter.”

 

Amira rose, “You’ve made yourself very clear.” 

 

“Oh good,” Melira gave a dramatic sigh and placed a hand on her chest, “I thought I was being too subtle.” 

 

That earned her a sharp look, but no retort. Lyanna had already turned towards the door. 

 

“Good day, Your Majesty,” Amira said at last, her voice clipped, civil. But her eyes held calculation now- a wariness that hadn’t been there before. 

 

Melira simply inclined her head, saying nothing as the two women made their way back across the mossy path. Their court shoes were ill-suited for it, and Lyanna stumbled once, catching herself with a muttered curse. The door closed behind them with a gentle click. 

 

For a long moment, Melira stood still, letting her breath slow, letting the garden breathe with her. Then she looked down at her hand. The last bee remained, curled against the base of her thumb. 

 

“Good girl,” she murmured, and the bee lifted off, drifting back towards the flowers with the hum of peace. She sat again, taking another sip of her wine and broke off a piece of the honey cake. Her hands were trembling. 

 

But the hive had finally arrived. 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Melira had forgotten how pretty the Rosewing’s terrace was. The pink rock reflected the light, giving it a rosy glow. The fact that it overlooked the courtyard, where preparations were underway, almost made it seem like she was floating on a cloud. It was peaceful. 

 

She stood at the edge of the balustrade, her hands resting lightly on the stone. Below her, the preparations had quieted. The soft fall of snow from last night still lingered in the corners, but that would soon be removed. A bonfire was being built in the middle, timber stacked in a triangle. 

 

“You realize that I live in this tower, correct?” her mother’s voice was clipped, cool as ever. Lady Eardine swept in a shadow of velvet, dark green and pearls tight at her throat. “Summoning me to my own rooms is ridiculous.” 

 

Melira didn’t turn. “I know.” 

 

A pause, a rustle of skirts as her mother stepped beside her. “What could be so urgent it couldn’t wait until after the next council meeting?” 

 

Melira didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head. Theron had emerged from doors across the courtyard, looking at how the preparations were coming along. He knew she was confronting her mother. He gave his permission when she asked for help. He tried to explain why a public dismissal would punch her better, but Melira denied that. She liked being the undercurrent. The wind that no one saw. 

 

The bee sting beneath the coat. 

 

And after everything her mother did- after all of the hitting, slapping, whipping and general emotional neglect. Melira was happy to sting. 

 

“There’s an estate in the Western Front,” Melira mused, “It’s been empty for some time. Lord Halven has been anxious to find someone who can care for it, since it’s under his name. He claims it needs a ‘woman’s touch’.” She turned to face her mother, “I volunteered you.” 

 

“Without my permission?” 

 

“A queen does not need permission to give lands.” 

 

Lady Eardin’s expression twisted- not in fury, but disbelief. “You dare-” she began voice shrill, trembling at the edges. “You think this little trick will rid you of me? That you can exile your own mother like some political inconvenience? You forget who raised you. Who shaped you. Who made sure you were here .” 

 

Melira tilted her head, watching her mother with detached curiosity- as if she were studying a storm in a glass. “I haven’t forgotten, Mother,” she said. “You trained me well. In patience. In silence. In pain.” 

 

Lady Eardine’s hand slammed down on the balustrade, the sharp crack echoing across the air. People working below them paused and looked up, including Theron. But Melira didn’t flinch. Not anymore. 

 

“You still play the naive queen in a garden,” her mother hissed, “The harlot who shares a bed with a king is not a queen. You haven’t earned this power.” 

 

Melira stepped forward, taking in a breath, her voice calm but unyielding, “You will thank me.” 

 

That stopped her mother short- confusion flickering behind her fury. 

 

“You will tell me,” Melira continued, each word deliberate, “publicly, when we hold court tomorrow, that you have accepted Lord Halven’s generous offer. Then you will state, with a smile, that you are leaving at once- delighted to take up stewardship of the Western estate. You will then step down from the council.” 

 

She held her mother’s gaze, unblinking. 

 

“And name the Bramble’s seat as mine.” 

 

Melira had rehearsed those lines over and over again while getting dressed this morning. Sera said she was sure to find them seared into the mirror. Theron added that he’d be hearing them in his sleep. Lord Halven’s offer was generous, a sure show of support that Melira hadn’t expected. Then there was the information that was provided alongside it. Melira’s final sting. 

 

The wind caught Lady Eardine’s cloak as if it too had recoiled. Her lips parted, but no words came- only a sharp breath, indignant and unsure. 

 

Melira gave her a moment. Then, gently, she added, “Then you will go.” 

 

Silence stretched between them- taut as a drawn bowstring. Below the workers had returned to their jobs, the snow was almost gone from the courtyard. A harvest was coming. 

 

Lady Eardine exhaled sharply, the sound tight with disbelief. “You would humiliate me in front of the court? Cast me aside like-like I’m some handmaid to be dismissed when no longer useful? How stupid are you, actually?” Her done was biting now, reaching for the parts that Melira had battled her whole life. “You are a foolish girl.” 

 

Melira took another step forward, pushing her mother until she was up against the rail. 

 

“You will thank me,” she said again, like a liturgy. “You will tell me, publicly, when we hold court tomorrow, that you have accepted Lord Halven’s generous offer. Then, you will state- with a smile- that you are leaving at once . Delighted to take up stewardship of the Western estate.” 

 

Her eyes held her mother’s. 

 

“Then you will step down from the council. And name the Brambles’ seat as mine.” 

 

Her mother’s nostrils flared, fury flashing like a blade- but Melira’s voice sharpened first. 

 

“Because if you don’t…” Her smile was cold, her breath of ice. The sting sitting with the buzz beneath her fingertips. The papers were clear, the ledgers were messy- but Halven did not disappoint. She had the weapon at her disposal, they were ready to go. “Changing a treaty behind the king’s back is punishable by death .” 

 

Lady Eardine blanched, her breath catching just for a second. The silence between them turned heavy. 

 

“I have the treaty, Mother,” Melira continued, “All of it. I read it through. The amount of times you had signed your initials over amendments that worked in your favor and not mine or the king’s is ridiculous. I saw the gleeful look you shared with Cern at my wedding. I read the terms you laid out because you wanted power. And the no heir clause?” Melira clucked her tongue. “How stupid are you?.”

 

Lady Eardine’s face drained of what little color she had left. For the first time she looked small - not humbled, not regretful, but concerned. Her spine remained stiff, her mouth a pinched line, but her fingers twitched where they gripped the balustrade. “You will see me executed? ” her voice was a hoarse whisper, “You would put your own mother on trial?” 

 

“I won’t need to,” Melira replied evenly, “Because you are going to walk away.” 

 

She turned back to the courtyard, her eyes caught Theron’s. He nodded, a small sign of approval. She returned his gaze with a small smile, lifting her head higher. A harvest was coming. A new year. The rot is burning away. 

 

Lady Eardine opened her mouth again, but the words tangled somewhere between pride and fear. Her eyes darted to the balcony doors, as if calculating whether she could storm back inside and find a way to fix this. But Melira had already won. 

 

“I’ll expect you at court in your best jewels,” Melira ended the conversation. “You always said appearances matter.” 

 

Then she turned her back on the woman who once ruled her life and left.

 

A new season was beginning and Melira intended to rule it.

___________________________________

 

Theron told her to dress warmly but beneath her wool dress and heavy fur-lined cloak, Melira was still shivering. The days had gotten colder, more bitter, as it inched its way towards the fall season. Everyone claimed that Rime was dangerously cold, that the mountains held the freeze in like a fence. Melira now believed them. 

 

Her teeth were clattering, her fingers gripping at the edges of the cloak to keep as much warmth in as possible. Theron didn’t seem bothered. He had dragged her outside to the mews, wanting Melira to practice handling Hollow so she was more comfortable around them. He might have claimed the meadows and mews as his sanctuary, but he still allowed her inside it. A small opening for them to get to know each other. 

 

She had to admit, Theron’s silhouette against the gray sky was a sight. He looked like a statue, dressed in thick black attire. His crown wasn’t pinning his hair down, which made him look wind-blown and wild. His eyes were up, watching Hollow as she circled, riding the currents in a spiral. His hands were clasped behind his back, loose but still stone like. As if he was simply awaiting the arrival of some foreign army. Melira envied that confidence. 

 

She tried to copy it in the council chamber and in court. But she felt like a dull imitation of what he was capable of doing. There were times she felt a fraud, desperate and alone. The court ladies all went to her mother, as they were more at her age level than Melira was. Besides, Melira was still failing at getting pregnant, and that didn't appeal to any woman in court. 

 

She touched her stomach, wishing there was at least some sign of pregnancy. Sera was checking her bedsheets each week. Her blood cycle wasn't expected for another week or so, but Melira had a faint hope that something was going to happen. 

 

And it wasn't for the lack of trying. Each night, Theron took her. He relished it, the way she would gasp and plead his name, or sob when he decided her the release he made her so desperately crave. And yet… nothing. Maybe there was more to the baby making them just coupling. Maybe Melira had to will it into existence. 

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

Melira shook her head, dispelling the thoughts as much as possible. “Nothing.” 

 

Theron gave a single nod but didn't push. “Come.” 

 

She approached his side slowly, careful not to slip on the patches of ice that had started to form. Once she was there he pointed to the bird, “She caught something. See how she’s spiraling in tighter? She found something in the woods, she’s going to dive down-” 

 

Theron didn’t need to finish. Hollow dived low, swooping into the trees and disappearing. Melira counted to ten, then Hollow appeared again. A lump was between her talons, then she disappeared again. “Is she deciding it’s time to go?” Melira asked. 

 

“No,” Theron shook his head. “She’s going to eat her meal then return. She’s predictable that way.” 

 

They fell back into the freezing silence. She wondered how long that would take, the cold was starting to hurt. 

 

“Are you cold?” Theron asked. 

 

“A little.” Melira admitted, “But I’m alright, you don’t-”

 

In one movement, he pulled his coat off and wrapped it around her shoulders. She blushed, the smell of leather and cleanliness covered her. When he was done settling it around her, he huffed in approval and turned back to watching for his bird. Melira felt swamped beneath the coat, but she breathed in the scent of him. It was warm, comforting, and grounding. 

 

She knew virtually nothing about him, except what the legends had claimed. But the man that she had married turned out to be someone she had started to see a friendship with. Theron was strong, a stone regent who looked over a court of chaos. But, when they were in moments like this, Melira saw a human being who wanted nothing more than silence. Not peace, she knew that was something he couldn’t ask for, but silence. He relished the idea of quiet moments. Why else would he be out here? 

 

In the distance, a sharp cry echoed through the thin mountain air. Theron’s shoulders straightened the barest fraction. A dark shape crested the trees, wings catching the pale light as Hollow soared back toward them. 

 

Theron extended his arm, the heavy leather of his bracer catching at the fur lining of his sleeve. Hollow landed in a flurry of feathers, her talons curling over his wrist with the ease and trust of long practice. Her beak was streaked with red, her eyes bright from the hunt. 

 

“She never comes back empty,” Theron murmured, brushing a thumb over the curve of the bird’s head before loosening the leather from her ankles. 

 

“She is… beautiful,” Melira said honestly, still hugging his coat close. “How did you train her?” 

 

“Meat.” Theron’s gaze slid to hers. “ And patience, lots of patience. Her wing was damaged, I almost lost a finger when I tried to bandage it.” 

 

“You have a good heart.”  

 

Melira felt her face grow hot when the words spilled out of her. 

 

Theron tilted his head slightly, his hand pausing mid-stroke on Hollow’s feathers. “A good heart?” His tone carried no mockery, just quiet consideration. 

 

Melira pressed her lips together, wishing she could pluck the words from the air and swallow them back down. “I mean- you cared for her when she was hurt. You could've left her to die, but you didn’t.” 

 

His eyes lingered on her for a moment before returning to the hawk. “Not because of a good heart. A hawk like Hollow-” he lifted his wrist slightly, the bird shifting her talons without protest, “-she’s dangerous when she’s wounded. She strikes, not because she hates you, but because pain makes her see you as a threat. If you flinch, if you let her think you’ll harm her further, she’ll never come back to your hand again. So you endure it- hold her steady, even when her claws pierce the skin- you can teach her to trust you.” 

 

His words hung between them, heavy and sharp. Melira felt them dig into her chest in ways he couldn’t possibly understand- or at least not aloud. She wrapped his coat tighter around herself, staring at the bird’s sharp beak and bright eyes. Her mother’s voice echoed unbidden in her mind, the last conversation she had with the woman ghosted through her. 

 

Maybe she did the wrong thing sending the woman away. Maybe she should’ve forgiven her. 

 

“I’m proud of you,” Theron interrupted her thoughts. “For how you handled your mother this afternoon.” 

 

Her breath caught. She knew he was watching, but the praise was unexpected. “You’re… proud?” 

 

Theron released Hollow again, letting her soar off towards the palace and stepped closer to her. “Yes, you held your ground. You told her how to bow out gracefully when you could’ve destroyed her for what she’s done to you. You held your head and crown high- a true queen.” 

 

“But what if I was wrong?” 

 

“One thing that I learned from my father,” Theron spoke slowly, “was that regret is for merchants and farmers. That woman tortured you. She was a monster. She had rotted the court with her poison long enough. Banishment was a kind option, I wouldn’t have been as nice.” 

 

Melira didn’t have a response to that. She knew it was the right move, just like threatening Amira and Lyanna was. But hearing him say that…

 

It felt nice.

 

They stayed there, with only the wind and the sound of Hollow’s cries in the distance. Theron spoke more of her training- going into detail of how he found her half-broken, how she relearned to ride the thermals without wasting her strength. In return, Melira told him of the bees and the various hives she tended back in the Brambles. He listened without interrupting, his sharp profile softened in the pale light. Occasionally, his gaze would drift down to her mouth and back up again, as if committing words- and perhaps her- to memory.

 

“The bees sting when they feel threatened,” she murmured, her fingers tightening on the folds on his coat. “It might not kill, but it hurts.” 

 

Theron’s eyes lingered on hers, dark and deliberate. “They taught you well, then. You are no docile creature for her to continuously beat down. You showed her- and you will show the court- that you are not hers to command.” His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something fiercer. “You impress me, Melira.” 

 

The words sank into her like warmth against the cold, leaving her unmoored. No one had ever said such a thing before.

 

By the time they made it back to the mews and settled Hollow back on her perch, the sky deepened to a heavier gray, clouds settling low along the mountain peaks. Theron glanced in the direction of the palace but made no move to return. 

 

“Perhaps,” Melira said quietly, reaching for his hand to pull him to a stone bench. “Another moment?” 

 

He didn’t hesitate, his fingers clasping hers and allowing her to lead them. When they settled, he pulled the coat up higher on her shoulders. “As many as you’d like.” 

Melira turned her face to the bitter air, heart hammering, unsure if it was fear or relief she felt. But for the first time since coming to Rime, the cold didn’t feel like an enemy.

Chapter 13: Theatrical Sorrows

Notes:

TW: Mentions of Miscarriage

The court smelled like old stone and smoke, the braziers along the side gave off some heat and bouncing orange light. The banners with the crown’s crest fluttered against the walls, falling against the draft that wove its way through the high arches. Melira sat on the dais beside Theron, a circlet of golden leaves on her head, her dress was a warm raspberry color with golden threads weaving through it. Her hands were on her lap, resting poised and collected. But her stomach was twisting uncomfortably. 

 

Her mother was late. 

 

Or worse- waiting. 

 

Below her, the hall was full. Petitioners clustered in lines, tugging and adjusting their best clothes in hopes that they would be heard today. Stewards were escorting them back and forth.

 

“Sir Everlan of Caldeth, requesting redress for flooded fields within the eastern provinces.” 

 

Theron waved, giving his permission. The steward looked towards Melira, who nodded, “Granted. Send relief as soon as possible.” 

 

The man bowed and left, another steward took his place. Then another. And another. 

 

And another. 

 

Each petition passed under her in blurs. She felt fuzzy and dizzy. She blamed the nerves. She blamed the fact her time of the month came in like a lightning storm and it was due. She’d been lightheaded all morning. She had been a bundle of nerves all morning. To the point where Sera had called for a calming tea, which didn't help. Theron had taken that time to find a different approach to calming her down. He didn't seem to care about her fears of him seeing her bloody or gross down there. Once he confirmed that there was no sign of her blood cycle, he made her collapse around him like dead weight. Her body was still sore from the very  thorough session. She was sure she had bruises on her legs from how he bit her thighs. 

 

Beside her Lord Halven was serving as advisor, ready to accept her mother's defeat with as much grace as he could muster. But his perfume was making Melira’s stomach lurch. 

 

The next petitioner was Lord Marell, Amira a step behind him. Both the figure of perfect grace and nobility. 

 

Melira’s throat tightened. 

 

They both bowed low, Amira’s dress showing more than what was considered modest. When they rose, their eyes were too calm, too steady. 

 

This was going to be a test. 

 

“Your Royal Highnesses,” Lord Marell started, “I wanted to submit a formal proposal for my daughter Amira.” 

 

The steward frowned, glancing at his scroll, “This was not on the docket.” 

 

“My apologies, but it simply cannot wait.” Lord Marell didn't sound sorry. “I come today, not with a complaint, but with preparation. As the court has moved forward with placing a legacy upon your crown, Your Majesties, I feel inclined to do the same.”

 

Amira stepped forward, her eyes were too serious, too calm. Melira knew the words coming from Walton’s mouth, but her mind couldn't process them. 

 

He continued, “My daughter is my only child. I ask for your permission to start teaching her how to handle my position upon your council and as your advisor.” 

 

Melira clutched her skirt tightly, she saw Theron from the corner of her eyes stiffen. A clear power play. A motive hidden in plain sight. 

 

Melira’s warning in her conservatory didn't work. 

 

“We shall take it under consideration,” Theron’s voice answered for them both. Melira could only nod in agreement. Her stomach rolled again. If only Lord Halven could move two inches to the left, that might be better. 

 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Walton bowed and walked back to his spot. Amira lingered in her curtsy a moment longer than necessary. Her eyes were on Theron. 

 

The steward stepped forward again, “Lady Eardine of the Brambles. Final Petition of the day.” 

 

Melira’s breath caught. Her heart jumped into her throat. A hush fell. 

 

Gods, she was ready for this. She sat up straighter. Her mother emerged from the shadowed edge of the hall like a swan on ice, regal in a rich velvet gown the color of old wine. A pearl necklace hung tight around her neck, her smile just sharp enough to draw blood. 

 

She curtsied- low, slow, and theatrical. 

 

“My Queen,” she said, voice ringing with false pride. “And my King.” 

 

Melira’s hands tightened slightly in her lap. “Mother.” 

 

“I come today,” her mother began, “to speak not as a petitioner, but as a mother. A loyal subject. A woman from the Brambles who has served the land for almost three decades, and who knows when it is time to let the next bloom rise.” 

 

She let that linger. The continued, all theatrical sorrow. “I accept Lord Halven’s generous proposal of retirement. I shall accept his offer to oversee an estate in the Western Fronts, leaving my seat on the royal council in younger hands- those more fit for the season ahead.” 

 

Melira gave no outward reaction. But her pulse was racing. Her face felt too hot. Her ears rang faintly. Breathe Melira, she told herself, A few more minutes and then you can go. 

 

“I will go,” her mother finished, “grateful, proud… and hopeful. For what your reign may become.” 

 

She gave a low curtsy. The crowds around them shifted and murmured. There was no question as to what had transpired. Melira has dismissed her own mother from the court. 

 

She swallowed, the ringing in her ears got louder. It drowned out the response that Halven was giving. She felt hot, but cold. Her stomach gave a hard squeeze. She felt something between her legs cramp up. 

 

Something was terribly wrong. 

 

“Let the records show,” Theron was saying, although he sounded like he was hundreds of miles away, “That Lady Eardine has relinquished the seat of the Brambles to her daughter: Queen Melira.” 

 

This was her cue to rise. To curtsy to her mother and thank her for her service. And Melira certainly tried to. But she wobbled, catching herself on the arm of the chair. 

 

“My Queen?” Lord Halven whispered, “Are you-” 

 

Melira collapsed, her legs giving out from underneath her. The last thing she heard was someone shouting for a physician. 

 

The last thing she saw was her mother standing beside Marell and Amira, all three with cold eyes and unwavering faces. 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

She came back to pain. 

 

It throbbed low in her body like a bruise that refused to fade. Her head was full of fog, her skin clammy beneath the damp cloth pressed to her brow. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was- only that her limbs were heavy and her mouth tasted of metal. Her skin burned as if she had stood too long in the sun. 

 

Melira knew she was lying on something soft. Her eyes took in the fuzzy makings of a wooden ceiling that was unfamiliar to her. Voices were soft around her, and her dress was torn. Cold air brushed against her bare skin, she was exposed. Someone was applying a very uncomfortable pressure between her legs. She prayed to whichever god was listening that this was all just some horrible nightmare. 

 

“Your Majesty,” Sera’s voice came from somewhere to her left, “She’s awake.” 

 

The bed tilted, someone- Theron, she could tell by the callouses on his palm- picked up her hand, lips pressing into them. “You’re alright,” he whispered into her hand, voice rawer than she had ever heard. “Thank the Gods.”

 

But what happened? Melira wanted to ask, but her throat felt harsh, dry. She felt horrible all morning, and then she collapsed. But why? 

 

A hand came under her head, lifting it gently. A cold goblet was pressed to her lips. “Drink,” Sera’s voice was soft but commanding, “It’s just water and honey.” 

 

Melira opened her lips just a fraction of an inch and sipped. The water was sweet and cool, refreshing. But it also sent a shock through her system, her entire body spasmed in pain.  The pillows behind her were adjusted and she was able to actually look around the room, although the details were seen through a fog. 

 

Theron was on her right, her hand pressed to his mouth. He had shed his overcoat, his white sleeves stained red. His stone eyes were on her, but they were narrowed with worry, watching her face. When he saw her looking, he took one hand and ran a finger down her face, brushing hair back. She tried to smile, but she was pretty sure it came out as a grimace. 

 

Sera was on her left, busy with various bottles in a little case. Melira had no idea where that had come from. The girl’s hair was pulled back into a very messy updo, her elegant pink dress sleeves were pushed up above her elbows. A frown was on her face as she flicked through a little booklet. “Was there any signs of uterine lining, Doctor?” 

 

Melira looked down, the pressure between her legs stopped. The court physician- an older man, sharp-eyed, sleeves stained with blood and something else- shook his head. “Not that I had seen. But there was a lot of blood.” 

 

Sera’s frown deepened. Her fingers flicked through another few pages. “And the pain? Cramping before the collapse? She did say her blood cycle was due, but she never mentioned her symptoms…” she said, although it seemed to be mostly to herself. “Did she eat this morning?” 

 

Theron answered hoarsely, “Yes. Toast and jam- her usual. I had the same. The only difference was that she had tea and I had coffee.” 

 

Sera looked up, “The tea I sent for?” 

 

Theron nodded, “Yes, and her breakfast one.” 

 

“What did it taste like?” 

 

Melira wanted to answer. The calming one was sweet, she recalled the lavender and chamomile that was in it. But the breakfast one- like always- was bitter and dark. She had poured almost all of the cream and sugar into it to try and mask the taste. But nothing worked. 

 

“She said it tasted bitter,” Theron responded, “But she always says that.” 

 

Sera breathed hard through her nose, “Bitter? Her tea was bitter? That rules out what I had given her. Licorice might have been added to it, but why would someone poison her?”

 

The physician sighed and stood, wiping his hands on a clean rag, “I’ve done all I could. There was a lot of bleeding, but she should be stable now.”

 

Poison? A lot of bleeding? Melira tried to lift her hand but failed. She swallowed again, then hoarsely: “Wha- what happened?” 

 

Sera glanced at her, her face softening. It was pity, guilt, all written in plain script on her face. Melira turned to Theron, fury shifted across his face then pain, then nothing. The physician was the one who answered her. His words were blunt and honest, “I cannot confirm, my Queen, but I believe you had a miscarriage.” 

 

Around her the world seemed to slip away. She had a miscarriage. It took a moment for her to understand what he was saying. Then it hit her like a rock: she was pregnant. When did that happen? It takes time doesn't it? They'd only been married a few weeks, a month at most. No, she couldn't have been. It wasn't possible. 

 

Besides, how did she not know?

 

“Leave us,” Theron’s voice was hard. 

 

“Your Majesty-” The physician tried to speak. 

 

“You said she was stable,” Theron did not remove his eyes from Melira, “So leave us.” 

 

The physician bowed, “I shall be back later.” 

 

Sera hesitated, “Would you like me to leave as well, my King?” 

 

Theron nodded once, and Sera bobbed a curtsy and left them, sweeping out the room with her book. Once the door had closed, Theron sighed, then pushed Melira over to the side of the bed. She moved easily, he was strong enough to not rustle her too much. It was when he sat beside her and pulled her into his arms did she realize she was crying. 

 

“That’s… not possible,” Melira pressed herself into his chest, fingers coming up and clutching onto his shirt. “I’m so sorry.” 

 

He hushed her, pressing a kiss into her head. “You did nothing wrong.” 

 

Melira just kept apologizing, she couldn’t stop. The tears came out harder until it turned into sobs. Theron held her like she was something already shattered, careful even in the strength of his arms. His hand moved in slow circles along her back, his voice steady and low even when hers had splintered apart. 

 

“Did you know?” he whispered. 

 

Melira shook her head. It wasn’t possible. She was sure of it. Yes, they lied together what felt like thousands of times, but she would've known. In the silence that had filled the room like smoke. Melira’s mind, though slow and clouded, clung to what few details it could. The tea. The bitterness. The pressure. The bleeding. 

 

Her mother’s poised grace. 

 

Marell’s steady and passive gaze. 

 

Amira’s grab at power. 

 

Someone had wanted this. 

 

Someone wanted to fake a miscarriage.

 

She pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at Theron. This close, she could see his eyes were rimmed with red, but his grief had turned harder. Something cold. 

 

“You knew?” 

 

“Only that you were poisoned,” he slid the wet cloth off her head, “You were poisoned. Sera suspects that it occurred this morning. I will not stop until I find out who did this.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Melira whispered again, dropping her head and leaning back against his chest. “I failed if I was.” 

 

Theron cupped her chin and pulled it sharply up, “You didn’t fail. The tasters failed. The person who did this- they failed. You…” His voice faded away, a long sigh came out instead. He let her come back into his chest, leaning back on to the pillows so she was lying down. 

 

A beat of silence passed between them. She listened to his heartbeat, closing her eyes. It simply wasn't possible. She was to mourn a child she knew didn't exist.  Her heart felt hollow. 

 

And worse- it was deliberate. Politics. This wasn’t just grief ripping through her, it was angry and fury. She closed her eyes. The pain in her body pulsed again, dull and angry. She wanted to scream. 

 

The injustice of it rang louder than the ache in her body. The cruelty. The theft. She curled her fingers around Theron’s shirt again, pressing her forehead into his chest, trying to force herself to stay still. Her entire life had been carved by others. Her voice was empty when it came to her future. Calculated cruelty, power by negotiation. But this… this had been different. 

 

“Don’t let them win,” she said, voice brittle, “Don’t let them take anything else from me.” 

 

“They won’t,” Theron said firmly, without hesitation. “I swear it.” 

 

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust that he would protect them both from the vipers in her mother’s words, from the silent movements of Lord Marell. From the bitter tea and polite betrayals. But Melira had grown up knowing what it felt like to have others control the board. She watched it from the woman who smiled at her collapse like it was a curtain call. 

 

She forced herself to sit up, pushing slowly against the bed. Theron immediately moved to help her, but she shook her head. “No. I need to do this.” 

 

“You need rest,” he protested, but there was no sharpness in it- only concern. 

 

Melira turned to him, eyes glassy but burning now with resolve. “I need to know who did this. I want a list of everyone who handled my breakfast, the tea, anyone who entered our chambers. I want names of every fucking servant that so much as looked at my mother in the last two weeks. Every shithead that Marell sent for. Any bitch that Amira has under her eyes.” 

 

Theron nodded slowly, “I already have Vellian compiling a list. We will go through this together.” 

 

“And,” she added, voice tightening, “tell everyone what happened. Give a public announcement that the child of the king and queen was murdered. Even if it wasn't a real miscarriage. Let them show me who feels guilty and who doesn’t.” 

 

“And if it was your mother?” 

 

Silence settled between them. He suspected the same person, although Melira was sure she didn’t act alone. Her hand drifted slowly to her stomach. She closed her eyes. “Let her burn.” 

 

Theron’s hand wrapped around hers, “We will try again.” He rested his head on her shoulder, “But please, for my sake, rest.”

 

There was silence for a moment,  she closed her eyes, letting his heartbeat sooth her fury over the event flow out of her. Then, as if a whisper of wind, Theron’s voice cracked. Just slightly.

 

 “I almost lost you.” 

Melira blinked. Then blinked again. There was that shift, that fractured change in between them. “But you didn't.” She assured him, “I’m still here. I will always be here.”

Chapter 14: A Storm Inside

Notes:

Hello! Thanks for reading!

I am overwhelmed by the amount of times this has been read. Seriously. Like wow.

Anyways, bit of a shorter chapter. But I promise the next one is nice and long!

The physician had been very clear. The Queen needed rest. Lots and lots of rest. The problem was it made her miserable to lie in bed or be ushered around the castle by a parade of guards and servants in a chair. Melira felt more like she was being led to her death than she was to recovery. 

 

It took a few days for Melira to come to the conclusion that she wasn’t pregnant when the supposed “miscarriage” occurred. What the herbs had actually done, if she was right, was just made her blood cycle more violent than usual. But, for the sake of fishing out who did it, Melira feigned the miscarriage. Even going as far as hosting a mini funeral for the loss of a child. 

 

Part of her felt… inadequate. The amount of pity and sad faces that were sent her way almost made her want to lock herself away in her conservatory and never come out again. But there was a small part of her that wanted the court to see how miserable she was, even if she was miserable for the wrong reasons. It had gotten worse when she was ushered into her spot above the court, the amount of points and stares made her wither down in her chair like a dying plant. 

 

She assumed that it had gone unnoticed by her husband. 

 

Theron hadn’t shown that he felt half as bad for her as she had assumed after he clutched her hand and whispered to her that he would stand by her. He didn’t even try to act upset during the “funeral”. His face was as impassive and as stony as ever. He didn’t say two words to her during it, simply turning away and walking with Vellian in hushed whispers. It had frustrated her. He had told her that he would help her, that none of this was her fault. Now he was acting like she had made the biggest error in her life. 

 

Now, she was sitting in their bedchamber, a storm raging around the castle like a beast. Theron was asleep on their bed, his arm still flung over the spot she had vacated.  Melira still hadn’t grown used to the storms here, the thunderous snow that seemed to spiral in a thousand directions as it came down. Oftentimes there were these little balls of ice, some as big as her fist, that would crash and break stone fragments off the statues. When the roar of thunder woke her in the middle of the night, she found that falling asleep afterwards was impossible. 

 

So instead, she was curled up in one of his chairs, a spare blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her knees pulled into her chest. The cold air didn’t seem to help calm her nerves, despite it washing over her with each gust of wind. Her hair was in a loose braid, curling over her arm like a snake. She was lost in thought, wishing the storm would smooth away the worries that had begun to pile up inside her mind. On the table in front of her was an abandoned book and single lit candle. Melira didn’t want to wake Theron up by calling the servants to relight the fire. That wouldn’t be fair to him. 

 

She had hoped the book would bore her enough to go back to sleep- An Anthology of War Politics- had seemed like a horrid choice. It was thick and filled with too many words that were beyond her level. But she couldn’t seem to focus enough to even try. The words swam in front of her to the point that they started to look like little worms. The candle hadn’t even reached the halfway point when she had finally given up and just resolved to watch the storm outside. 

 

This is stupid, she told herself, it’s not like I was actually pregnant. Why do I feel like a failure?

 

Maybe her mother’s words were starting to get to her. Maybe she had been foolish in sending that woman away. Her place in court was precarious- at best- and it didn’t help that she was now locked away like some misbehaving child for a poisoning attempt. She wondered if her mother had stayed if her place in court would be stronger. 

 

“Come back to bed,” Theron’s voice was rough with sleep. 

 

Melira didn't answer, feigning sleep herself in the chair. She knew it wouldn't work, but she didn't want to face him either. 

 

“Melira,” he spoke louder, “Come back to bed.” 

 

“Go back to sleep,” she said after a moment, “I’ll join you in a bit.” 

 

She heard the rustle of satin and fur, the huff of a blanket being thrown away. His footsteps landed on the stone floor in quiet thumps as he made his way to her. She didn't acknowledge his approach, silently hoping he would just go back to bed. She still didn't look at him when he towered over her behind her back.

 

He reached down and plucked the book from the table, turning it over in his hands. The rustle of pages turned as he skimmed through her selection. “An Anthology of War Politics?” He asked, his voice skeptical. “Starting another war?” 

 

She shrugged, “It sounded boring.” 

 

“Ah,” he placed the book back down, then settled in the chair on the other side of the table. He sat facing the storm like she was, never glancing at her. 

 

They stayed like that for a long while. The silence was only broken by the thunder outside their window. Lightning forked the sky, illuminating the white dots of snow and ice. Melira flinched at each one, pulling the blanket tighter around her until her fingers hurt. 

 

“You’re shivering,” Theron said at last. 

 

“I’m fine.” Her voice sounded thin, even to her. In truth, she wasn't cold. She didn't know why she was shaking. 

 

“You’re a horrible liar.” His tone was even, but it held the weight of a verdict. Kings are never wrong. 

 

Melira shifted, pulling her feet in closer, keeping her eyes on the storm outside. “I couldn't sleep.” 

 

He leaned back in his chair, swinging his legs over the arm. His profile was a sharp shadow in the candlelight. “Why?” 

 

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Why?” She repeated. “Why can’t I sleep? Perhaps because half the court already thinks I failed. Perhaps it's because every step I take is shadowed by the whispers about my womb and whether or not it's broken. Perhaps because I had to hold a fake funeral for a child that never even existed in the first place just to catch a snake. And through it all-” her voice cracked like the lightning outside, “you haven't even looked at me.” 

 

Still he was silent. The thunder rolled, long and low. 

 

Melira’s throat burned, but she didn’t stop. “Do you know what it feels like to watch their eyes- every woman in court with their pity, every man with their judgement- and realize they think I’ve already failed at the only thing they think I’m good for?” Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “And you… you gave them no reason to think otherwise.” 

 

She finally turned to face him, anger sparking through the shine of unshed tears. “So tell me, King Theron. Why can’t I sleep? Because every time I close my eyes, I see your silence. And it is louder than any storm that Rime could throw at me.” 

 

For a long moment, the only answer was the storm battering the windows. Then Theron straightened in his chair, the stony cast of his face sharpening like a blade. 

 

“You think my silence means I don’t care?” His voice cut across the space between them, low and edged. “You think because I didn’t weep in front of them, because I didn’t perform grief for their hungry eyes, that I don’t give a damn about what was done to you?” 

 

Melira’s breath hitched, but she said nothing. 

 

His jaw clenched. “Do you want me to parade sorrow before the court? To bow my head and show them weakness they would bleed us for? Every pair of eyes in that chamber was looking for cracks, Melira. And you would have me split myself wide open for them?” He shook his head sharply, a storm inside a storm. “I cannot give them that satisfaction.” 

 

“You gave them nothing,” she whispered, though her anger still burned hot.

 

“I gave them exactly what they expect from me,” Theron shot back. “A king unshaken. A man who cannot be moved by rumor or tragedy. That is how Rime survives. That is how we survive. If you felt alone at that moment…” His voice faltered, briefly, before hardening again. “It is because I carry the burden differently than you want me to.” 

 

“You carry the burden differently,” Melira echoed, her voice sharp as glass. “But I am the one they’re staring at. I’m the one that they whisper about in corridors. I’m the failure they pity. You get to be stone, unshaken, untouchable. But me?” Her voice trembled. “To them I’m just a womb. A deal on paper.” 

 

She drew a breath, steadier now, though her eyes still glistened. “And I am so much more than that.” 

 

The words hung between them, jagged but undeniable. For a long while, Theron said nothing. Both of their gazes stayed on the storm, but his jaw eased, the harsh lines of his face softening in the flickering candlelight. 

 

“I know,” he said at last, his voice low, heavy with something she couldn’t name. “I don’t show it. But I know.” 

 

She looked at him, blinking hard. She had expected a retort, or a wall, not that. 

 

“I know that you like to read,” he said quietly. “I know you hate hunting because you think it’s unfair to the animals. I know that you can’t sleep in thunderstorms- not because of the noise but because of the lightning. I know that when you’re stuck on a problem, your nose wrinkles up like you smelled something bad, and when you have bad dreams your forehead wrinkles up.” He rolled his head so he was looking at her, “I see everything about you.” 

 

For the first time that night, Melira let the blanket slip a little from her shoulders. The storm still howled outside, but inside their bed chamber, the silence between them no longer felt like a void. Her throat tightened at his words. For once, she didn’t know what to say. It was easier when she could throw her anger at his wall and hear the satisfying crack of her voice shattering the silence. But now… now he had given her something else. 

 

“You watch too much,” she muttered at last, though her voice lacked its bite. 

 

Theron gave a low hum, more exhale than laugh. “I have to. The court waits for weaknesses. Enemies wait for mistakes. I can’t afford to miss what’s in front of me.”

 

Her brows knit, fingers clutching the blanket tighter. “So I’m just another threat?

 

“No. You’re my wife.” 

 

That statement fell between them like an oath, heavy, unyielding. 

 

Melira lowered her eyes to the threads between her fingers. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.” 

 

The silence stretched, long enough that she thought he might turn back into the cold shape she had first known. But then she heard him rise from his chair. His footsteps carried across the stone floor until his presence loomed just behind her. 

 

She froze when his warmth brushed her shoulders, when his hands ran down her arms as he bent low next to her ear. His breath stirred the loose strands of her hair. He leaned close, lowering his voice so that it was the only thing she could hear. 

 

“I can’t sleep without you anymore.” 

 

Her eyes shot wide open, her breath caught. She forced herself to keep from moving, from jerking away from him. The storm outside cracked like fire splitting the sky, but inside, the world seemed to shrink to the space between his mouth and her ear, to the thrum of her heart stumbling in her chest. 

 

She didn’t answer- not with words. Slowly, she twisted around, the blanket falling away from her shoulders and bunching at her waist. He hadn’t moved, he was still so close to her. Perhaps she was wrong. He was with her, side-by-side. He did care, but he couldn’t publicly show it. He needed her as much as she needed him. 

 

“Then let’s go back to bed.” 

Chapter 15: The Harvest Festival

Melira had only a few short weeks until the Harvest Festival. Preparations and invitations were sent out and received. Dresses and matching sets of jewelry had been designed and delivered. The common folk, her people, had been delivering food for a month now, letting it rest in stores. 

 

But Melira didn't acknowledge any of it. 

 

She had been serious when she told Theron she was attending. He didn't stop protesting, claiming she needed rest. She needs to sleep. To regain her strength. But Melira listened to no one, finding strength in pushing forward. In getting to the answers of finding out who tried to kill her future. 

 

What she found taxing was the fact that she was still trapped in their bedchambers. The physician was clear- bedrest and gentle movements. Melira found that lying in bed, being pampered on hand and foot, was the most exhausting thing she ever had to deal with. 

 

Eventually, Sera sent every servant running. She took on the full responsibility of caring for the queen, as was her duty. This gave Melira time to observe her lady-in-waiting more closely. 

 

Glasta, Sera’s birthplace, was known for lush gardens. Many physicians and pharmacists studied in the university there as they had vast medicinal herbs. Melira had hoped at one point to visit, maybe even study there. But, now that she was queen, that would never happen. 

 

Either way, if medicinal plants were grown there, then poisons were too. 

 

Sera had known about the poisoning. Melira remembered her grilling the physician on symptoms. The book in her hands and the trunk with small vials were all the clues Melira needed to know that there was more to Sera than just pretty dresses and a gentle demeanour. 

 

At the moment, Melira was reading through reports of the servants that her mother had spoken to, seeing if any names crossed over to the list of those that tended to Melira and Theron’s bed. She was convinced one of them had planted the poison, and one of them had watched her to see if showed any signs. 

 

Sera was moving about the dressing room, arranging the attire that they were to wear. Not out of sight, just in another room, a simple call away. 

 

“Sera,” Melira called out, “I have a question.” 

 

Sera came at once, stopping to bob a quick curtsy before answering, “Yes?” 

 

“How did you know I was poisoned?” 

 

She watched Sera’s eyes widen a fraction, her mouth start to form words before she thought of an answer. Her hands tightened around each other in front of her stomach. The girl was nervous. 

 

“It was a guess-” She started to say but Melira held up her hand. 

 

“It wasn't,” Melira put down the papers. “I know it wasn't. The way you spoke to the physician, asking about symptoms. The book and the trunk with all those vials. You knew.” 

 

Sera hesitated, wringing her hands. Melira didn't suspect her lady-in-waiting of poisoning her, but she has learned- people tell the truth when they're scared. 

 

“May I sit?” She asked, gesturing to the chair. When Milera nodded, Sera sat and continued. “You are aware that Glasta is known for their gardens. We grow everything there: flowers, fruit, vegetables, and medicinal herbs. Scholars come from all over just to study at our university. But there's more than just pretty plants.” 

 

She put her hands on the table, voice dropping. “The noble family, my family, has a strong belief that regardless of sex, you must be able to defend yourself. Men are trained with swords, knives, bows and arrows. My brother was one of them. But the girls aren't allowed to be- royal law. So, instead, we are taught plants.” 

 

“Medicines?” Melira raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Yes,” Sera replied slowly, hesitating before continuing. “There's this garden known as the Garden of Death in our courtyard. We, the women in the family, are taught to utilize and recognize each and every poison that grows there. We memorize symptoms, scents, shapes, and colors. Antidotes and treatments. How much to give, how much not to. It's an art and from the outside it looks completely harmless.” 

 

Her head was raised now. Her eyes firm, jaw set. There was this sense of pride. A family tradition that was as ancient as Melira’s blessing. 

 

“My blade is a flower,” Sera’s fingers curled on the table, “cultivated and trimmed to become a deadly foe. Yes, I can heal. But what good is that when my life is in danger? When those I care about are targeted? I may be just a lady, but I wield a sword better than most.” 

 

Melira leaned back in her chair, “Those vials? What were they?” 

 

“Poisons,” Sera shrugged, “and antidotes. My own personal collection.” Then she seemed to have understood what she just said, because she hurriedly added, “I didn't poison you. I didn't even know you were pregnant.” 

 

“I wasn’t,” her hand drifted to her stomach slowly. There were still aches, but it also felt empty. Soon, they can try again. 

 

According to the physician, they needed to give it a month before trying again. Melira's body needed to heal and there needed to be signs of her cycle resuming. Theron didn't argue. He didn't even seem upset. Just resolved. Melira was the one who rolled away from him with silent tears. 

 

She shook her head, “I know you didn't poison me, Sera. I was nearly curious on how you were able to diagnose poisoning before the physician did.” 

 

Sera reached a hand across the table, which Melira took gladly. “Next time, tell me if your tea tastes bitter. Bitter is never a good sign.” 

 

She gave a small smile, pushing aside the feelings of failure and guilt. “I will.” 

 

A week passed. Rime had come alive in a golden glow, a.sharp contrast to the normal silver and white. Visiting dignitaries started to arrive quickly, settling into various rooms around the castle. Melira even offered up the Rosewing Tower now that her mother had finally left. Fled like a dog in the night. 

 

Sera had explained what would occur that night. It was described as a huge party. Priestesses would come down from the temple and bless the start of the harvest, praying for a swift winter so that Rime could grow again, and then after that it was drunken revelry. Dancing, musicians, food, and drink would fill the night until the first sunlight. It was traditional that the King and Queen be present and share one dance together. 

 

The night of the Harvest Festival, Melira felt the best she had in weeks. 

 

Her honey-brown hair was loose, sections braided but not pinned up. Her golden brown eyes were swept with a russet coloring, lined with black khol. Around her neck was a collar, made of golden leaves. But the shining piece was the dress itself. 

 

A deep garnet red, threaded with bronze and gold. The bodice was fitting and sleek, embroidered with the crest of Rime, with a thicker of the Brambles over the base of the mountain. The skirt was long and full, cascading down her like a waterfall. Sleeves were tight and at the ends they formed a sharp point. Her cloak, designed to protect her from the cold, was a lighter red with white, ermine fur lining it. 

 

Melira would be the blood colored shadow on the edge of the fire. 

 

“Stunning,” Theron’s soft declaration came from behind her. She glanced in the mirror, focusing on his frame as it emerged through the doorframe. 

 

He was dressed in dark greys, his overcoat was swirling silvers and blacks. His black, frost iron crown was settled nicely over his brow. The scar looked menacing, trailing down from his eye like some macabre tear stain. His hair was neat but she could tell that he had run his hand through it a few times. 

 

“And you look regal,” Melira replied. “Very kingly.”

 

His lips twitched. But there was something underneath it, something more somber. Melira didn't push, she didn't ask. Instead she stood, taking his hand when it was offered and let him lead her to the courtyard doors. 

 

He paused. Melira paused beside him. She watched him from the corner of her eye, wondering if this was a part of the entrance. The guards didn't move to open the doors, their eyes forward and bodies stiff. 

 

He adjusted the clasp over his own cloak and turned to her, eyes tight with what Melira could only guess was concern. “If you, at all, need to step away, do not hesitate-”

 

“I won't,” she interrupted him, “But my people- our people- need to see me. They need to see that we are still here.” 

 

Theron let out a low breath at that, rolled his shoulders back and lifted his head higher. She watched as the stoney exterior that she had first encountered when she arrived at court only a few months ago came over him like his ability frosted over windows. Then with a single nod, the doors opened. 

 

The courtyard was illuminated by the giant bonfire, golden shadows glanced across the grey stones. People, nobility mostly, mingled around it, turning towards the royal couple as they made their entrance. Tables piled high with various foods from the first harvest, ringed the area. Vendors, merchants hoping to end the trading season with a good sale, waited patiently with their families. Their goods laid out, hoping to catch some wealthier person’s eye. In front of the fire, was a representation of the Gods. Priestesses, robed in white, keeping themselves held high because no one was higher than those that guide, according to the scriptures. 

 

The common folk were what caught Melira’s eyes as they made their way down the dias. Families, which children clutched in front of them, bowed with unpracticed wobbles. Their dresses and clothes were the best they could find or buy. She thought the nobles paled in comparison to them. Common folk work hard for their belongings, nobility don't. 

 

Towards the last of them, a stir caught her attention. A mother was pushing her daughter forward. The girl couldn't be older than ten, with wide eyes and twin braids on each side of her face. She clutched a small bouquet of daisies, probably the last of their garden. Melira paused in front of her as she gave a very off balanced curtsy and held out the daisies. 

 

“For you, Queen Melira,” the quiet voice sounded like a snap of a whip in the courtyard. 

 

Melira knelt, taking the daisies carefully, “Thank you, little one.” She took a small sniff. The slight sweet scent they gave off still lingered in the flowers. She knew from the silence all eyes were on her, on what she was doing. “Did you grow these yourself?” 

 

The girl nodded shyly, and Melira stood, offering out her hand to her new friend. The girl took it and Theron nodded to the priestess to begin her blessing. But as they changed, the whispers behind her had begun. 

 

“She's alive.” 

 

“They say it was a miscarriage, but she doesn't seem sick.” 

 

“I heard that someone tried to kill her.” 

 

Melira straightened her spine a bit more, tilting her chin just a bit higher. Theron barely glanced at her, but she felt him shifting beside her. Her eyes were on the fire but she wasn't really looking at it. The whispers were clear, the kingdom had heard the rumors. 

 

Good, she thought, that’ll make them squirm. 

 

Her eyes turned towards the nobles. Lord Marell and Amira were standing just opposite them. Both had their heads bowed but Melira could tell from where she stood they were conversing. Her mother was nowhere in sight, which meant she had followed through on her leave. She was gone. Melira should’ve felt a wave of relief but if anything, it made her all more certain that her own mother had been a part of it. 

 

As the priestesses finished their blessing, the crowd responded with the known words, practiced since the day they had entered the temples with their own families. Theron barely moved his lips. But she could tell he was calculating something, strategizing his next move. Melira tightened her grip on the girl beside her, whatever it was- she’d be ready for it. 

 

When the blessing was done, the music swelled in a crescendo. People, noble and common alike, flocked to the tables, admiring the food. Mutters of well wishes came through as they passed each other. Melira crouched back down to the little girl. “I think it’s time I return you to your mother, my friend.” 

 

“Abby,” the girl responded, then eyes wide she bobbed a curtsy, “My Queen.” 

 

Melira laughed, a true laugh that hadn’t been heard in days. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Abby.” 

 

The mother stepped forward with a bob of her own and took Abby by the hand, “Happy Harvest, Your Majesties.” Then she was gone. 

 

Theron pulled her hand so they could move towards the table on their own. Sera followed behind them, taking the daisies out of Melira’s arm so she could hand them off to a servant. The commonfolk all bowed as they approached, their eyes lowering with Theron, but raising with Melira. She couldn’t tell if they were simply in awe of their presence or if there was a burning question they all wanted answers to. 

 

“Let them judge,” Theron muttered in her ear as he pointed out food to the serving boy for both of them. “They have every right to.” 

 

Melira nodded, she knew that. In the Brambles, she always had a strong relationship with her workers and people. They respected her because she respected them. Growing up, her mother had taught her that they were beneath them, but it never made sense. Without the commonfolk; the workers and the farmers, the hunters and the doctors, there would be nothing. No food or candles, no dresses or books. Nothing to govern over, nothing to care for. She was friends with a few of the children before the war started and she was hidden away. There was even a boy… Melira shook that memory from her head. That little boy she once knew meant nothing now. 

 

“Come eat,” Theron guided her to the table that was prepared for them. The serving boy was portioning out the food that had been chosen. Two chairs, one having a taller back than the other, were pulled out for them to sit in. He sat first, then she followed, settling in the smaller seat. 

 

The food was good. Roasted chicken in a sweet sauce, leafy greens mixed with sweet apples, meat pies of various types, pomegranate juice mixed with just enough wine, Melira was very pleased that she was given a sampling of each. She ate what Theron ate, small bites in order to savor each thing, mentally complimenting the chefs in their kitchen. 

 

As the food disappeared, she felt a hand on her thigh, a finger rubbing softly. Glancing down,she saw Theron’s signet ring. She looked over at him. His face held the same stoney, cold expression that she had grown used to, but there was something off. Something warmer. 

 

Melira picked up her glass, holding it to her lips. “Are you alright, My King?” She said around it. 

 

He didn't glance at her, but the grip on her thigh tightened. Looking back towards the crowd, she saw Marell and Amira stepping up towards their table. She tensed, unsure if this would be a confrontation or a confirmation. 

 

Amira was once again wearing a dress that showed far more than imagination could. It was black, lined in gold swept across her shoulders. A gold, black fur lined cloak kept the chill at bay. Her hair was swept up into an elegant bun, stray pieces hanging around her face. Her father wore similar attire, although made for a man. His house crest, a golden sword embroidered on his chest. 

 

“Your Majesties,” Marell bowed lowly, Amira curtsied, “I am pleased to see you, Queen Melira. The court feared for your health.” 

 

Melira didn't flinch. The court might’ve, but they certainly didn't. 

 

She set her glass down, fingers trailing along the stem. The conversation with Amira back in her conservatory was still fresh in her mind. The threat was clear, it was received. Clearly, the family thought they were more powerful than Melira had given them credit for. “Then perhaps the court ought to worry less about my health and more about what threatens it.” 

 

She heard the shift in the crowd before she felt it. It grew quiet around her, just enough for a hush to sound loud. Marell’s bow lasted a second too long, likely hiding the flicker of calculation behind his eyes. When he rose, his smile was taut. 

 

Melira never spoke to the man, at least not on this level. He had steered clear of her. At first, she naively believed it was fear, then respect. But now, she could see clearly why he favored black. He preferred to strike like a snake, hidden away until stepped on. 

 

And Melira stepped on him. 

 

“But of course,” he said, finally rising from his bow. “It’s every noble’s duty to ensure the safety of the crown.” 

 

Amira didn’t speak. She merely smiled as if she were carved from sugar and silk, eyes unreadable, her gaze drifting just a hair too long toward Theron. Her eyes raked him, and Melira had to hold back a shiver of disgust. But when she glanced at Theron, he gave no reaction. Not even a blink and the weight on her thigh remained steady- a tether. 

 

Melira turned back to Marell, lifting her chin, “Well, I’m just glad that you didn’t need to worry about following any… contingency plans.” 

 

She felt Theron’s grip become heavier, the pressure reminding her to control her suspicions, at least in public. 

 

“Thank the Gods for that,” Marell replied, although he didn’t sound thankful. “But I held concern, if not for the future, but for the present. Grief can distort the world.” 

 

Theron’s hand twitched once, Melira’s lips curled, “Then let me speak plainly, Lord Marell,” she leaned forward, “I do not take kindly to being buried before my loss has grown cold. And I find it curious that you worried before the physician even had a moment.” 

 

Marell’s smile grew tight, “And I find it curious,” he leaned in, voice soft, “that you would wear red instead of mourning. Curious indeed, how swiftly a queen recovers from tragedy.” 

 

The surrounding nobles and commonfolk were still, as though the tension had stolen even the wind. Sera stepped closer behind her, poised and ready to redirect the crowd away. 

 

“I find that life,” Melira raised her voice, “much like the coming of winter, has a way to return to us. Just as I plan to do.” 

 

There it was again- a ripple. Someone muttered her name in admiration. Another nodded in agreement. A third whispered how correct she was, that a miscarriage was nothing to be ashamed about. Marell heard it too, because his jaw shifted just slightly. 

 

Melira leaned back, placing a hand on Theron’s arm, “Enjoy the harvest, My Lord, the chefs worked so hard to make such a delicious feast. In fact, I urge you to try the wine,” she grinned, sweetly, “it’s so… sweet.” 

 

That got a reaction. His face tightened, his shoulders tensed. His eyes went from the cup in her hand to her face more times than Melira could count. And then very slowly, he walked away, Amira- pale faced- gliding behind him like smoke. 

 

Melira let out a shaky breath and her fingers trembled when she set the glass back down on the table. The crowd turned away, voices returning to volumes of normal conversations. Theron’s hand left her thigh, leaving a cold spot. 

 

“Anything you need, Your Majesty?” Sera asked, the concern in her voice light but there. 

 

Melira shook her head, “Go enjoy the festival, Sera. I’ll summon you if I need you.” 

 

Marell and Amira disappeared into the crowd, blending into the shadows they had emerged from. Melira let out a breath she didn't even realize she was holding. 

 

The pomegranate line was a risk. She could still feel the tremor that shook her whole body. She showed her hand that she knew, she knew that they destroyed her and she had to pretend that it didn't bother her.

 

“Come,” Theron stood and offered her hand. She didn't have a choice but to follow. 

 

He guided her to a shadowy spot where grain was stored on carts and tables to be counted for winter rations. The sound of the crowd was still loud, but distance made it hard to pinpoint individual voices. Sera hadn’t followed, she was probably getting herself dinner. They were alone, illuminated only by distant gold flames and a silver moon. 

 

Theron kept his back to her, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side. His shoulders were too tight, his frame too hard. A storm was gathering inside of him. 

 

Melira didn't push, she didn't ask. She just waited. When the silence became too much, she finally broke, “Ther-”

 

“That was foolish,” his voice came out hard, like it was fighting the air itself. “You made a bad play.” 

 

Melira stared at his back, mouth open in shock. Despite her failures in learning how to be a queen, he never once called her ‘foolish’. He never insulted her. Not like that. She couldn't even utter a response. 

 

It took her a moment before she came to her senses, trying to formulate a response that wouldn't end up with her turning into a statue. 

 

“How?” She finally asked, “How was that a bad play?” 

 

“You showed your hand!” He whirled on her, he was angry. His face was dark, his eyes had grown stone gray, his whole body seemed to have grown in size. “You told him the exact thing that gave away your tea being poisoned! Now he knows not to try that again!” 

 

“What was I supposed to do?” Melira snapped back, balling her own fists at her side. “Let him keep trying until he succeeded in actually killing me? At least now he knows that I know!” 

 

“Dammit, Melira!” Theron’s hand made contact with a pile of grain. In the darkness she watched as the pale wheat was overtaken by a creeping gray frost, until the whole pile had turned into a statue. “He won't try again with that, but there will be others! Assassins. Poisons. Simple political schemes!” 

 

“And each one I will survive,” she saw it now, right as the last seed turned gray. He was terrified. Her voice grew softer as she stepped towards them, “Just like I survived this, I will survive him. And any other political game that gets thrown at us. Just like I did during the war. Just like I did when that treaty was signed. That is my life.”

 

Theron grabbed her wrist, “That I was sworn to protect,” he hissed, “or did you forget that?” 

 

Their eyes locked. His pierced hers like a dagger. Their breaths made soft clouds in the air between them. His grip felt like ice on her skin, burning and cold all at the same time. 

 

“You were dead, Melira,” his voice cracked, “You were so pale and-and there was so much blood-” 

 

“But I'm not dead,” she put her free hand on his cheek, brushing the scar with her thumb. “They failed, just like you said.” 

 

He pulled away, dropping her wrist so it fell by her side. His breath was ragged, his eyes narrow and dark, his body still cold from the outburst of his power, the one he kept so tightly wrapped up. He ran a hand through his hair, a loud, angry sigh following it. 

 

“You don't understand,” he said, “Everytime I close my eyes… every fucking time I look at you in our bed, I see you like that. I see you slipping away and I can’t-” 

 

“You won't,” Melira took a step towards him. 

 

He turned back to her, the mask he had put on for the court, the nobles, and anyone that wasn't her had slipped away. “I swore to protect you,” he said simply, like it was almost a proven fact. 

 

“I know,” she whispered into the dark. “I know.” 

 

In two strides he had her caged up against the stone wall, the bricks biting into her back through her cloak and dress. His hands were on either side of her, his face inches from hers. Then, harshly, charged like a thousand burning stars, he kissed her. 

 

It was hungry, desperate, needy and Melira gave it right back to him, pulling on his overcoat to eliminate any space between them. His knee pushed hers apart, pinning her to the wall, sandwiching her between his body and the stone. His tongue made its way in her mouth as his hands moved down, scooping up her legs to wrap around his waist. Once settled there, Melira groaned into him, feeling how his belt buckle slid against her thighs. 

 

“Fucking mine,” he growled as his lips found their way down her neck, only to be replaced by a hand on her throat. “Mine to protect.” 

 

Melira was breathless, leaning her head back and relishing in each touch. She wanted more, she wanted him to touch her and kiss her and just ruin her. She knew what the physician said, they should wait a month more, but how could she? Why should she, with him acting like this?

 

“Theron,” she whimpered, her voice barely audible, a plea laced with desperation. Her body ached, her skin tingling with unfulfilled desire. She turned her head slightly, her breath hot against his ear. “Touch me there, please.” Her hips bucked involuntarily, a silent plea for release, her need for him evident in every trembling movement. 

 

Theron groaned, a deep primal sound that sent shivers down her spine. His hand slid down her throat, his fingers tracing the curve of her neck before pushing her skirts up, the fabric bunching at her waist. His touch was deliberate, his intent clear as he sought the spot between her thighs, his fingers pressing against her core. “Here?” he murmured, voice rough, a low growl that made her heart race. 

 

Melira nodded, her eyes fluttering closed as she tried to grind against his unmoving hand, her body craving the friction he denied her. “It’s called your clit,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, his fingers teasing her, the pain of his grip blending with the pleasure of his touch. “And this-” his hand cupped her firmly, his thumb pressing against her most sensitive spot, “-is your cunt. Which one should I fuck with my fingers?” 

 

She hesitated, her voice trembling as she answered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment and desire. “My-my clit?” 

 

The pinch he delivered to her thigh sent her arching, a gasp torn from her lips, her body responding to his dominance. “Just your clit?” he teased, his fingers brushing against her again, the sensation overwhelming. “Use your words, Melira.” 

 

“My c-cunt,” she grounded out, her voice hoarse, her body thrumming. “Touch my cunt.” She bit her lip, her eyes pleading, her pride forgotten in the face of her need. 

 

Theron’s fingers traced her folds, slow and deliberate, his touch sending waves of pleasure through her. “You didn’t say please,” he chided, his voice a low rumble. 

 

“Please touch my cunt, Theron!” she groaned, her hips thrusting toward him, her body desperate for his attention. 

 

“As my Queen commands,” he chuckled, his fingers sinking into her, slow and deliberate, his touch sending her over the edge. Her moans filled the air as she clung to him, her body pressing into his hand, her legs threatening to give way. 

 

“So tight,” his hissed, his mouth trailing kisses along her neck, sucking and biting, marking her as his own. “So fucking good for me.” He words sent jolts through her, her body responding to his praise. 

 

“Faster please,” she moaned, her voice a breathy plea, “harder.” She needed more, her body craving the intensity only he could provide. 

 

He paused, his finger still buried within her, his eyes locking with hers. “The physician said-”

 

“Fuck what the physician said,” she growled, her voice fierce, her need overriding caution. “I need you to destroy me.” 

 

His hand withdrew, leaving her empty, her body crying out in protest. Her sobs echoed off the stone walls as he spun her, pressing her against it. “Hands on the wall,” he commanded, his voice holding no argument. “Spread your legs.” 

 

She obeyed, her skirts bunched at her waist, her bare skin exposed to his gaze. His hand delivered a sharp smack to her bare behind, the sting sending a jolt of pleasure through her. Her yelp turned into a sigh as his hands smoothed over her, his touch both gentle and demanding. 

 

“Look at this,” he murmured, his voice a twisted complement, his fingers tracing the red mark on her skin. “If anyone saw you, they’d think you were some lowly whore.” His words sent shivers down her spine, his dominance overcoming her desire. 

 

Her thoughts shattered as he prodded her entrance, his fingers teasing her before he pushed into her, his thickness filling her completely. His hands braced against her as he began to thrust, the wall the only thing keeping her upright. Her cries echoed in the chamber, her body responding to his relentless rhythm. 

 

He took her roughly, his movements driven by primal need, his growls filling the air as he claimed her. Her body was a mess of need and surrender, her crying his name as a broken whisper on her lips. He drove her to the edge, the room spinning, her body clenching around him, the world dissolving into pleasure and pain. 

 

His final thrust buried him deep, his release crashing into hers, his name a hoarse cry as he filled her. She trembled, spent and utterly his, her body coming in ragged gasps. He pulled out, hands pulling up against his chest, his lips pressing gently to her bare shoulder. 

 

“Mine,” he growled with one last thrust up into her, “Mine to protect. Mine to fuck.” 

 

Melira clutched at his arm, leaning into him, her body still trembling, her heart racing, mind reeling from the intensity of the encounter.  “I know.” Her voice was a whisper, “I know.” 

 

When he finally pulled out of her, he held her up until her feet came back under her. She felt empty, but at the same time filled. She could feel him leaking out of her as her skirts fell back into place. He pressed a kiss to her temple, letting her catch her breath against him. 

 

“We need to go back to the festival,” Melira whispered. 

 

“No, we don’t,” Theron’s hands came up to her breast, “We can stay here. I can fuck that cunt again and no one will stop us.” 

 

“Our people will wonder where we went.” She murmured, although she did like the idea of him keeping her trapped here, in the shadows, just hidden away from view. 

 

He sighed, “Fine, but when we are done-” he turned her around, kissing her gently, “I want you naked in our chambers. One month is too long.” 

 

Melira nodded, straightening out his coat and smoothing her dress down. He took her hand but she held back, stretching out a finger to the stoned grain stalks. The moment her fingers grazed it, the buzzing flowed through her, reviving the plant back to its living self, roots shooting out onto the table, flowers blossoming on the tops. 

 

“Oh,” Melira pulled her hand back, “Didn’t mean to do that.” 

 

Theron chuckled, “Pretend that you did and no one will question you.” 

 

With that he led her back to the festival, sitting her back down at their table. Her hand stayed in his. When they were expected to dance, she let him lead her in a joyous country dance. When the people approached them afterwards, he stood back and let her talk to each one. 

 

And when it was time for her to return with him to their chamber, he did not hesitate at slamming and locking the door behind them. His hands immediately went for her dress strings, her fingers pulling at his coat and pants. 

 

Melira didn't remember how they actually ended up in bed, but she felt wonderful. 

 

Chapter 16: Thinking

The morning light filters in the room through the curtains like amber. It caught on the crown that had been placed on the table, a rumple mess of russet and black clothing beneath it. Shoes had been thrown across the room. The air still smelled like smoke and citrus, but it was still and silent. 

 

Melira had woken first, pushing herself up into a sitting position and pulled her knees to her chest, her head resting on them. She was sore, very sore, but she felt happy. Light and free. Her eyes were on Theron’s sleeping form, watching his chest rise and fall with his steady breathing. She wanted him to wake up, but at the same time was just enjoying the stillness, the relaxed quietness that cascaded over the room. The moment he awoke, it was back to political games and investigations. 

 

So, instead, she just watched him. Her mind wandered back to the night before, her hand coming up to the bruises on her neck from where she had begged him to grip her, to the small red marks from his pinches across her breasts. And finally down to her core- her cunt as he called it- where she felt stretched and achy, but in a good way. 

 

She now completely understood why women were told to be virgins until marriage. It was addictive. Although the irony of his experience versus hers was not lost on her. He must've been with other women, how else did he learn to pull her hair just right? 

 

She watched as his hand reached out to her in his sleep, searching the blankets until he found her ankle. He pulled on it, probably thinking it was her wrist. She let him, sliding back down so he could wrap himself around her. 

 

Melira thought she heard him mumble something but it was clouded by sleep. She couldn't make it out. 

 

She waited until he resettled, his breath coming back to that even beat. His face relaxed as she settled against his chest, her leg now between his. He looked more human like this. His hair messy, his mouth slightly open- younger, more flesh and blood than stone and frost. It made something stir in her chest. 

 

She thought back to last night, when he had done something she was not expecting. He had lowered himself to kneel once she was on the bed, spreading her legs and then licking her. It was weird at first, but after a while she was in ecstasy. He claimed she tasted like honey. Sweet and tangy. Then he kissed her and she tasted herself on him. Melira had to agree it was a wonderful taste. 

 

She wondered what he tasted like. 

 

Melira’s fingers moved slowly, tracing the faint scar that ran across Theron’s chest. Her cheek was pressed to his side, her breath warm against his skin as she sensed his breathing beneath his muscles. It was a rare moment, one that she had only experienced in the early mornings, and it made her grin wider in the grey light that leaked through the window. The scars were reminders, battles fought and won, a testament to his pain, but to her it was a puzzle piece- a challenge she knew she could attempt while he was asleep. 

 

Theron’s body wasn’t a map she knew by heart, every ridge and valley slowly etched itself into her memory. This morning, she wanted to chart new territory, her curiosity outweighing her caution. Her flinger glided lower, skimming the taut line of his waist, her smirk growing as he let out a soft groan, his sleep restless but unbroken. She paused, letting him still again, but the thrill of knowing that her touch could stir him without even trying… she reveled in it. 

 

Melira hesitated, her slender fingers hovering just above Theron’s skin, as if testing the warmth of his body before committing to touch. The morning light filtered through the heavy drapes of their bedchamber, casting a soft glow over the bed where Theron lay half-asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She was unsure of her next move, but curiosity tugged at her, a playful defiance that urged exploration. Her fingers brushed against his abdomen, light and tentative, as though she were tracing the rivers on a map. His skin was warm, rough, and she felt a thrill of power as her touch elicited a soft, sleepy, moan from him. 

 

Her hand drifted lower, her fingers grazing the outline of his arousal through the thin fabric of the sheets. Theron stirred, his dark grey eyes fluttering open for a moment before closing again, as if her were caught between sleep and wakefulness. Melira’s heart quickened, her breath shallow, as she felt the weight of his reaction. She hesitated again, her fingers lingering, before encircling him through the cloth, her tough firm yet gentle. Theron’s breath hitched, his body shifting slightly, and she felt a surge of boldness. Slowly, deliberately, she slid her hand to the tip, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin there. 

 

His sleepy moan was her encouragement. She repeated the motion, her rhythm slow and unsteady, her eyes fixed on his face as she watched for any sign of him waking, of his pleasure. Theron’s eyelids fluttered open, his gaze heavy and unfocused, but his body responded instinctively. His hips twitched, just barely, and Melira felt a flush of heat spread across her cheeks. 

 

She quicked her pace, her confidence growing as she felt him harden and grow beneath her touch, his breath growing ragged. A hot, sticky substance glistened on her fingers, and she paused to swipe it with her thumb, her fascination undeniable. 

 

“Melira,” his voice was low and thick, “I swear to the Gods- do not stop.” 

 

Glancing up, she found his eyes on her, wide open. His hands clutched the pillow above his head as if to anchor himself. She froze, her heart pounding, before resuming her motion, her thumb swiping the wet tip again. 

 

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, his body arching slightly off the bed. Melira’s cheeks burned, but she couldn’t look away, her focus entirely on him. 

 

Then, impulsively, she leaned forward, her tongue darting out to taste him. It was a salty-sweet mix, like rock candy from when she was a little girl. Theron’s breath caught sharply, his body tensing as he thrust into her mouth. 

 

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, “Keep going.” 

 

She paused, her eyes meeting his, before tracing him with her tongue, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the flavor. His hand rested on her head, not guiding, just holding, his fingers tangling in her hair. 

 

“You need to ride me, Melira,” he said, his voice breaking. “I need to be inside you when I cum.” 

 

Melira looked up at him and pouted, she didn't want that. She wanted to use her mouth the way he used his, she just didn't know how. “You want me to stop what I’m doing?” 

 

Theron let out a low growl, “Fuck no. But that's not how you make an heir.” 

 

“My King,” her hand skated up his chest as high as she could reach without moving, her voice slow and sweet. “What is it you want me to do?” 

 

The room stilled, but not in the way the morning had brought. There was a tension in the air, a string about to be snapped. Theron’s hand tightened in the back of her head. His eyes narrowed before he yanked at her hair, tilting her chin up. Her eyes were firm, she knew what she wanted. He knew what she wanted to try. 

 

“Open that pretty little mouth,” he growled, “And suck my cock.” 

 

“Will you teach me how, my King?” She asked sweetly, batting her eyelids. 

 

Theron’s grin was wicked as he guided her down, his hand firm but gentle. “Open your mouth wide.” He guided her back down to his- cock- using her hair as a lead line. She obeyed happily, her lips parting as she took him into her mouth, tongue flattening to avoid her teeth. 

 

His hiss was sharp, his body arching off the bed as he began to move her head up and down, pulling deliciously on her hair to guide her along. Her mouth worked him with a rhythm she was only beginning to understand.

 

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructed, his voice rough, his hand pulling harder on her. 

 

There was no way of getting it fully in her mouth without it hitting the back of her throat, a good inch or so couldn't fit. Instead Melira used her hand to stroke it with her head motions, which were still being guided by Theron’s hand on her head. His grip was tight, pulling and pushing her, using her mouth as a means of pleasure. She could feel herself becoming wetter by the second. 

 

Soon another hand joined the first, gripping both sides of her head and he thrusted up into her, pushing her nose flushed against his groin. She gagged at the sensation of him hitting the back of her throat, hands going to brace herself on his thigh. But he kept going, pumping into her the way he would’ve if she had let him finish in between her legs. 

 

Melira could only gag and try to remember to breathe through her nose like he said. But it was hard to concentrate, he was going at a punishing rate. When he stilled, he shoved her head down hard. At first she coughed, but when he didn’t let her go, her instincts to swallow something kicked in, and he emptied himself down her throat. Melira had no choice but to take each spurt of seed down her throat, gagging and coughing around him with muffled sounds. 

 

When he was done, he eased her off, pulling her up so that she could curl into his chest. But before she could fully settle he tilted her chin up and opened her mouth. Satisfied with whatever he had seen, he let her lie down on him, reaching over her for the cup of water she had abandoned last night. 

 

“Drink,” he held it to her lips, “Slowly.” 

 

She did, the cool water running over her charred feeling throat felt refreshing. Melira knew if she tried to talk it would probably sound like gravel. Her neck felt bruised and thick. Like she has just eaten an entire vat of honey, sticking and coating the inside of her body. The water helped, but the feeling stuck with her regardless of how much she drank from the cup. 

 

When the cup was empty, and Theron was satisfied with her recovery, he let her lie back down, her head on his shoulder. The gentle stillness that had started their morning resettled over them. 

 

“I was not expecting that,” Theron hummed quietly, his breath grazing the top of her head. 

 

Melira didn't move, her body felt too weak to do so. “I’m sorry,” her voice was hoarse, “I won't do it again if you didn’t-” 

 

“I would rather wake up every morning with my cock in your mouth than not.” 

 

At that Melira snuggled in closer, a small smile on her lips. She made him happy which made her happy. She wanted to tell him that she liked when he was happy, liked when he looked at her as if she was the whole world, when he complimented her and whispered small comments about things into her ear. Her arms grew tighter, clutching at his chest like a child. 

 

Gods, she was falling in love with him. 

 

She didn't think he felt the same. 

 

“You’re thinking about something,” he hummed, running a thumb down her nose. 

 

“I am,” she admitted, “I just don't know if I should say anything yet.” 

 

Theron didn't push, he didn't ask her to reveal her thoughts that were buzzing through her brain. Instead he just pulled her tighter, pressed his lips to her forehead and took a deep breath in. One hand traced down her spine with light fingers, slow and steady. Grounding her more than letting go. 

 

“When you are ready,” he finally said, “I will listen.”

 

Melira’s heart fluttered at that, heat rising to her face to the point where she buried her face into his side. The moment was too fragile to break with confessions- too new, too unsteady. But she tucked that offer away, putting it aside for a rainy day. 

 

Theron’s fingers moved through the ends of her hair again, catching on knots and tangled. His heartbeat was soft and steady, a rhythm she could fall into and never get lost in. 

 

“I like this,” she decided quietly, “This quietness.” 

 

“Mm,” he hummed, half-agreed, half-pleased.  “Me too.” 

 

“I figured you hated the quiet,” Melira looked up at him. 

 

He gave her a quizzical look, “Why?” 

“Because you like making me scream.” 

 

He laughed at that, strong and deep sounding.  “I do like making you scream,” he mused, “Especially my name.” 

 

Melira giggled at that. She liked his name on her tongue, just like she liked using her tongue on him. 

 

“Do you know why I like making you scream?” He asked. When Melira shook her head, he continued. “Because it's real. This-” he gestured at the room, “is real. When I am surrounded by people who fake smiles and words to get what they want it is hard to find something that isn't faked.” 

 

She hesitated, that unspoken truth that she had hidden away came bubbling back up to the surface. Then, sitting up and straddling his waist, she said in a soft voice, almost so softly it was hard for even her to hear it: “I’ll never pretend with you.” 

 

Theron’s hand smoothed over her stomach, soft and intimate. His sharp knowing gaze softened by the hush of the morning and the tenderness that lingered between them. She opened her mouth, but the words got snagged on the edge of her throat. It was right there, unfurling in her stomach like a flower in bloom. That confession was enough, a promise that she intended to keep. 

 

Never pretend. 

 

“You have no need to be afraid of what you are thinking,” Theron’s hand slid along her jaw, tilting her chin until she was looking at him, “Don’t be afraid of what’s in your head.” 

 

“I’m not afraid,” she said softly, “I’m just not sure… it’s not the right time to say anything.” 

 

“Then don’t say it,” he said, “Stay here. That would be enough.” 

 

Melira sighed, lying back down on him, hands going around his neck. He settled around her waist, trapping her on top of him. Another silence stretched, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was warm. Safe. Melira could have stayed there forever, cocooned in the place between breath and heartbeat. But even that comfort couldn’t stop her thoughts from stirring. When she finally spoke again it was quieter. 

 

“They’re going to talk about last night.” 

 

“Let them.” 

 

“I’m not ashamed,” she added quickly, “I just… I want to control the narrative. I want them to know I’m not a pawn.” 

 

He looked down at her, pride radiating off him as he held her tighter, “Then we do that. You and I. Together.” 

 

Melira nodded, fingers sliding across his chest. “Together.” she echoed.

 

He kissed her then, pulling her up- slow, reverent. Not rushed this time. Not rough. Just a man tasting the edge of something fragile and real. She swelled into him, clutching at his shoulders. Her hips rolled against him, not necessarily because she wanted to be with him, but because she wanted to express the thoughts in her head without actually saying so. 

 

A knock on the door stopped her. 

 

“Ignore it,” Theron tried to resume the movement for her, pulling at her hips. 

 

But the knock came again. A servant’s voice came through, “Your Majesties, Lord Marell has requested an audience.” 

 

“Shit,” Melira hissed, stiffening against Theron’s body. “Do you think he’s-”

 

“I think,” Theron leaned up, pressing his forehead to hers, “you need to meet with Lord Halven and Lord Vellian. I will meet with Marell, see what he wants. You find out whatever information you can. Then when you are done, you come back here, and we finish what was started.” 

 

Melira smiled- feral and queenly all at once, “As my King commands.” 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

The solar was quiet and flooded with pale morning light. Vellian had arrived first, his robes slightly wrinkled, his forehead shining with sweat from his time training the guards outside. Lord Halven sauntered in a few moments later, dressed in opulence that spoke of how well he made out from his percentages of the merchants from the previous night. 

 

They both bowed, but Melira didn’t waste time with pleasantries. 

 

“We need to discuss Lord Marell,” Melira pointed to two chairs opposite her desk. “And I don’t want soft words or misdirections. I want to know what he’s hiding and I want to know now.” 

 

“And you trust that we won’t report this to him?” Vellian asked with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“I severely doubt you will,” Melira leaned forward, “You’re loyal to King Theron, which means you are loyal to me.” 

 

Vellian waved a hand as if clearing smoke from the air, "Loyalty can be bought and sold as easily as Lord Halven’s merchandise.”

 

Melira’s eyes flashed, “Do you like your position here, Lord Vellian?” 

 

The stillness was tense, even Halven’s eyes flickered back and forth between them. His fingers gripping each other over his wide stomach. Vellian’s eyes narrowed in response, “Is that a threat, Your Highness?” 

 

“Not from me,” Melira leaned forward, “But, I was poisoned in this castle. The one that you swore to protect from any threat. How would it look if it was known that my death could’ve been on your hands?” 

 

Vellian stiffened. His spine straightened just slightly, the lazy confidences melted from his face. Halven cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. No one spoke. Melira let the silence linger. It felt good- reminding them who she was. 

 

Reminding them that they have a queen on the throne. 

 

At last, Halven broke the silence, “I have given you information before, what do you want to know now?” 

 

She didn’t thank him. Instead she folded her hands on the table and said, “I want to know every tie that Marell has with the throne. Every coin given, every word spoken, every title that was passed on to his family. I want to know why he has decided to make the Brambles his own personal enemy. And, I want to know what he has with my mother. I want this information as soon as possible.” 

 

“That’s… ambitious,” Halven muttered. “Although I understand why.” 

 

“I suggest you start now,” Melira said smoothly, “before my ambition turns into Vellian’s accusation.” 

 

Vellian scowled but didn’t protest. Halven actually grinned at that. 

 

“I can pull records,” Halven decided, “Merchant accounts. He has fingers in everything, but the merchants hate him. His taxes border on cruelty most of the time. But if you want something more… personal, you’ll need to ask elsewhere.” 

 

Melira sat back, “What do you suggest?” 

 

“Lord Cern,” Vellian leaned forward, “They’ve been close since the last king’s death. But you’ll need to curry favor, you dismissed his daughter.” 

 

Melira swore silently. Lyanna was a threat, she didn’t have a choice. “I’ll figure it out,” she stood up, her chair scraping across the stone floor. “I just want to be clear: I am not asking for your allegiance. I am demanding your service. If you cannot give it, say so now. But if you choose to stand beside me, know this- when I have what I need I will expose anything that threatens my crown.” 

 

Vellian rose, expression unreadable. “You’re either going to be the most beloved queen this kingdom has ever known,” he said carefully, “or the most dangerous.” 

 

“Perhaps both.” 

 

They bowed again- this time slower, deeper. As they turned to leave, Vellian paused at the door. “For what it’s worth, neither one of us wanted you dead. We want to see this kingdom prosper, the hope is you can do that.” 

 

Melira didn’t answer. Neither one of them wanted her dead, but that doesn’t mean they don’t want her on the throne. She watched their retreating backs, the door closing behind them. She was now alone in her solar, heart beating just a bit faster. Her fingers clutched at the table, small clusters of yellow-green flowers trailed along the side of it. 

 

Threads were fraying. Something deeper, something darker, was woven through this court. 

 

And she was going to rip it out- root and stem. 

 

Hours later, Melira was in her conservatory, scraping off honey that had been produced by her bees. Her thoughts weren't there, they normally weren't. The task being mindless to the point she could think of other things besides bees and honey. 

 

Lyanna, daughter of Cern Walton, who ran away after Melira threatened her with the bees that were currently buzzing around her. From what little conversation she had with the young lady, Melira never got the sense that there was a mean bone in her body. She was too gentle looking. Too pretty and sweet. 

 

But looks can be deceiving. Her father was one of those that countered Melira, who sided with her mother and Lord Walton. Bringing her back to the palace could be dangerous. Let alone, close to impossible. Melira put the fear of the Gods in her.

 

“Tea, My Lady,” Sera’s voice broke through. Turning, she saw Sera placing the tray down on the table, preparing how Melira took it. Then she took her own sip, nodding in agreement to the taste. Her lady’s braid was loose over her shoulder. Her dress was a deep green with a pale silver belt around the middle. Simple and elegant, as always. 

 

Melira made her way over, shooing the bees off of her as she went. She had made Sera promise the same thing that she made Theron promise about the bees. Sera waved it off, but took the warning seriously. She had grown up in gardens in Glasta, used to the buzzing of the bees there. She knew the dangers. 

 

Sitting down, Melira watched as her lady cleared the supplies from the other chair before settling. “Did you grow up in the palace, Sera, or in Glasta?” 

 

“Both,” Sera slipped her own tea, “I lived in Glasta till my first cycle, then was brought here to learn court policies.” 

 

“So, you knew Lady Lyanna as a child?”

 

“I did,” her words were slow, “Why?” 

 

“Tell me about her,” Melira picked up her own cup, finding a gentle apple spice tea in it. Perfect for the autumn season. 

 

“Soft spoken,” Sera set her cup down, “Kind and gentle. A favorite of every old lady in the castle at the time. They seemed to trust her.” 

 

“And your opinion?” 

 

“A mirror, “ Sera’s tone grew serious. “We were friends until Amira showed up. I genuinely liked her until that. Lyanna tended to follow the most powerful person in the room. She’s not a leader, not a power hungry girl. She’s a follower.” 

 

“When there’s a disagreement?” Melira asked, “What does she do?” 

 

Sera shrugged, “She doesn't disagree. At least not publicly. If she dislikes something it's dismissed from her mind, pushed away until it fades out of existence.” 

 

Melira nodded slowly. That confirmed it, Lyanna could be molded. She was pliable. Easy to manipulate. Maybe that could work in her favor. 

 

“If I were to offer her a position as a secondary lady-in-waiting,” Melira broached the subject, flicking her eyes towards Sera, “how would you feel about that?” 

 

Sera held her cup between her lips and the table, hesitant, uncertain. The silence stretched, the bees humming around them as they enjoyed their home. Finally, she set the cup down with a light clink and looked at Melira full in the face. 

 

“I’d serve beside her,” she said, “if that is what you wish.” 

 

“But?” 

 

“But I wouldn't trust her,” Sera replied, “Not out of malice- she’s not malicious. But she doesn't think for herself. She follows the loudest voice in the room. If you keep her close, if you keep her attention, she’ll seem loyal… until another is louder.” 

 

Melira hummed. That's what she had expected. Lyanna wasn't dangerous on her own- but when another stepped into the problem, she could be the most deadly human in the world. A subtle one, but a dangerous one. 

 

“Swords can be dangerous in the wrong hands too,” Melira mused, “It's often better to have it in your hands than in others.”

 

Sera’s face was unreadable, “You want to use her.” 

 

“I want to keep her from being used against me.” 

 

“Then bring her back,” Sera said with a shrug, “But bind her to you, not the crown. You.” 

 

Melira studied her. “Win her over?” 

 

“No, become the only voice she listens to.” 

 

Melira leaned back, the idea settling into place. Lyanna might yet be useful. She glanced at the bees again- how easily they moved in formation, always aware of their hive, always knowing their place, never questioning. If only her own hive life was that simple. 

 

“Send a summons to Cern,” Melira decided, “Tell him I want his daughter to join my company. Have him bring her back to the palace, and if has questions- bring him to me.” 

 

Sera inclined her head, “As you wish, Your Highness.” 

 

And with that, the net had begun to weave itself. 

 

That afternoon, Melira returned to her solar. The clouds of the first true fall storm had started to come in on the wind, shadowing the mountains in an eerie grey overcast. Flakes broke free from their confines, landing on stone before quickly melting away- but the threat was there. Melira had decided to take the day in her solar, going over reports that Halven and Vellian had given her about Marell. Nothing caught her attention yet, but she knew she’d unearth something eventually. 

 

“I don't mean to intrude, Your Highness,” a voice spoke from behind her, “but I wish to speak with you.” 

 

Melira turned. Standing in her doorway was Lord Cern, his blonde hair lighter than normal with the current lighting, his grey-blue eyes were downcast, but hard. She didn’t rise from where she sat at the desk, instead she folded her hands in her lap. 

 

“Lord Cern,” she kept her voice even, “I assume you wish to speak about your daughter?” 

 

“Yes,” he clasped his hands behind his back, “I was surprised when I received word of your invitation to my daughter.” 

 

“I imagine you would,” her eyes narrowed. “But I meant what I said, I would like Lyanna to join me here in court. If she remains loyal to me, then I will be loyal to your family.” 

 

His mouth pressed in a thin line before looking up at her, “She’s a bright girl, Your Majesty. Gentle and sweet. A bit too eager to be liked, and too quick to follow others.” 

 

Melira waited, letting him set the pace. She got the feeling that Lyanna picked up more from her father than just her looks. 

 

Then Lord Cern did something that Melira wasn’t expecting. He lowered himself to the ground, balancing on one knee. “Lyanna’s a good girl who fell under bad influences. She would’ve made a terrible queen. I should’ve never questioned you.” 

 

Her breath went tight, Cern had just declared himself for her. The symbolic message behind his kneeling and his apology was not lost on her. The question is, why? What changed within the last few weeks? 

 

“I will allow my daughter to return to court,” he continued, “I believe- like you- that sometimes kindness should have a seat at the table. Let her work under you, guide her in the way that keeps her from being burned in court, and you will gain a valuable ally in this place.” 

 

Melira feigned disinterest, turning and fiddling with a bee pendant on her desk. “If that’s the case, then why are you here? You could’ve promised your allegiance in council.” 

 

Cern stood and reached into his cloak. He set two small, wax-wrapped bottles on her desk. “Wormwood and safflower. Commonly used in my home to prevent childbirth, but when used on a woman who might already be pregnant…” He looked her in the eye, “I would say you are very lucky to be alive.” 

 

Melira’s hand went to her stomach, her heart fluttered. Cern just confirmed it and he knew who it was. Her breath was short, she felt the blood drain from her face. 

 

“Who?” She breathed. 

 

“Protect my daughter,” Lord Cern bowed again before leaving, “and you’ll find out in time.”

Chapter 17: Autum Storms

Notes:

Hello,

Just saying thank you again! The fact that anyone is reading this is beyond belief!

Enjoy!

A few weeks later and the autumn storms had hit Rime like a thousand pounds of pure power. The world was blanketed in harsh winds and snow-rains that made the world white and silver. It was a harsh, powerful reminder that Melira was no longer living in the Brambles. There the autumn season was brown and gold, reds and yellows. The occasional rain shower and sweet apples. She didn't dislike the storms, but she wasn't fond of them either. 

 

It didn't help that they arrived at night with thunderous booms and flashes of lights that made the whole castle glow. To make matters worse, Melira’s dreams were filled with red flowers and bitter drinks, blood soaked sheets and painful cramps. On more than one occasion, Melira had been awoken by them. Shaking and shocked by the sounds and sights, Theron would pull her into him, pulling her back to sleep with gentle touches and soft sounds. When it worked, Melira held on to him like a lifeline, when it didn't, he found other ways to make her sleep. 

 

Which meant that Melira awoke with headaches and grogginess fogging every thought of her brain. 

Today was no different. Life in court was quiet now, and Melira didn’t trust it. 

 

Lyanna was due to arrive today, and her father had already positioned himself in the courtyard to welcome her when Melira arrived. She wore a simple green dress with a matching gray cloak lined with brown fur. Her hair was down and her diadem was placed gently on her head. Sera was behind her in a light red dress with a brown cloak, her own hair in a loose twist down her back. 

 

“Good morning, Lord Cern,” Melira greeted him as he bobbed his head to her. “I see you are eager for your daughter’s return.” 

 

“I am, Your Majesty,” Cern said, his tone warm but guarded. “She’s been gone too long. I trust she’ll prove herself useful to her.” 

 

Melira inclined her head, fighting the feeling that it weighed a thousand pounds. “That’s the hope.” 

 

He lingered, eyes flickering towards the guards stationed nearby before he stepped just a little closer. “I hope the information I provided assists in your investigation.” 

 

“It would help more if you told me who gave you the vials,” Melira bit back the anger in her voice. She wasn’t feeling well from the lack of sleep and the constant work in the castle was exhausting her. 

 

Cern didn’t smile but he tilted his head, “I have a son…” 

 

She held back a groan. This wasn’t loyalty, this was bartering. She had seen his son in training, he was young and unused to combat still. According to Vellian, he was better at his books then he was at swordplay, which meant that he would not be up for forward movement to become a squire. 

 

“Let me think on a few options before making any decisions,” Melira finally stated, her words clipped. With that, the three turned to wait, falling into a silent vigil. 

 

A few moments later, a carriage arrived, pulling in front of them with two tan horses pulling the way. The door opened, and Lyanna- blonde hair loose around her face, cloak pulled tight, her posture correct as ever- stepped out. Melira could see the nerves in her as she hugged her father tightly. 

 

“Welcome back, Lady Lyanna,” Melira said as the girl curtsied, “I am happy to see you accepted my offer.” 

 

“I hope my service to you is acceptable, Your Majesty,” Lyanna said, rising slowly. 

 

Melira glanced up at the skies, a low rumble came through them. “Come inside, warm yourself. I’d rather not be stuck out in the storm.” 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Later that afternoon, after tea and formalities and a very awkward but polite conversation, Melira found herself sitting in her chambers, staring blankly at a page of council notes she’d read five times. The words weren’t sticking and they ran together like water on the page. Her head was pounding, her eyes burned with the effort. 

 

She didn’t hear the door open until Theron’s footsteps creaked across the floor and his coat hit the other chair. He stopped behind her, placing both hands on her shoulders and pulling her back to his chest. “You need a break.” 

 

“I’m fine,” Meliar murmured, but her head leaned against him and her eyes closed, savoring the warmth and strength he was giving off. 

 

“That’s the second time I’ve caught you in a lie,” she could hear the grin on his face, “You’ve been sitting here so long, the fire’s gone out. When was the last time you left this room for something other than politics?” 

 

She didn’t answer. 

 

Theron’s hands smoothed over her bare skin, cupping under her jaw. She opened her eyes to look at him. There was concern, but also a small hint of amusement. 

 

“The Harvest Market, I’ve heard, is exceptionally good this year,” he said, “and you have yet to purchase anything for the winter holiday. Put on something warm, take Sera and Lyanna. Go buy something unnecessary. Pretend the world isn’t rotting from the inside out, just for the afternoon.” 

 

Melira frowned, but his grip hardened. 

 

“Go,” the command was quiet.

 

She hesitated, but then relented. She kissed the underside of his jaw as a ‘thank you’ and left. 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

The market was tucked just beyond the castle’s outer gate, a crescent of cobbled streets lined with carts and wooden stalls. The scent of pine smoke and sugared almonds thick in the cold afternoon air. Snow dusted the rooftops and awnings, and the chatter of vendors rose in bursts like birdsong, competing with the clatter of boots and wheels on stone. 

 

Melira pulled her cloak tighter and stepped beside Sera and Lyanna, who had fallen easily into step with each other. Sera had already located ribbons and dried flower bundles, while Lyanna lingered near a pottery merchant, admiring the different vases and pots being shown. 

 

“Feels like half the court is down here,” Sera murmured with a small grin, “though I imagine they’re not all here for wool socks.” 

 

“They’re here for gossip,” Lyanna had drifted closer to them, glancing at a cluster of noblewomen pretending not to stare. “Or to see what the Queen buys.” 

 

Melira gave a dry smile, “It’s a shame I don’t plan on sharing my purchases.” 

 

She had decided to take up Theron’s advice on picking out gifts for the winter holiday. Gods Grace would be approaching quickly at this point. She would be expected to partake in the festivities. Candles, wreaths, and pale gold banners would illuminate the halls. A party that would last well into the night, presents being passed around, and other winter theme activities would be a small part of it. 

 

But in Melira’s heart, it would always be Winter’s Light. The Bramble’s name for the solstice, softer and older, wrapped in candlelit dinners and quiet gift-giving between family and friends. It wasn’t about opulence or duty. It was warm. Choosing something that meant something. 

 

She meandered over to another stall, letting Sera and Lyanna browse on their own. She knew the salary that she paid the two girls would allow them to purchase a few items and neither seemed extravagant with money. Beneath her hooded cloak, Melira felt unrecognizable, but the way vendors bowed slightly proved her wrong. 

 

A carver’s table filled with polished stone and bone caught her eye first. She paused, fingers skimming over the items. They seemed to be made from natural rocks and shells. One, a carved spiraling shell caught her eye. Her fingers glazed over the smoothed pearlescent finish, with soft grooves to hold rings and pins. She picked it up, turning it in her hands. 

 

“A lovely choice,” the vendor crooned, “Perhaps Your Majesty might use it for her royal jewels?” 

 

Melira shook her head, “Not for me. But I will be buying it. Have it wrapped and delivered to the castle please.” 

 

The vendor nodded and Melira took out more than the claimed amount. She could tell that she got a discount, but she paid full price for it anyway, it wouldn’t serve her any good if the merchant went hungry on her account. 

 

Next, a stall near the chapel glinted with reflected colors. Intrigued, Melira moved closer. On the table were circles of glass images, all dyed different colors. They formed pictures, like paintings that she had seen. One, rimmed in gold, was a hummingbird, mid-hover, with a pale lavender flower behind it. 

 

“What is this?” She asked once the merchant was free. 

 

“Stained glass art,” the merchant smiled, scooping up the hummingbird, “A Glasta art form.” 

 

Perfect. Sera would love this, to have this reminder of home in her bedroom. She had seen stained glass before but never on such a small, delicate scale. She gave the same directions about wrapping and deliveries as she did to the last and bought it at full price, even after the merchant tried to insist it was a gift to the Queen. 

 

Her last gift would be for Theron. She had rejoined her two ladies, walking between them with her eyes on the lookout for the perfect thing. Lyanna offered a cloak clasp, Sera said a journal, but neither was what Melira was thinking. Eventually, she made her way to the blacksmith’s forge. 

 

“Maybe a sword?” Lyanna asked, looking at some of the samples on his wall. 

 

Melira shook her head, “He has a sword.” 

 

“What about a horseshoe?” Sera’s smile was wide, “Just for luck?” 

 

Melira shook her head again, but her eyes landed on something else. It was the size of her hand, the handle shaped like mountains, the teeth were warped and wrong. “This.” 

 

“A key?” Sera peered over her shoulder, “For what?” 

 

“In Seawell, you give your lover a key when you want to marry them,” Lyanna said, “As a way of unlocking your heart.” 

 

Melira turned to the blacksmith who had paused his work for them. “If I give you a pattern, could you form this into a working key?” 

 

He nodded, “I could, Your Highness. It wouldn’t take more than a day.” 

 

“I insist you take your time,” Melira countered, “It’s for King Theron. I need it to be perfect.” 

 

The blacksmith nodded and named his price. The gossip spread fast because he didn’t try to shortchange himself. Melira handed over the coins, and then extra for the delivery and wrapping. She produced her conservatory key and had him trace it, marking the measurements that he needed. When he was done and it was handed back to her, Melira thanked him and left. 

 

The market had started to thin by the time they decided to make their leave. Merchants were hawking one last time before the night overcame them. Sera and Lyanna were carrying bundles for Melira, even though she had insisted on taking some. Most of the bundles were ribbons and jewelry that the three had decided to share amongst themselves, a token of their new found team. 

 

Melira strayed behind. 

 

Snow had started to fall again, that strange mix of rain and icy that came with the fall. Her fingers still had the ghost of the feeling of the key order, her heart fluttering with nerves each time she thought of it. It was such a simple gift, but it held weight. A key that allowed someone into her space uninvited. One month and she would hand it over to Theron, hopefully proving to him all those unspoken words were really sitting with her. It was trust. Permission. 

 

Hopeful that he feels the same. 

 

“I thought,” a deep voice pulled her from her thoughts, “I told you to get out of your own head.” 

 

Melira whirled around. Theron was leaning against a pillar behind her, his manservant holding packages that he must’ve purchased. She heard Sera and Lyanna stop as well, bowing as best they could with their packages. 

 

He was dressed simply, but still no less than what was expected of royalty. A black coat, lined with gray fur, black pants tucked into leather boots, his crown nestled on his head. He has in his hands a small box, no bigger than his palm, which he handed over to his servant before approaching her. 

 

“I did,” Melira gestured to her ladies, “Just as you instructed, My King.” 

 

His eyes flicked from her to them, then back again. Heated as he ran up her cold flushed body. Melira held back a shiver of something, feeling her face grow warm the closer he got to her. 

 

“Any of those for me?” He asked, offering her an arm. 

 

“Maybe,” she said, with a small smile, taking his arm. “Maybe not.” 

 

“That's not a no.” 

 

“But it's not a yes.” 

 

He waved for Sera and Lyanna to continue their walk ahead, then waited for his manservant to pass them before walking. Melira could see the common folk from the corner of her eye, they were talking in hushed voices. But she heard the praise they were passing along and saw the smiles. She held her head a little higher. 

 

Then as they passed two stalls that led into an empty alleyway, he pulled. She stumbled a bit over the abrupt change of direction, but was able to follow him.  Once they were encased in shadow, he pinned her to the wall. Lips were rough as he made contact on her neck, biting and sucking. His hands roamed up her sides until his thumbs brushed across her breasts, rolling her nipples through the fabric.

 

“Mine,” he growled, “All fucking mine.” 

 

Melira moaned at the sensation, unsure what had caused him to seek her out for this. Her hands grasped at his hair on the back of his neck, threading her fingers through it to pull him closer. “I was coming back,” she groaned. 

 

“Not fast enough,” his voice reverberated through her flesh. He pulled back, but kept his hips flush against hers, making her grind against him in an effort to keep going. “You’ve been running yourself raw, Melira. I figured if shopping didn't fix it, I'd find another way.” 

 

“You were watching me?” 

 

He placed his forehead against hers, this time kissing her slowly, reverently. Savoring the way she sighed into it. “I watch you when you read the same damn reports five times in a row. I watch you when you have nightmares and those little lines appear between your brows. I watch you as you try to hide the weight on your shoulders and lie when I ask you to give some to me.” 

 

He kissed her again, this time cupping her face with his hands, biting her lip to accent what he was saying, “I am always watching you.” 

 

She was breathless. The words struck something fragile inside of her. Melira hadn't expected him to say that- not in the way he had meant. Like it was a promise, like it didn't matter how many thoughts she kept hidden from him. He would still be beside her through it all. 

 

She blinked up at him, breath catching the cold in the air with little puffs. Her hands tightened around his neck. 

 

“I think I love you.” 

 

The world stilled. Froze over to the point where Melira was sure he could hear her heartbeat. His gaze had hardened into something unreadable. A flicker crossed his face. She thought he would brush it off, give her some clever retort. Maybe say how much he loved bedding her. 

 

“Say it again,” he whispered instead. 

 

Melira swallowed, “I think I love you.” 

 

He kissed her hard. His fingers gripped at her like iron, his touch was heated, rough, desperate. Melira tried to respond with the same, trying to keep up with him as their cloaks wrapped around them like a shield. His pants were undone, she couldn’t remember how. Her skirts were pushed up, he was tugging her impossibly closer, anchoring her to him with a hunger that bordered on possessiveness. They moved against each other, breath hot and uneven. Fingers tangled in hair, clutching at anything and everything, grounding themselves to each other. 

 

He pulled away again just to rasp, “Say it again.” 

 

Her voice trembled, “I think I love you.” 

 

He groaned like it hurt, his forehead pressing into hers, eyes closed. 

 

And then he kissed her again, devouring the words between them. There was no hesitation anymore, the shadows circling them like conspirators. His fingers found her wet warmth between her legs, angling himself so that his length had easy access, and in one smooth movement he thrusted into her. Melira clutched at his shoulders, crying out at the intrusion. His name became a breathless chant against his ears as he moved inside her. He held her like she was breaking him apart and stitching him back together all at once. 

 

Her legs were locked around him, her head back against the wall. Her mind was blank, empty of all the politics and worries that existed for her back in the castle. All that she could see behind her eyelids was the rawness that he emitted. This wasn’t their normal savoring, commanding and dominating coupling- this was filled with months of tension and truths left unsaid. 

 

When he emptied into her, filling her with his seed, they stayed pressed together. Chests rising and falling in shared rhythm, foreheads still together like they were stuck, eyes closed. His arms wrapped around her like he couldn’t fathom letting go. Melira whimpered his name like a prayer, her own hands tightening around them. 

 

It dawned on her that Theron didn’t say the words back. 

 

But Melira felt the weight of what passed between them- something unspoken, tangled in every touch, in every breath. She knew then that the words weren’t necessary for her to believe it. 

 

Not yet.

Chapter 18: Realignment

A week later, just before the first snow of the season had finally decided to be peaceful, Melira found herself walking the long, frost-glazed balcony with Lyanna. They had both come out under the excuse of needing air after the latest council meeting had stretched into the evening, filled with dull debates over grain distribution and road repairs. In truth- Melira needed quiet, the kind that didn’t come with expectations or judgement. Usually, with Sera, the quietness was stalled by her chatter. But with Lyanna, the quietness was just that- quiet. Soft, though she had learned that her newest lady held a sharpness that only surfaced when Lyanna forgot to be careful. Much like her father. 

 

They passed the stone window that Theron has used to show her his powers, and Melira paused, looking at where she had shown off hers with the ivy trellis. It was still green, despite the cold weather coming in. Melira’s fingers danced over it as she paused to lean on it. Lyanna joined her, the two watching the snow fall over the kingdom with a delicate grace. 

 

“I don’t miss home,” Lyanna sighed, pulling her cloak tighter, “The snow here is too pretty.” 

 

“And it helps that Sera has assisted in getting you resettled,” Milera teased lightly. 

 

Lyanna blushed, but nodded, “She sees me. Not as Lord Cern’s daughter. Not as a pawn. Just me.” 

 

Melira smiled faintly, turning back to the window. She understood completely. 

 

“I never thought I would be seen like that,” Lyanna said after a moment, her voice quiet against the wind. “I think that’s what Amira had always wanted too but never got it. Our fathers… they didn’t really raise us to be seen for who we are. Just what we can be made into.” 

 

Melira felt a pang of guilt. Was she not doing that to Lyanna now? She brought her to the council for that reason, to show that she had Cern and his family under her control now. Amira’s face was bright red when she saw that. But Melira hid it behind a question, “What do you mean?” 

 

Lyanna shifted, looking uncomfortable for the first time all evening. “Oh, nothing bad, just… I know Lord Marell’s been more active since your engagement was announced. He was never thrilled with how Amira got passed over by the King. I think he had expected her to be queen one way or another. Have some form of influence. He keeps saying it’s not too late to “realign what was broken.’”

 

Melira’s fingers tensed on the stone ledge, her breath catching for a beat. “Realign?”

 

Lyanna, oblivious, nodded. “You know how fathers are. Always thinking of strategies. He’s been meeting with old allies, writing letters, making plans- I think he still believes there’s a version of the future where Amira ends up in the throne after all.” 

 

Melira did not know how fathers are. Her father taught her that honey gets more flies than vinegar. Hunting for power ended badly, always. Collecting allies through mutual respect and understanding builds trust faster than underhanded threats and secret plans. 

 

“Not that I think he’s trying anything drastic,” Lyanna was saying. “Just… Marell things. Scheming, re-aligning. He talks in riddles even at dinner. Amira learned to smile and nod through it. She’s always been good at pretending to go along with what her father wanted.” 

 

Melira said nothing. 

 

A gust of wind lifted her hair slightly, her eyes narrowing as she turned back to the horizon. Snowflakes settled on her lashes and cloak, melting slowly into glistening droplets, but Melira didn’t move. Her breath stilled, gaze fixed outward- but her thoughts had already begun shifting inward. 

 

Going along with what her father wanted…

 

The phrasing. It struck Melira oddly. Not what she wanted but what her father wanted. As if a plan had already been set in motion. As if Lyanna had also seen the end result. 

 

Melira turned her head just slightly, enough to watch Lyanna from the corner of her eye. The girl was still gazing out at the snowfall, shoulders straight, fingers clutching at her necklace. She looked nervous- as if she had said too much. 

 

And Melira learned, throughout Theron’s constant reminder to listen, that it was what was not said that made all the difference. 

 

Her mind was running. Lord Marell had been clever, cautious- a weathervane in a man’s body. But what Lyanna had said, that Amira has always been good at pretending, that she was still pretending- it kept echoing in her head like a song she couldn’t shake. 

 

Pretending. Pretending to do what?

 

Be a queen? Go along with her father’s plans? 

 

What did that entail? What was it Amira would do to insure her father’s plans would go forward?

 

And suddenly, she saw it, not all at once, but piece by piece. Like frost cracking along a windowpane: 

 

Lyanna was a distraction. 

 

Cern would never reveal who poisoned her, he’d keep her poised on the edge of a stone until the axe swung. He’d lobby for Marell and his daughter, push them into power while Lyanna served under Melira, pulling who knows how many damning secrets from her world. 

 

And the two girls were just stuck in the middle of it. 

 

Melira’s fingers curled around the stone windowsill. It was still warm beneath her touch- Theron’s magic had lingered there, she remembered. But now, she felt only a chill rising from her chest. 

 

Lyanna didn’t notice. She started speaking softly, like she was trying to convince herself: “My father didn’t want the war when it occurred. He just wanted someone stable on the throne.” 

 

Melira turned to face her fully, “And you think I’m not?” 

 

Lyanna’s eyes snapped wide. “No- no, Your Majesty, I didn’t mean- I wasn’t-”

 

Melira held up a hand. Not in anger, although she was seething inside. Just to pause her. The pause was loud in her ears. The puzzle had finished fitting itself together. This wasn’t about affection. This wasn’t about the kingdom’s redemption. 

 

This was about replacing her. 

 

She didn’t say anything more. She simply nodded once, and turned back toward the snowfall. 

 

From behind her, Lyanna whispered, “I didn’t mean to say all that.” 

 

“I know,” Melira said quietly. That’s why she believed it. 

 

They made their way back in and found that the council had ended. The chamber was emptying slowly, the heavy oak doors creaking as each noble took their leave. A storm was brewing outside- Melira could hear the soft moan of wind around the stone turrets, the occasional rattle of frost-kissed windowpanes. Inside, the air remained warm, although the tension hadn’t quite dissipated. 

 

Melira lingered near the table, speaking quietly with Halven and Vellian about grain distribution and troop placements. Sera had reappeared by the door, hands clasped in front of her, sharp eyed. And Theron- he’d move to the side of the hearth, tugging at his gloves, murmuring something to one of the scribes. 

 

That’s when she saw her. 

 

Amira had waited until most eyes were turned away. Her gown was too finely tailored for court neutrality, her hair swept up in artful disarray. And she crossed the room like someone who thought the world owed her something. 

 

She reached Theron without a sound. Her hand came to rest lightly- too lightly- on his arm, and she tilted her head just so. Melira couldn’t hear the words, but she didn’t need to. The meaning was written in the slow, too-familier smile Amira wore, in the playful way she leaned in just a fraction too close, lips curving with intent. 

 

“Whore,” Vellian said under his breath, just enough for Melira to hear it. 

 

Theron didn’t lean back. But he didn’t lean forward either. His expression remained stone-set, neutral with that sharp, kingly way of his. A single brow arched. He said something- short and clipped- and pulled his arm back as he stepped away, collecting a paper from the scribe. 

 

Amira blinked once, twice. Smile faltering. But she recovered quickly. Too quickly. And she turned, gliding away as if nothing had happened at all. 

 

Melira’s jaw was tight by the time Lyanna reached her side. 

 

“She’s always been like that,” Lyanna said softly, watching Amira slip out the door. “They were close, as children. She used to follow him around during court summers, I think it was harmless-”

 

“No,” Vellian cut her off, “It’s never harmless, Lady Lyanna.” 

 

Lyanna fell silent. 

 

Melira’s eyes were still on Theron. He hadn’t noticed her watching- he was too focused on reading through the notes. The steward pointed out what might have been missed. But something in her stomach had dropped like a stone. 

 

 This wasn’t about jealousy. It wasn’t even about trust- she trusted him. 

 

It was about the play. 

 

About Cern and Marell. About the false neutrality and the “quiet loyalty” Amira claimed to offer. About the way Lyanna had gained her second chance and used that chance to distract. 

 

She was always good at pretending. 

 

A fucking weapon in her father’s hand. 

 

She thinks he’s the way in, Melira thought, Not because she wants him. But because she wants what he sits on.

 

Lyanna shifted uncomfortably, “My father-”

 

“-plays the long game,” Melira said, her voice cool. “So does lord Marell. And I think I’ve let them play long enough.” 

 

Lyanna didn’t answer. 

 

Melira turned away from the hearth, from Theron, from the entire room that still smelled of parchment and burnt cedar. The chill from the corridor hit her instantly as she stepped through the door. But her blood ran warmer now. 

 

She had a new piece of the puzzle. And she would not let herself be quietly unseated. 

 

Not by a girl who thought seduction was power. 

 

And not by the men who sent her.

 

____________________________________________________________________________

That night, Melira watched Theron over her cup as he chewed slowly on the roast pork that had been served. He ate the way he lived, methodically and strategic. She didn’t say anything right away, simply sitting in silence while the fire in the hearth crackled and popped. The wind whistled around the turrets, the curtains danced with shadows. 

 

She was trying to figure out how to bring up to Theron what she had learned and witnessed during the council meeting. About Amira, her father, their possible plans. It must’ve been on her face because Theron had paused eating to say: 

 

“You’re staring.”

 

“Apolgies,” Melira took a swallow of her drink, “I was-”

 

“Thinking?” He raised an eyebrow. “You do that a lot these days.” He set his fork down, leaning back. “What is going on in your head, My Queen?” 

 

“I saw Amira flirting with you.” 

 

He exhaled hard, “Melira-” 

 

“No, it’s fine. I saw the whole thing,” She put her cup down. “You rebuffed her, you didn’t engage. I’m grateful for that.” 

 

“Would you rather I do it publicly?” He asked, “I can do that tomorrow, during court.” 

 

“No.” Melira picked up her fork and twiddled with the carrots on her plate. “I want you to engage with it.” 

 

The silence that filled the room was harsh. The fire seemed louder, the wind seemed angrier. She didn’t look at Theron but she could feel the shock of her idea shoot through him like an arrow. Melira had thought long and hard about this plan, running it over in her head multiple times. It was the only one that made sense. The only one that could turn out in her favor. 

 

“I beg your pardon?” Theron’s voice was almost as soft as a whisper. 

 

“Amira is being asked to charm her way to the throne. They want to maneuver her into place, claim the crown for herself so they have a puppet.” Melira looked up at him, keeping her face as passive as possible.  “If she believes she is winning, then Marell thinks he’s winning. So, let them keep playing the game, keep them engaged. Feed her and her father and their followers whatever makes them feel confident enough to act. We can give the rope that hangs them.” 

 

She picked up her knife, angling it so the fire caught the metal with a glint. “Then we can gut the plan before he blinks.” 

 

It took him a moment to process what she was saying. His face didn’t change but she could tell from the way his eyes flickered across the table like he was reading a book. His fingers tapped against his plate. “Do you know,” he said slowly, “how absolutely terrifying you have become?” There was no fear hidden in it, but there was something sharp beneath it. Admiration, perhaps. Or pride.

 

Melira smirked, “I had a good teacher.” 

 

He leaned back in his chair, lazy, watching her in the firelight. The shadows licked at the strong lines of his face, jaw taut, eyes narrowed like he was trying to see something deeper inside her than just strategy. 

 

“I lie to her?” he asked finally. 

 

“You play her,” Melira corrected, “There’s a difference.” 

 

Theron exhaled again, slower this time. “And if she tries… harder?” 

 

“I hope she does,” Melira replied, “We’ll be ready when it occurs.” 

 

The silence stretched again, this time not as harsh. It was the space between decision and consequence, filled with the weight of the risk they were about to take. Then Theron stood slowly, rounded the table and braced his hands on each side of her chair, caging her in. He kissed her slowly and she sighed into it.

 

She looked up at him when they broke apart. “Will you do it?” 

 

“I will,” his voice was low, “But I won’t enjoy it.” 

 

“You don’t need to,” Melira murmured, running a hand down his jaw. “We just need to win.” 

 

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he bent again, brushing his lips against hers. “As you command, my queen.” 

 

Melira closed her eyes briefly at the heat of his breath against her skin, at the power of his loyalty. “We have to be sharper,” she whispered, “Faster. Crueler.” 

 

“Thank the Gods the Brambles made you all three,” his own hand grazed the curve of her jaw. 

 

A pause. 

 

Then he asked, voice low and careful, “Do you hate her for it?”

 

Melira frowned, “Why should I?” 

 

“She’s trying to take what’s yours.” 

 

Melira’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” she said. No hesitation. No softening. “I hate her and her father for thinking they could have you.” 

 

Something primal flickered in Theron’s gaze- like a spark catching dry kindling. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched her like he was waiting to see what she’d do with the fire she’d just ignited. 

 

Slowly, Melira lowered herself from the chair, sliding down onto her knees, until he towered over her. Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost prayer-like. “I just need to remind you who you still belong to.” 

 

His breath hitched, just slightly. 

 

She reached for his belt, but Theron caught her wrist- not to stop her, but to look at her. Really look. There was a heat in his eyes, but also reverence, tension, and the ache of something unspoken between them. 

 

“I don’t think I could forget,” he said, his voice hoarse. 

 

When her fingers reached for the belt again, he let her. His hand smoothed through her hair as she unsheathed him. He was already half-hard, soft but she could tell the stoniness was coming through. Her hand worked quickly, pumping him until he was stiff and pointing at her. Then she ran her tongue up the length of it, sighing at the salty taste that he had there. His hand came to the back of her head, petting her as if she was a dog sitting by his feet. 

 

She watched his face as she took him in her mouth, trying her best to fit him completely inside. When that failed, she contented herself with using her hand to pump in tandem with her bobs. He was getting slick, the liquid - his pre-cum as he called it one time- made it easier to slide along him. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He now has both hands on her head, not necessarily moving her, but guiding her gently. Letting her set the pace. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, her jaw felt sore. 

 

She came off him with a pop sound, never breaking eye contact. She licked the length again. “You are mine,” she whispered, “Just like I am yours.” 

 

“Get on the bed, Melira,” Theron commanded. 

 

She gave him one last lick before standing. When she went to turn away, he grabbed her and kissed her, hard. She knew he could taste himself on her, but he didn't seem to care. When he released her, he spun her around and gave her a hard smack on her butt. 

 

Melira crossed to the bed, not looking over her shoulders to see if he was following her. She undid her dress as she went, letting it slide to her feet. When she reached the bed, she felt his hands wrap around her, sliding down to press her into his chest. He had shed his shirt and pants, lips were sealed over the curve of her neck. 

 

“I know who I belong to,” he whispered in her ear. His hands made their way to her breasts, squeezing gently but hard. One made its way up to her neck, squeezing slightly before he bent her forward. “Grab the sheets.” 

 

Melira obeyed, feeling ran his fingers over her cunt, feeling how wet she had become. She was practically dripping down her thighs. He hummed in approval, and then his mouth was on her. 

 

She moaned into the mattress, fingers clutching the sheets. She loved when he did this. The way he sucked and prodded with his tongue, the way he circled her clit and bit gently at her thighs when she was forgetting to make noise. And then when he added his fingers…. 

 

Gods, was she blessed.

 

He pumped his fingers in and out of her, still sucking, still licking. He curled inside her, eliciting another moan from her mouth. She pushed her hips closer to him, loving the friction he was providing for her. His name came like prayer from her mouth. 

 

“You taste like honey,” he murmured, the vibrations sending a shiver through her. 

 

Melira twisted, looking back at him. “I need you in me, Theron. Please.” 

 

He stood, pumping his cock a few times before aligning himself at her entrance. His hand skimmed over her bare back, smoothing the skin there, as if erasing the rest of the scars from her childhood. 

 

“Tell me you love me,” he said. 

 

“I love you,” Melira whined, desperate. 

 

“Who do you belong to?” 

 

“You.” 

 

“And who am I?” 

 

“My King.” Melira yelped as he fully seated himself in her. Her head dropped back down to the bed, her moans muffled by the sheets and blankets. Short little shouts came from her mouth as he moved. It was hard, but not rough- through. Like he had something to prove to her. 

 

His grunts were animalistic, and she had no choice but to clutch and bite down on the bedsheets to keep herself from moving. Her legs quivered with each thrust and when his finger slipped between her legs to hasten along that whiteout moment, Melira was lost. Her groans turned to short shouts, her legs felt like jelly. 

 

“So fucking tight,” he growled, “I belong to this little pussy.” A hard slap on her butt followed, making Melira shout and jerk her head upwards. That must've been the reaction he wanted, because he gripped her hair and kept her head up, tugging on it to match the rhythm of his thrusts. 

 

She was close. She could feel herself clenching around him, she could feel the tension building inside her, the tightness that he was so fond of. Her toes curled, her eyes rolled back into her head and closed. One hard push into her as well as lightning of a pinch in her clit and Melira was done for. 

 

She screamed. She knew she did. The sobs that echoed as he kept going even though she couldn't see anything but the whiteness were ripped from her body. He had scooped her up and was now purely chasing his own release. His hand was wrapped around her neck, tight and unforgiving. His other hand was keeping her braced to his chest, as if she had tried to run away. Her head was on his shoulder, the sounds coming out of her were utter nonsense. 

 

He had driven her over the edge and she was not coming back. 

 

It was the final slam into her and sent another shockwave through her body. Like being struck by lightning, Melira was a ghost of herself. She felt him filling her up, his seed slipping out around his cock. 

 

When they collapsed, he didn't remove himself right away. Instead he positioned her so that she was lying on his chest, still inside her. She squirmed a bit, trying to push it deeper. The sensation of being filled, staying filled, was wonderful. He ran a finger through her hair, tracing the curve of her chin. 

 

“I know,” he breathed softly into the air, “I belong to you.” 

 

Chapter 19: Done

Three weeks later, winter had arrived. 

 

Rime thrived in the cold snow. Everything was glistening with white frost, the mountains looked to be topped with frosting. The sky’s grayness was almost an ashy-silver. Melira admitted to Sera that there was something special about Rime when the cold set in. 

 

But inside the palace, Melira felt frozen. Her smile felt fake, her back too tense and tight. She spent more time hiding in her conservatory, all to avoid seeing Theron and Amira openly flirt with each other. 

 

For the most part, Theron was really good at playing the part. He would bend close just enough to make it look intimate, touch her hand when reaching for something she was holding, curve his lips as if they shared some dangerous secret. 

 

Melira hated every second of it. It was a performance, the one they had agreed to. But still… It hurt to see how easily he fell into the role. 

 

He escorted Amira through the halls. Flirted openly with her during court assemblies. Gifted her with cheap fineries that Melira had rejected from ambassadors and other officials when she married. The perfect courtship in the eyes of the courtiers. The whole palace buzzed with the blatant favoritism he showed her. Whispers of a forbidden romance between the two and rumors of Melira’s crown being toppled in exchange for someone new. 

 

But despite her hatred towards the act, she knew that when the candles died down and the hall emptied -Theron was hers. 

 

He would undo her dress laced slowly, apologizing with kisses along her back or pressed to her mouth. His hands would clutch and roam like he had forgotten what she felt like. And Melira returned the claim with a fever, biting and clawing at spots that would be hidden by his coat the next day. 

 

“Mine,” she would mutter against his throat. 

 

“Always,” he would breathe into her hair. 

 

He brought her gifts when he could. A ribbon for her hair the color of her eyes. A new wooden tool box to keep her beekeeping supplies in. A pendant with her initials and his intertwined. He even found a collection of books from the Brambles that Melira had never seen before, old and worn from years of being hidden away. 

 

One night, he woke her up in the middle of a very fitful dream. He had produced for her a hot water bath, with lavender and bee balm essence mixed in. Despite the late hour, he dragged her from the bed and insisted she bathe with him. He undressed her himself, washing her down with a soft cloth before kissing her slowly to the point where she was undone in moments. Never letting her lift a finger. 

 

When she teased him for it, he kissed her nose and told her, “You do enough without me. Let me do something for you.” 

 

And she did. 

 

But afterward, lying in the soft quiet of their bedchamber with his arm draped heavily around her waist, Melira stared up at the ceiling and wondered how long she could keep fooling herself. 

 

Because when the morning light hit and Melria had to plaster on that fake smile, when the courtiers pressed closer and the nobles whispered, when Amira leaned against him and laughed at something in that bright open way she had- Melira felt like she was being carved from the inside out. 

 

She hated it. 

 

Not just watching Theron with Amira, not just seeing him bend close to murmur something into her ear while the court looked on, not just the way he played his part so flawlessly. She hated herself more- for being the one who came up with the plan, for being the one who smiled through clenched teeth and said, “Yes, let them believe what they want. It keeps me safe.” 

 

Safe. That word had become bitter on her tongue. 

 

What safety felt like this? Like she was less than him? Less than the crown she wore? Less than the woman that walked at his side, and basked in his attention while Melira scowled from the shadows. 

 

She hadn’t doubted herself before. Never doubted that she could be strong enough to lead, to hold her own. She didn’t doubt that she could provide an heir or cement herself with enough allies to gain three votes at the end of the year. But now, watching as he seemed to be so at ease- to see the court at ease- with a woman that they all knew? She felt horrible. 

 

She hated how her heart twisted when Amira appeared by his side like a little puppy. Jealousy burned in her chest, ugly and sharp, even though she knew it was a lie. Behind closed doors, Theron was hers, but it still made her sick to beg for reassurance through kissing and touching. And she hated herself more for the gnawing fear that one day the act would no longer feel like an act. 

 

In the conservatory, she pressed her hands into dirt until her nails cracked, tending her plants with almost a violent focus. At night, she clung to him too tightly, too desperately, hoping he wouldn’t notice how she shook when he pulled her close. 

 

And when he kissed her, when he whispered “Mine” into her hair, she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that she was enough. 

 

It was just deep down… Melira couldn’t shake the fear she was already losing herself. She had given so much of who she was away- to the plan, to him, to love- that there would be nothing left to call hers. 

 

Melira counted days in her head now, as if the numbers and cycles could save her. Each month came with a dull ache of disappointment, each red stain a reminder that she had failed… again. 

 

No child. 

 

No heir. 

 

No claim made solid in the eyes of the court. 

 

If she bore a child, then nothing- no rumors, no whispered alliances, no Amira, nothing- could shake her. The royal lineage would be secured. Melira would be secured. The court would have no choice but to put her above anyone else. But her womb stubbornly stayed flat. As if month after month, it conspired with the palace to leave her barren. She would lie awake long after Theron fell asleep, legs clamped together tightly, pressing her hand to her belly, praying to the Gods that they would give her something, anything. She wanted so badly for him to take, for something to catch. 

 

Maybe… maybe it was because she felt so alone, she just needed someone else to hold close. 

 

It's not like she was physically alone. Her ladies were kind, always gentle with her, always reassuring her, but they belonged to Rime. They gossiped with the rest of the court and there were moments- slight hesitations, glances she caught between the other nobles in court- that reminded Melira that kindness was not the same as loyalty. Lyanna was on edge constantly, still too friendly with Amira and Sera… she had too many friends that Melira didn’t know about. 

 

So, she kept her heart closed, even with them. Because if she leaned too hard, if she whispered her doubts, she knew her weakness would spread through the court like wildfire. And then she would be truly alone. 

 

Gods, she needed someone. Someone who would rip away the lies that built up around her, to unweave the intricate web that spiraled out of control. Something to stop Theron from continuing with the plan, someone to push Amira and her father out of the palace for good. An invitation to let this all just stop. 

 

But nothing came. 

 

And so she smiled, even when her cheeks ached from it. She laughed, even when the sound made her sick. She clung to Theron in the night like he was the only anchor in a wild sea, whispering “don’t leave me” into the darkness, though she would never say it aloud. 

 

Sometimes she wondered if this was how queens broke. Not with daggers or war, but with silence. With loneliness. With the hollow ache of playing games that they don’t fully enjoy or understand. 

 

Every morning, she would tell herself the same thing in the mirror. One more month. One more chance. One more try. Just a little more. Get the heir, get the allies. Get the information. 

 

And you win. 

 

Maybe then, she would stop feeling like she was disappearing. 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

It was morning, as she hid herself away in her conservatory, looking over the amounts being spent on the Gods Grace festivities that Sera had found her. The bees greeted her lady gently, alerting their queen to her presence. Sera, by this point, had learned to not wave them off. 

 

“Letter,” she placed it on the table, “Lord Halven wanted me to deliver this to you. He intercepted it from your mother.” 

 

Melira twinged at the mention of Last Eardine. She had hoped the woman had shriveled up and died by now, but if only she could be so lucky. She reached for it and slid it open, slicing through the wax seal with her mother’s sigil on it. 

 

“My Lord, 

 

I have trimmed the flower as you requested. Our gardener had done their part wonderfully. I hope that any future trimmings are alerted to me before the deed is done. 

 

I trust the storm is passing unnoticed. The stone fortress that the garden seems to be surrounded by will surely be blown over by now. Keep having your flower be watered, eventually you will gain what you want. 

 

I assure you, the bees and the hive will die out with the cold weather. Just let the harsh winter hit first. 

 

Signed,

 

Lady E.H.” 

 

Melira read the letter twice, then three times. Her heart hadn’t just jumped to her throat. It had stopped altogether. She stared at the parchment until the words blurred and the frost locked outside the glass walls seemed to become a part of her. Her hand not crumpling the letter was wrapped around a stray lavender flower, which was slowly growing and sprouting more off-shoots. The bees grew agitated, their buzzing becoming louder in her ears. 

 

She knew it. Melira knew her mother was involved with the murder of her unknown, unreal child. Her own damn mother. And to think that she was allied with- 

 

“Who was the letter for?” Melira asked quietly. 

 

“It was to be delivered to Lord Marell,” Sera’s voice sounded far away. 

 

The realization took root slowly, like a bittersweet vine during the spring. She didn't just lose a child because someone decided she didn't need one, she lost her child because her mother got something from it. An unborn human being- a life- was a bargaining tool. 

 

Melira stood, the buzz of her magic flowing freely now around the garden. She had shed her shoes and little wildflowers were springing up from the cracks between the stones. 

 

“I need to see my husband.” 

 

“He’s in the war room, My Lady.” 

 

Melira didn't hesitate, she didn't even slip her shoes back on before whirling around and storming through the conservatory. Servants scattered from her fierce walk. Behind her, a trail of flowers followed her. A path of anger and frustration flowing freely for everyone to see. 

 

The betrayal had cracked something in her, wide and raw. Her stomach cramped like it had when she suffered through her miscarriage, the nightmares of blood and sweat rose through her with a vengeance. Her blood was boiling at this point. 

 

When she finally slowed, just steps from the war room’s door, she realized she was crying. Her face was wet with tears, her body ached with the strain it took to storm her way up here. She leaned against the wall, trying to muster the strength for those last few steps. 

 

She wanted to curl up and cry. 

 

She wanted her bees. 

 

She wanted her bedchamber in the Brambles. 

 

She wanted Theron. 

 

That gave her the resolve. With a huff, she pulled herself off the wall, shooing away Sera’s hand. The guards tried to stop her but, thankfully, her lady-in-waiting got to them first. With a whisper in their ear the door opened. 

 

Melira almost fell again at the sight. Amira was sitting too close to Theron, her red hair a curtain to her face as she leaned towards him. Both shot up when she entered. Amira’s face was shocked, her mouth open in a large ‘o’, her eyes wide as she took in Melira’s disheveled look. But it was Theron’s face that Melira was looking at. 

 

He looked genuinely concerned. 

 

“Leave us, Amira.” Melira growled, “I must speak with my husband.” 

 

Amira curtsied and muttered and an apology before slowly, with a small smile towards Theron, leaving slowly. As soon as the door closed, Theron rushed to her, arms going around her in a protective circle. 

 

“What happened?” He asked, smoothing her hair. 

 

“This,” Melira held up the letter, now crumpled and wrinkled from her grip. “We were right, Theron. My mother knew. She sent this to Marell.” 

 

He didn't say anything. Instead it took the letter gently from her hands, reading it over. She watched as his face grew harder and harder, like the stone that made when his powers sprung loose. “I’ll kill them.” 

 

His voice was quiet- dangerously quiet. 

 

Melira clutched at his chest, pressing her forehead into coat. “She used me. I knew she was a terrible person but to bargain using an actual life… I didn't think she would ever do that. And for what? Power? Land?” Melira’s breath trembled, sharp and shaking, like brittle leaves still clinging to trees in winter. “Why?”

 

“Because Marell wants the Brambles.” His arm tightened around her. 

 

Melira looked up at him, startled. Marell wants the Brambles? Since when? No one wanted the wild lands, or the uncouth people that lived there. It lacked any good trade roots, hunting was close to impossible due to the twisted vines and thorns. The only good thing was how vast and wealthy the land was in terms of exports, they had plenty of farmland. 

 

Theron sighed, understanding her confusion. “Two votes versus one.” 

 

That makes sense. On the council, depending on how many territories you hold gives you the amount of votes you could claim. Melira held two currently, although one of them had to be the same as Theron's, the other could be for the Brambles. Everyone else only held one vote. Just one vote for their one and only land mass. The law was instated when Theron’s father had decided there needed to be a determining factor for major decisions. But with Amira as queen, or a sitting member, he would have three.

 

She buried her nose into him, trying to keep the emotions from bubbling up. The smell of clean leather and stone enveloped her like a blanket. The soft stroke of his finger along her spine felt like the sweetest touch. Gods, how she wanted him back fulltime. “We have to keep playing then.” She finally muttered. 

 

Theron pushed her back, “Why?” 

 

“Because we don't know how he’s going to gain my lands-”

 

“He offered Amira. He doesn't care if it's as my mistress or my queen. Her company in exchange for the Brambles.” 

 

“How long have you known that?” Melira asked. 

 

“He confronted me this morning,” Theron cupped her cheek, “I’m done playing this game. I can't keep doing it.” 

 

“But we need to know he next move-” 

 

“No, I’m done.” His voice was calm but firm, “Do you know how much it pains me to have that woman near me? When I hear her laugh I picture it’s yours. When I flirt with her, I use things I want to use with you.” He held up his wrist, a waft of honey and lavender hit her nostrils. Melira recognized it from the vials she kept in their dressing room. “I even wear your scent so I can smell you and not her.” 

 

Her heart melted. In many words he claimed his feelings. This was beyond their bedchamber talk, beyond the political alliance they held together. This was pure, tight, and all consuming. Her feet felt like they had been rooted to the floor. Her mouth tried to form words but she just… couldn’t. 

 

“I see amber in the firelight and I think of your eyes.” His voice dropped even further, “I think of your laugh when you’re too tired to be angry. I think of the way you hum when you’re working in your conservatory. The way your fingers twitch when you want to touch me but think you shouldn’t.” 

 

Melira clutched him tighter, tears threatening to fall just because she couldn’t handle what he was saying. Her heart was caught somewhere between soaring and shattering. 

 

“I’ve tried to play the part for you,” Theron finished, “But I can’t anymore. Not when it starts to physically hurt us both.” 

 

Melira didn't respond with words. She simply pressed herself against him, buried her face in his chest and let the tears come- quiet and hot. Theron held her, strong and sure, like he was anchoring her to the world. 

 

“I can’t lose you,” she finally whispered. 

 

“You won’t,” he said, voice rough. “Not to them. Not to this. Not ever.” 

 

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t cold- it hummed with something fierce and unspoken. After a moment, she pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “We still need to act,” she said softly. “Marell doesn’t know we have this letter. That’s leverage. He thinks he has the upper hand. But he’s overplayed it.” 

 

“You want to expose them?” 

 

“I want to destroy them, remember?” she corrected. “But not some fit of rage. Not recklessly. Not without ensuring the rest of the court won’t turn against us.” 

 

A slow nod. A thought building in him. “Gods Grace is in two weeks.” 

 

She tilted her head slightly, “A public moment, then?” 

 

“Too risky,” Theron said, although he sounded like he wanted to, “Besides, we don’t know who else is involved. Cern had the vials, which means Lyanna might be a part of this. Marell had his daughter distract us. There’s more than just one factor. We have to dismantle this discreetly.” 

 

Melira hesitated, then exhaled. “If the two girls are involved, their pawns. If they are as smart as their fathers claim them to be, they’ll take what we give them. Something quiet and dignified.” 

 

“And if they refuse?” 

 

“They get the punishment their fathers get.” 

 

Theron didn’t flinch at the tone- if anything, it seemed to steel him further. He leaned in, and this kiss was different then the others. It wasn’t hurried, or desperate, or aching. It was whole. Like something that had waited too long to be spoken, finally being said with words. 

 

When they pulled apart, the war room was still. The maps and scrolls were forgotten. The firelight flickered across their faces, casting shadows of two people no longer willing to be pawns. 

 

“You smell like me,” Melira giggled, “That’s ridiculous.” 

Chapter 20: Speak Plainly

Notes:

Hello, hello!

Ok, sorry for the wait. This chapter was a hot mess to edit and I'm still not 100% pleased with it. But, what can you do?

Anyways, enjoy!

The week before Gods Grace, the palace began to glitter. 

 

Snow draped across the marble like silk. Candles burned longer into the evening. The scent of pine and clove drifted down every corridor. Wreaths woven with amber berries and dark green leaves- the traditional colors of prosperity and divine favor- lined the halls. A festival of fire and faith, hiding the cold calculations beneath the surface. 

 

It did not go unnoticed that King Theron of Rime no longer escorted Amira down the halls and began showing up at Melira’s side again. 

 

Regardless of the circumstance, Theron and Melira were side-by-side. He would offer his arm when they exited the assembly chamber. The two would share whispers behind hands that made them smile, even when it wasn’t appropriate. Once he handed her a warm cup of honeyed tea, while Amira tried to give Theron his preferred wine. 

 

Melira really enjoyed the look on her face during that. 

 

The whispers had started back up again. Although they were different now. They were more directed at how Melira might’ve won him back, how Theron was truly a faithful husband. Some even wondered what Amira did to spur his affections. Melira didn’t care for the gossip, but it felt like a small victory. Letting Marell stew, letting Amira squirm. She had taken her crown back with a smile.

 

But behind the scenes, things were moving. 

 

They met in the conservatory- it was the only place Melira was sure no one would be able to listen in. Bees were good guard dogs that way. The wrong person to step in would be hounded by them until they fled. Theron had guards patrol elsewhere on purpose, knowing no ears dared breath the hive’s sacred hum. 

 

Vellian brought coded letters from the outposts. Marell was moving, and the soldiers who were loyal to their original general before being reassigned were relaying messages. Halven kept bringing her Lady Eardine’s letters, including her acceptance of an invitation to the Gods Grace Feast. 

 

It was late one evening when Vellian brought a new bit of news, “They’ve begun quietly moving Marell’s soldiers toward the Bramble’s northern border,” he pointed to the map on the table. “No formal order, no banner. Just men ‘visiting kin’.” 

 

Bullshit, Melira said in her head, “A buildup.” 

 

“Cern’s also diverted his ships to skirt back down the coast,” Halven added, “He’s using the frozen trade routes as an excuse.” 

 

“They’re getting ready,” Theron said darkly. 

 

Melira kept her expression still. “Let them. We will be the ones to strike first.” 

 

Despite the men crowding around the table, Melira was working in her hive. She had to keep her hands busy, to hide her powers breaking loose when she got overly angry or frustrated. She was wearing her brown linen dress. Her bees clung lazily to her skirt. The air was thick with honey and frost. Wax pots steamed gently by the fire, their golden insides catching the low winter light. 

 

She didn’t look up when Sera slipped through the conservatory door. Her ladies were spending time together “preparing” for the events that were to occur. Sera uses the time in Lyanna’s rooms to coax the truth of her father’s doings by simply being her friend- alienating her from Amira as much as possible. Melira didn’t necessarily like how she was using her ladies for information, but ugly circumstances called for ugly necessities. 

 

Melira dipped a stick into warm wax, coiling it carefully around a bit of parchment, waiting for her lady to speak. 

 

“She mentioned a meeting between Amira and the salt merchants,” Sera didn’t wait for permission to speak. “Three days from now. Something about ‘offering leniency on tariffs if they back her father’s petition to reassign trade routes’.”

 

“That would bankrupt Cern’s entire merchant line,” Halven eyebrows shot up. 

 

“It's a grab,” Theron grumbled, “Marell’s not even subtle anymore.” 

 

Melira’s stomach turned. She didn't know if it was disgust or fury.  This was turning out to be bigger than what she had anticipated. Marell was turning this into an all out war. She twisted the wax parchment shut then turned back to the group. 

 

Sera had told her to trust her, that she would help Melira get what she wanted. But, looking at the poisoned flower that stood in her conservatory, Melira wasn't sure anymore. If trust went to the grave, then how much longer would this alliance last? 

 

“You’re certain Lyanna said all this?” Melira asked. 

 

Sera nodded once. Not smiling, completely serious. Honest. 

 

Theron stood straight, “We need to act before any of this happens. We need a plan.” 

 

“My question,” Vellian said abruptly, “Is how involved the girls actually are? Their fathers are seemingly passing along the information. Lyanna and Amira might be innocent in all this. I say, we question them first.” 

 

Theron scowled, “I don't like interrogating without need.” 

 

“I'd argue there is one, my friend.” 

 

Theron didn't answer. She had never seen him so against getting answers before. Questioning the two girls seemed like the right idea. If they could get it done before the week of festivities in the court, it would be a huge relief off their shoulders. They might actually enjoy the start of winter. 

 

Vellian opened his mouth to continue his argument, but Melira closed it with a look. “We need information. No baseless accusations without concrete evidence,” she wiped her hands on her skirt, “Get me that, and we can make our move. Dismissed.” 

 

Vellian stood first, crossing to Theron’s turned back and clapping his shoulder before muttering something in his ear. Then he bowed and followed Halven out. 

 

Sera stayed behind. “Lyanna has a journal-” 

 

“No,” Melira cut her off, “Don't hurt her more than you already have.” 

 

Sera pursed her lip but curtsied nonetheless. Once the door closed behind her, Melira walked back to her husband. He was facing the glass wall, watching the snow fall in loose flakes. His eyes were on his mews. 

 

She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back. Theron’s covered hers where they rested. He didn't speak for a moment, just breathed with her. 

 

Then, quietly, as if he was talking to a shadow: “When I was a boy, I turned a child to stone.” 

 

Melira didn't move, she just let him take the lead. She could feel how tight he was. She wanted him to know it didn't matter what he had done in the past. But at the same time, she was so curious about his childhood. 

 

“He stole a loaf of bread from the market,” Theron continued, voice still so quiet. “The merchant wanted recompense for it. Justice. My father told me to use my blessing on the thief. At first, I just did his left hand. I figured that would be enough. The scream of pain that came from him made me stop.” 

 

Melira suppressed a shiver. The statues in the garden were evidence that “his touch turned people to stone” wasn't just idle gossip. 

 

She felt him take in a breath, “My father told me to keep going and to not stop until the thief was sorry. The boy never apologized. He didn't get the chance. Between the pain of petrification and the screams he couldn't get a word out.” 

 

Theron finally turned around in her arms, pulling her close to him, breathing her in. “I did it again. During the war,” he finally said into her hair. “And again when I was questioned by old men after my father's death. Each time, I lost a piece of myself. That feeling you get when you're supposed to care. It took too many years to bring it back.” 

 

Melira didn't pull away. The folklore of how a king could petrify his enemies on the battlefield, how a life could be turned to rock the moment they crossed his path- it was all true. While her blessing gave life to things, he took it away. 

 

How could a person live like that? 

 

“That is why I cannot question them,” he finished. “Any of them. I cannot lose myself again. I’m afraid of what I might become if I do.” 

 

She didn't remind him that the two girls were people he grew up with. She didn't remind him that he was touching her and she wasn't stone. Inside she was terrified. Not of his power, that she had gotten over long ago now, but of how scared he was. 

 

“Then let me,” Melira pulled back enough to look at him. She cupped his cheek, “Let me question them. Don't lose yourself.” 

 

He pressed into her hand, “I cannot ask that if you.” 

 

“You’re not,” she said simply. “I’m offering because all the women in this court answer to me in the end. It's my duty, or did you forget that?” 

 

“Melira-” 

 

“I can be dangerous too,” she reminded him. 

 

He turned his head and kissed her palm, “Oh, I’m aware.” He sighed, “I won't stop you because I don't think I could. But if you don't get answers, I’m stepping in.” 

 

She smiled, small and sweet. The amount of trust he was giving her. But not just trust: pride, hope, respect. That was worth everything that had happened to them. To her. To him. “I expect nothing less.” 

 

_______________________________________

 

The next day, morning came in grey and solemn. The whole world seemed to go quiet as the week moved on. Melira had a dress fitting that afternoon, but she first had to fit in her dealings with Lyanna. Melira was waiting for her in her conservatory, with the hope that the girl hadn't run off in fear or suspected anything other than a quiet breakfast.

 

Melira wouldn't tell her that she already ate. 

 

She was tending to her hive, impatient. Nervous. She liked Lyanna. The girl was sweet, kind, honest to a fault. She had molded Lyanna into the perfect lady-in-waiting. It wasn’t her fault her father was an absolute trash of a human being. 

 

The door opened and closed. Turning, Melira spied Lyanna dressed in a lavender colored dress. Her eyes took in the sight of the conservatory like they always did. Half-amusement, half-wonderment. Like a child. When she saw Melira she curtsied, approaching slowly. 

 

“Sit,” Melira waved to a chair, not turning around fully. With practiced hands, she dipped two long strings into the mold filled with wax. “Help yourself to tea and breakfast.” 

 

Lyanna sat slowly, watching her. “Candles?” 

 

“Hopefully,” Melira shot her a smile, “I’m a bit out of practice when it comes to making them.” She hoped that she looked calm on the outside, because her heart was thundering. 

 

“I’ve always been afraid of bees,” Lyanna said as Melira took her own seat. “On our beach we have these ones that dig into the sand. They don't attack but their buzzing scares me.” 

 

Melira didn't respond, instead she took a sip of the tea. Perfectly sweetened with honey. 

 

Lyanna took a bite of the breakfast pastry that she had chosen, oblivious to the tension that was building in the air. “The whole palace seems off these days, My Lady, have you noticed that? The last time it was this strange was when King Theron’s father passed, everything felt so… uncertain. Like it does now.” 

 

Melira tilted her head, “I have noticed.” 

 

“Do you know why?” Lyanna leaned forward, then straightened back up quickly. “No. Don't answer that. I’m trying not to gossip as much as I did before coming into your service.” 

 

“And yet you openly discussed your father’s work with Sera.” 

 

Lyanna paled, her eyes stuck on the cup in front of her. She was trembling, Melira could see it in her fingers. She was caught. 

 

“Is that why you invited me here, Your Majesty?” Lyanna’s voice fought the crack that threatened to open. “Am I in trouble?” 

 

“Not if I can help it,” Melira said. “You are not the one at fault here.” 

 

Lyanna’s eyes shot to her, “Then who is?” 

 

“That's what I'm trying to figure out.” Melira put her hands on the table. “Do you trust your father?” 

 

Lyanna shifted uncomfortably, “My father- he- I mean, he's like all fathers, isn't he? Looking out for our family, making sure we have a place in the world?”

 

“Even at the expense of another?” 

 

She broke, her eyes over filled with tears, “I didn't know it was poison! He- he told me that- that you'd survive it! I would’ve never told them to give it to the cook if I had known! I’m sorry!” 

 

Melira let the girl bury herself in her hands, the sobs rocketing through her body with hard shakes. She had a feeling Lyanna was innocent in terms of the knowledge of what had occurred. But it was no coincidence that Cern held the vials, that he was the one who had them. He put his own daughter into the crosshair of his plans. 

 

A very big mistake. 

 

“Lyanna,” Melira reached across the table, gripping the girl’s wrist. “Lyanna. Tell me everything.” 

 

She gulped, “Wh- when you sent me away, my fath-father a-a-asked me to send him those v-vials. He gave me inst-instructions on buying them from the smugglers. He- he said he wanted them, just in case his mistress got pregnant. I-I didn't know he'd use them on you.” 

 

Melira leaned back. That made sense, time wise. She was poisoned after Lyanna left court, which meant that her naive lady-in-waiting was truly innocent in all of this. As long as she still had the letter from her father. “If I asked you to show me that letter from your father, could you produce it?” 

 

Lyanna nodded hard, although the tears were still falling. “Yes. I keep all of them, just in case I forget what was written to me.” 

 

“Get me that letter,” Melira took the girl’s hand, her voice gentle but firm, “And you will be forgiven.” 

 

Lyanna nodded again, breath hitching and catching in her chest. She wiped her eyes on her lavender dress. She looked like a child- lost and used. Melira couldn't help but ache a little for her, even if she was forced to bury it beneath strategy and politics. 

 

“I can get them now,” Lyanna stood, the chair legs scraping loudly against the stone path, her legs shaking. “I keep them in my sewing box.”

 

“Tell no one,” Melira’s voice turned firm, “Not even Sera, what you are doing. If anyone asks, tell them I asked you for some thread or something.” 

 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lyanna said, her voice a whisper. She curtsied again and left. 

 

As the door closed Melira slumped back into her chair, exhaling hard. She let her head roll back so she was staring at the clouds through the glass roof. The sky has darkened, a rumble of thunder snow echoed faintly in the distance. A hawk spiraled like a pinpoint in the clouds. 

 

Theron once offered her freedom from court. He told her she could be like his hawks. Free to leave and never return. But she refused, she thought freedom existed within the walls of the castle, away from her mother. Now, she wondered if she should've taken that choice. 

 

She stood, going back to her hive and lifting a frame. She examined the golden comb, letting the bees surround her like a veil to the world. Thinking it through, Melira was glad she didn't take Theron’s offer of freedom. She might not be free here to do as she wished, but she had her hive, her conservatory. 

 

Amira was next. She would be a challenge to deal with. All of her summons and invites had been turned down with polite and proper excuses. Melira was on the verge of just having guards collect her and bring her to the solar. 

 

Sighing, Melira reset the hive, letting the bees go back to what they were doing. She would have to corner Amira, that was the next step. 

 

That afternoon, the tailor came and went. Bundles of silver and gold, greens and reds, all chosen by Melira's careful selection. She was wary of the silver, but when she saw the fabric ripple under the light it was perfect. Melira had barely spoken during her fittings. Her mind was elsewhere- half in the letter that Lyanna would bring, the other in the conversation she was about to engage with Amira. 

 

She still hadn't replied to the latest summonings. 

 

Amira had hidden behind too many courtesies for far too long. Melira was done pretending to be nice. 

 

Once the final pin was removed and the tailor was bowing himself out, Melira stepped down, selecting herself the green velvet dress with a gold crown. If Amira wasn't going to come to her, she would go to Amira. 

 

She felt powerful walking the halls, her dress fanning around her legs. She felt like the sun, radiant, eye-catching- glowing. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, like the wildness she was born into. When she reached the study that Lord Marell was using, she didn't knock. The guards posted there let her in without question. 

 

“I summoned you,” Melira said, sweeping the room. “Multiple times.” 

 

Amira was positioned near the hearth, a book on her lap, legs up on the chaise in a lazy curve. She wore an elegant gray dress, one that Melira recognized from when she had told the servants to get rid of it. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of it, but she didn't make a comment. If her contender wanted to wear her leftover dresses, then so be it. 

 

“I was indisposed, Your Majesty,” Amira didn't stand but she did close the book and sit up. “I apologize for any inconvenience.” 

 

“When the queen demands your presence, you make yourself known,” Melira looked over the desk, her eyes scanning for any papers that looked important. Although she wasn't actually reading any of the words, her nerves were too burnt out. 

 

Amira’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. But I didn’t think you’d be… so eager for my company.” 

 

Melira ignored the bait. She strode to the fire, standing tall, forcing Amira to look up at her. The flickering light licked along the folds of her green velvet, catching on the gold embroidery- thank the Gods Melira chose this dress. She wanted to feel the power that she was shedding off. 

 

“In the Brambles,” Melira started, “we speak honestly. Plainly. It’s a common courtesy. So, we hate those that hide behind false pleasantries. Who stabs with silence and smiles while doing it.” 

 

Amira folded her hands neatly over her book. “Sounds exhausting.” 

 

“And I am exhausted from pretending I don’t see the games you’re playing,” Melira’s tone sharpened. “You’ve been whispering to the wrong people, making allies in a den of vipers. Or do you truly think your father’s plans have gone unnoticed? That your actions haven’t gone unnoticed?” 

 

“Are you accusing me of something?” Amira’s eyes narrowed. 

 

“Lyanna told me everything,” Melira said, although she had nothing to back that up. “About the vials. The poison. The letter from her father. Your father’s plans. The ones I assume, you have a part in as well.” 

 

“And so what if I did?” Amira stood, coming closer, a challenge. “Lyanna’s the one who sent the vials. Her father is the one who told the servant to pour it in your tea. The only thing my father and I are guilty of is the knowledge of your pregnancy. You can do nothing to me.” 

 

“I wasn't pregnant.” 

 

Amira didn't flinch at that. She remained impassive, as if the knowledge of her fake miscarriage that her father helped induce was common. Melira closed the distance between them, her skirt swirling like a swarm. 

 

“I can give you a choice,” Melira’s voice was soft. “Leave court, I’ll give you an estate or a title. I can even arrange a marriage of your choice, as long as it’s no threat to the crown. But if you choose to fight me, if you choose to stay and attempt to destroy my reputation- I will not hesitate to make sure you and your father go down together.” 

 

Amira’s smile turned tight and mirthless. “A choice. How noble of you. You can take the girl out of the Brambes, I suppose.” 

 

Melira’s face didn’t change, but the buzz had started to build. “Careful.” 

 

Amira stepped forward, her voice growing sharper, hungrier, “It shows, you know. No matter how many silks you wrap yourself in. The wild clings to you. You walk like a monster- stalking and waiting to bite.” 

 

Melira didn’t respond, instead one hand went to clutch the mantle of the fireplace, readying herself just in case. 

 

Amira smirked, “You speak of loyalty, of duty, of legacy- but what do you know of it? You were raised in mud and nettles. Among people who stole and snarled to survive. Your crown came from ash and accidents-” 

 

A vein of white flowers bloomed along the hearth, catching Amira off guard. Her face paled, her eyes darted between the flowers and Melira’s calm demeanor. Theron might not want to use his powers to threaten, but Melira was tired of hearing someone call her people dirty and wild. 

 

 Melira lifted her hand away. “I did tell you to be careful,” she said, calmly. “I am going to offer you the choice again. Leave and save what little reputation you might have, or stay and die. I don’t care.” She turned away, “If you are as smart as you think you are, Amira- Gods I hope you are- I would say you should leave. I’ll give you until the Eve Gods Grace to make the decision.” 

 

_______________________________________

 

The stables smelled of pine shavings and frost, the air cold enough that Melira’s breath came out in pale clouds. She tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her boots crunching softly on the straw-scattered floor as she stepped inside. He told her to dress warm, to layer as much as possible. Even so, she was still shivering as the frost-bitten cold lessened slightly when she stepped into the stall. 

 

Theron was already there. He stood near a sleek pair of black horses, with thick feathers on their legs and curly black manes. They were being harnessed to a sleigh, his eyes watching the stable hand set the buckles and ensuring that each strap was secured. The pale light of a lantern swung above him, gilding the frost clinging to his hair and lashes. 

 

“Hello,” Melira said, trying to keep her tone light though her heart was thudding strangely fast. “You called me here?” 

 

His eyes flicked to her, lingering a moment longer than appropriate before he straightened. “I did.” 

 

Her eyes went back to the sleigh, stepping closer to reach out and stroke one of the horses faces. She liked horses, she used to go riding all of the time in the Brambles before her mother forbade it. These two were unlike any she had seen though. Big, the color of midnight, unblemished by any flick of white except on their forehead. Their manes were the most captivating, long and flowing, silky in her fingers. They were beautiful. 

 

“Do you like them?” Theron asked. 

 

“They’re lovely,” Melira smiled as the one she was petting let out a loud snort, its breath hot through her gloves. 

 

“Purebred stallions.” She could hear the pride in his voice. When she turned to look at him, his chin was tilted up. “Rime is known for their horses.” 

 

“For sleigh rides?” 

 

He let out a breath through his nose, waving off the stable hand when the boy bowed to signal his completion. She had to admit, the sleigh was a beautiful thing, a perfect match to the horses. Narrow, graceful, made of polished wood, its seats piled with furs thick enough to swallow its riders whole. “When the skies and mountains are clear,” he answered her. He held out his hand, palm steady, standing near the small foothold to help her up. “Ride with me.” 

 

The words were not a question, they were deliberately a command. She hesitated only a moment before sliding her hand into his. His glove was cold through hers, but the strength of his grip was as solid and warm as she had learned to expect. 

 

Once she was seated, he tucked the pelts around her waist before joining her. There was no driver, Melira noticed, but apparently there didn’t need to be. He flicked the reins with practiced ease, the horses surging forward, the sleigh gliding out of the stable yard and onto the snow-packed trail beyond. 

 

The night opened before them like a page brushed with silver. The moon rode high above, sharp-edged and bright, casting a sheen over the white drifts that blanketed the ground. Every hoofbeat sent up little sprays of powder that glittered as they fell. The sleigh bells chimed softly, their music weaving into the rhythm of runners practically flying smooth over the hard snow. 

 

Melira tilted her head back- and stopped breathing. The sky was impossibly clear. No clouds, no veil of mist, only the full spread of stars laid bare above them. Thousands of them, like tiny shards of glass scattered across black velvet. She’d never seen so many at once. Back home, the forest canopy had hidden them, the trees keeping her world close and secret. Here, the heavens felt endless. 

 

For the first time since arriving in Rime, she loosened her grip on her cloak and let the cold bite her cheeks. The air was sharp, yes, but it was also clean, filling her lungs until she felt almost dizzy with it. Snow clung to the firs that flanked the path, each branch crystalline, glinting like jewels laced in moonlight. 

 

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. 

 

Theron glanced at her sidelong, but said nothing. His attention returned to the reins, though she thought she caught the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. 

 

Melira pressed deeper into the furs, watching the way the mountains framed the horizon- jagged peaks softened by moonlight, solemn and strong. She had spent too long resenting the frozen kingdom, its unyielding cold, its harsh silence, the lack of life. But here here, wrapped in warmth beside him, the sting of winter felt less like a punishment and more like… wonder. 

 

The sleigh curved along a narrow trail that rose higher into the ridge, the bells chiming a lazy counterpoint to the steady rhythm of hooves. Frost-laden branches arched overhead, opening suddenly into a small clearing that overlooked the valley below.

 

Theron pulled the reins slightly, letting out a low “Easy” as he did. They came to a gentle halt, snorting plumes of hot, white clouds into the air. The sudden stillness was startling after a steady glide, the world seemed to hush around them. 

 

Melira drew in a breath. The valley stretched below them, wide and silver, the frozen river gleamed like a serpent under the moonlight. The village lights twinkled faintly in the distance, fragile, flickering like candle flames in the dark. Above it all, the stars burned bright like little eyes watching them. 

 

“It’s like something from a fairy tale,” she whispered. 

 

Theron’s gaze wasn’t on the view- it was on her. “It is. Nothing compares to this.” 

 

She turned, laughing when she found the intensity of his eyes. There was no distance, no ice in his expression. She had never seen it that warm, with the quiet pull of someone seemingly attempting pure flirtation. 

 

“My King,” Melira put a hand over her heart in mock shock. “Are you flirting with me?” 

 

His mouth twitched, almost a smile, though he didn’t confirm or deny it. Instead, he leaned a little closer, his voice low, edged with something softer than command. “Would it matter if I was?” 

 

Her laughter would have broken the brittleness of air if it was made of something solid. It faded out when she realised how close he had become, how the moonlight painted silver across the sharp planes of his face. For once, Theron had stepped aside from his crown, he stopped his cold calculations, the political games were pushed to the back of his mind. He was just a man- watching her with an intensity that both unnerved and thrilled her. 

 

She realized she was leaning toward him before she had fully meant to. Her hand, still gloved, brushed his sleeve, feeling the hard muscle beneath. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, the world held its breath. Then, as though some silent agreement had been struck, Theron closed the distance. 

 

His lips were cool, chilled from the winter air, tasting like peppermint and something smoky. The kiss was steady, unhurried, not demanding but deliberate- like everything he seemed to do. The quiet was broken only but the rustle of furs and the distant jangle of the horses’ tack as they shifted in place. Melira swelled into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

 

Maybe she was learning to like the cold. 

 

When they finally parted, Melira’s heart was hammering far too quickly for the stillness around him. She searched his face, hunting for any trace of mockery, of arrogance- but there was none. Just a rare softness that made her chest ache. 

 

“Not so terrible, is it?” he murmured, his breath stirring a curl at her temple. 

 

She giggled, sinking back against the piled furs. “No, not terrible at all.” 

 

They didn’t speak much after that. Words seemed unnecessary. The silence that fell between them wasn’t heavy but comfortable, layered with the hush of snow and the occasional sound from the horses. Melira curled deeper into the furs, her shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him seeping past her cloak. The night stretched wide and endless before them, stars spilling over the mountains like a river. 

 

For once, she didn’t feel the cold pressing in. She felt… safe. Wrapped in stillness, in the sound of his quiet breathing beside her, in the sight of the village glittering below like a scattering of jewels, she felt untouchable. Nothing would reach them out here. 

 

Her head grew heavy, tilting toward him before she could stop herself. She fought it at first, straightening her back against the sleigh, but the sway of the runners and the warmth of his presence were lulling. At last, she gave in, letting her cheek rest lightly against his arm. 

 

If Theron felt her, he didn’t move away. If anything, he shifted the reins to one hand so the other could coil around her shoulders and tuck the furs tighter. His posture was steady, protective, as if he could shield her with nothing but silence the strength that made with his presence. Melira’s eyes fluttered closed. 

 

The last thing she remembered was the steady rhythm of hoofbeats and the soft scent of frost in his cloak. 

 

When she woke again, the world was different. Warmer, softer. She blinked against the dim light of a fire and the heavy comfort of blankets tucked around her. Their chamber. Her heart stumbled as she realized she had no memory of leaving the sleigh, or- when she checked- changing into her nightdress. 

 

Theron was there, leaning over her. He just drew the last corner of the blanket snug at her side, his movements careful, deliberate, as though not to wake her. His hair was wet, mused with melted snow, a few damp strands clinging to his forehead. His expression was soft, unguarded in the glow of the firelight. 

 

“Theron?” her voice was thick with sleep. 

 

His eyes flicked up to hers. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He only reached out and brushed a stray curl from her face, his bare fingers tender and sweet. “Go back to sleep, Melira.” 

 

She wanted to answer, but the weight of his voice, the warmth of the bed, and the faint press of his presence beside her pulled her back under. The last thing she felt was the brush of his lips against her forehead, lingering on the edge of her hair before the world went dark again. 

Chapter 21: Upon the Eve of Grace

The Eve of Gods Grace came up quickly. Amira still hadn’t left the court, her father still pushed Theron for the Brambles, and Melira was sick to her stomach over it at each waking moment. They had the evidence, Lyanna delivered the letter as promised and it was all spelled out in ink that it was Lord Marell who wrote to Lyanna for the poison, but Cern was the one who signed it. Melira was just grateful that her mother was far from court, seeing as she was the one who delivered it. 

 

May the Gods fucking grace her this year. She was done. 

 

The morning of the Eve Feast, Melira woke with a heaviness in her limbs that hadn’t quite gone away in days. Sleep was fractured- her dreams pulled her back to the Brambles, to wild paths and flickers of fire between trees, the sweet scent of raspberries and homesickness. She wished it was back to that simpler moment, when this holiday was just that- simple. 

 

Her hands had discovered that she was bleeding, between her legs. Again. 

 

It wasn’t fair. By the Gods it wasn’t fair. What more could she be doing? What old wives tricks did she not know? She loved her husband, everyone said that was the first thing that needed to happen before having a child. She slept with him. She bedded a man. Wasn’t that the whole reason her mother had sent away her childhood friends? To avoid a child developing in her belly? 

 

The cramping in her abdomen told her that she was wrong. 

Maybe it was because he hadn’t said it back. Maybe there needed to be equal amounts of effort between the two of them. Theron seemed happy enough that she wasn’t pregnant, he enjoyed having her smooth stomach under his hands. He seemed to love the fact that her breasts were small enough to fit into the palm of his hands. That she was kissable. That she was still small. 

 

Her mouth twisted in discomfort as she bathed, the red stained water forming around her. 

 

Melira was still determined to try again. It was the only thing she could think of that would secure her crown and keep Marell and his wicked plans at bay. 

She dressed slowly, choosing the deep purple velvet dress that Theron picked out. It was beautiful, threaded through with honey colored silk. It dropped off right after her rib cage, giving her bust a very nice angle. Theron especially liked the low shoulders, he said it gave him skin to brush and kiss whenever he wanted. 

 

She fastened a golden necklace around her neck, fixing her hair so that it was simply out of her face but still falling in the honey-brown waves. She looked pretty. The part of a queen overseeing the feast. Once the circlet was adorned on her head, she stood, opening the door to Sera who waited patiently for her. 

 

“King Theron is waiting for you outside the Great Hall,” Sera reminded her, escorting her to the entrance way. “Then you can make your entrance together.” 

 

Melira breathed through her nose, trying to silence the heart that felt like it was threatening to burst from her chest. It was just a feast. Gift giving would be tomorrow, she had no reason to be nervous. She was not expected to speak, not expected to give a toast. That was all on Theron and the head priest. 

 

Pulling herself from her nerves, Melira nodded at Sera to lead the way. They walked slowly at first, then built up a steady rhythm against the marbled floors. She didn't need Sera to show her how to get there, but her mind was so distracted, she was sure she would’ve turned down the wrong hall. 

 

Outside the Hall, the scent of roasted meats and honeyed apples filled her nose. Loud chatter and laughter rolled through the air and behind it all: a quiet murmur of speculation. Every noble in the kingdom would be here tonight. They would all be taking in the new Queen and King. 

 

Theron waited near the arch, straight backed, eyes on her. His hands were clasped behind him but when she approached, he offered her an arm. He looked handsome in his silver and black finery. The crown looked heavier than normal, but she knew he was used to it. 

 

“You look like a flower,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. Not a normal compliment, but it made her feel stunning. Rooted. Solid. 

 

“I’m hoping that’s a compliment,” Melira teased, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. 

 

“It is,” Theron gave a slight frown. Her cover wasn't working. “Are you ready?” 

 

“No.” 

 

He gave a low chuckle, “Me neither.” 

 

The trumpets sounded their arrival, the footman announced their names and titles, and they entered the den of vipers. 

 

The hush that came over the crowd as they walked to their raised table at the end of the room still shocked Melira. The court responded to splendor and indulgence like hounds. Tonight, they would drool over the beauty of their royal couple: velvet crowned in silver and gold. 

 

She saw Marell and Cern talking in hushed voices. 

 

Amira raised her goblet up with a smirk. 

 

Lyanna, dressed in a soft blue, pointed at hers and shook her head. 

 

Melira nodded at that warning sign. Lyanna was proving to be a better ally than she had thought. This was just getting ridiculous. Why did they think trying the same thing twice would actually work?

 

She had to admit, Amira had the courage of a lion. Her red hair was swept up into a braided bun, similar but not an exact copy of Melira’s when she first arrived. The dress she wore was that Gods-awful pearl bones bodice dress that Melira tried to keep hidden under her bed. Marell wore his colors of black and red. Cern wore soft blues and whites. All three looked like snakes who had found their meal. 

 

Let the final game begin. 

 

Melira took her place beside Theron at the table, spine stiff, her every movement measured and as controlled as possible. The room glittered with too many candles and too many watching eyes. Court favorites and whisper thin nobility leaned in like wolves smelling blood. 

 

The first glass of wine was poured and the head priest took to the center of the room, his hood pulled back to show the shaven man underneath. “It is tradition,” the ageless man began, “on the Eve of Gods Grace, when their eyes start to close for their slumber, we give thanks for their guidance and watchfulness…” 

 

Melira didn't hear the rest of the blessing, her fingers were closed in a fist, eyes on the wine goblet and the deep red colored liquid inside. 

 

“Are you alright?” Theron’s murmur was barely audible. 

 

“The wine’s been poisoned,” Melira murmured back. 

 

She felt him stiffen, his whole body tightening. His hand reached for hers, clutching it tightly. His own eyes scanned the hall, looking for where the three conspirators were sitting. Their faces were impassive, neutral as they watched the priest give the blessings. 

 

“Are you sure?” 

 

“Lyanna pointed at her goblet and shook her head,” Melira whispered, “I’m not taking the risk. I won't make the same mistake twice.” 

 

That earned her a glance in her direction. A question formed between his brows but he didn't ask. Instead he nodded once, subtly, before lifting his goblet with the same reverence as every other courtier in the room. But he did not drink. Neither did Melira. 

 

The feast began with a slow ceremony- the clatter of platters and polished silver, the low hum of conversation returning as wine was sipped and dishes were passed. She could tell Theron was holding back. He was laughing in the right places, tilting his head thoughtfully when addressed, and even kissed her hand once when a minor lord complimented their union. But she could feel the undercurrent simmering beneath his skin. 

 

By the time the second course was being laid out- venison with wild garlic sauce- Theron leaned in. “I’ll be back shortly,” he murmured, lips barely grazing her temple. 

 

“Where are you going?” she asked, voice taut.

 

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Theron pressed his lips to her forehead, “Just have a rat problem.” 

 

And just like that, he stood and walked from the dias, nodding to a courtier who bowed low. It was natural, unobtrusive. Melira was enjoying the food, although the smell of it brought rolls of nausea. She would give Theron five minutes. Five. Then she was going after him. 

 

She was just finishing her course when a steward stepped forward, bowing low to whisper in Melira’s ear, “The King requests Lord Cern Walton’s presence in the West Antechamber, Your Grace. Discreetly.” 

 

Melira nodded once, dismissing him with a wave. Her heart stuttered in her chest. 

 

Cern, seated a few tables down, head lowered in conversation, glanced up just as the steward approached him. Whatever was said, Cern’s expression didn’t falter. He stood with practiced grace, bowed toward that dias, and left the hall with careful, measured steps. Not a single soul in the court seemed to suspect. Even Marell and Amira didn’t seem that concerned. 

 

But Lyanna did. 

 

Across the room, she had gone pale, her hands trembling in her lap. Her goblet was untouched. Her eyes snapped to Melira’s, wide and pleading. Melira cringed inwardly, this was not something she wanted to deal with tonight. 

 

Melira beckoned her over, a smile on her lips. Lyanna had to hold back a run, but she made it over as quickly as possible. 

 

“They’ll come for me next,” Lyanna whispered as she approached the table. Melira threw her head back in a laugh, pretending that she had just heard something funny. But Lyanna’s voice was cracked, off-tilter, “Father will throw me under his boot, he’ll claim it is me-” 

 

Melira caught her wrist, pretending to fix the cuff on the edge of her dress sleeve. “Theron knows the truth. You will not be blamed.” 

 

“You don’t understand. My father- he will die before he betrays Marell! They will-”

 

“Lyanna,” Melira stood, putting a hand on each shoulder, “Your dress has a stain on it. Why don’t we go with Sera to a dressing room and fix yourself.” 

 

Sera came up behind them, ushering the two out of the Hall. Courtiers followed them, their eyes questioning, but thankfully, they stayed quiet in terms of voicing. Once they reached the dressing room, Melira closed the door behind them. Leaning on it for a moment as Lyanna collapsed to the floor and Sera settled next to her, wiping her tears that were now flowing freely. 

 

“You will not speak to anyone.” She turned to Sera, “Stay in here with her, do not let anyone in. Do not let anyone take Lyanna from this room.” 

 

“Yes, My Lady.” Sera soothed Lyanna’s hair, but her eyes were hard. 

 

Melira left them, closing the door behind her and then pressed a bit of her power into the wooden frame. The door shouldn’t open now, with the roots that weaved themselves together. She then swept to the West Antechamber, heart thundering against her ribs. 

 

The chamber was quiet, the doors shut. But as she pushed on the handle, an earsplitting scream made its way out. Melira entered, slipping through the smallest crack. Cern was on the floor, clutching at his wrist as a stone gray shade made its way up his arm. His eyes were wide, the scream now hoarse in pain. The air was thick with the stench of urine and something much more sewage like. Melira pressed her hand to her nose, trying to block the scent. 

 

Theron was standing over him, a glove pulled off and dumped to the floor. The air was cold around him, his eyes were harder than she had ever seen. He didn’t see her come in, his attention on the lord at his feet. 

 

Theron crouched, tapping Cern’s shoulder. A blossom of gray came from his touch, creeping like frost over the man’s skin and clothes. He screamed again, falling to his side in pain. “I’ll ask again,” Theron’s voice was dangerously soft, “Who is trying to kill my wife? And why did you make your daughter responsible?” 

 

“P-p-please, My King!” Cern’s voice was cracked and broken, “I don’t know!” 

 

Theron sighed, “Lying isn’t going to make this stop. Truth or I touch the other-”

 

Cern’s eyes widened as he caught Melira standing there. Her hands were over her mouth, she felt like she was going to vomit. “My Lady-” He screamed, “Please- I would never harm you! Have mercy!” 

 

Theron turned his head, “Get out, Melira.” 

 

She just stood there in the doorway, frozen. The scent of burning stone and fear soaked into her lungs, and for a moment it was like being back in the Brambles on her first hunting trip, watching a bear rip into a stag- violent, natural, and inevitable. Her hand was pressed to her stomach, though she hadn’t realized she’d done it. Nausea creeping up on her. The bile sitting in the back of her throat. 

 

She could stop this. She should stop this. 

 

Theron’s back was tense, spine sharp under the embroidered velvet of his coat. One hand hung by his side, but the other was still flexing faintly- waiting to use his power. The coldness that emanated from him licked along his face, waiting for the command. 

 

This was not a man in control. 

 

This was a man on the edge. 

 

Melira’s heart pounded, her breath shallow. She knew what Theron could do when his restraint gave out. She’d heard the stories, seen the damaged tables. This was punishment. This was justice. Or it was vengeance. She didn’t know anymore. 

 

Gods, she should stop him. She should tell him that this wasn’t the way. That the court was watching, even now. That if anyone found out, they’d never look at him the same way again. He told her a piece of him changed- got damaged and he had to put himself back together again. 

 

They would never look at her the same way again. 

 

But Cern signed the letter. He threw his daughter under his boot in the pretense of love. He had provided the poison. And Melira still remembered the cramps and the blood, the empty ache in her womb that still hadn’t gone away despite her prayers. She remembered the court’s silences. The shame she had felt. 

 

The shame that still bit away at her like a hungry dog. 

 

He had questioned her. Cern was the one who made her feel inadequate, advising the king to take on a little mistress on the side because Melira wasn't pregnant after spending one night with her new husband. Cern had shared that gleeful laugh with her mother during their wedding. He had been planning this from the start. 

 

She looked at Cern’s face- pleading, broken, glistening with sweat- and for one awful second, she wanted to watch him shatter.

 

And yet… 

 

She crossed the room without a word, and crouched beside her husband, pulling his hand away from Cern and cupping it between hers. 

 

“Stop, please,” she said quietly. 

 

“Melira-” His voice cracked like ice. 

 

“Enough,” she pushed her forehead into the side of his arm, “I beg of you.” 

 

He didn’t let go. But he didn’t reciprocate. He stayed crouched there, hands trembling, breath heaving in and out. 

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, finally. 

 

“I had to be.” 

 

Cern sobbed, curling into himself, but it felt like it was far away. Theron looked at her, really looked at her- like he was seeing through all of it, her mask, her crown, her calm. 

 

Theron’s expression broke. Just slightly. The anger drained from his face, leaving something stunned and uncertain behind. 

 

Melira looked back at Cern, her voice cold and steady. “If you want to live- if you want your daughter and son to live- you’ll give us names. All of them. You’ll tell us if Marell and his viper of a girl was in on it. You will give me every reason not to let my husband finish what he started.” 

 

“I-I-I will!” Cern cried. “I will, My Lady, please- please mercy-!” 

 

Melira rose slowly, her knees aching. She turned to Theron and extended a hand to him. He took it, rising with her, his fingers tight in hers. 

 

“Not like this,” she whispered. 

 

And together they left, leaving Cern sobbing on the stone floor. His hand banging uselessly on the floor as he tried to dislodge the stone from the skin. 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Theron stayed awake long after Melira’s breathing steadied. Her warmth pressed against him, her hair a faint tickle beneath his chin. Outside, the frost tapped softly against the windowpane, a restless whisper in the dark. 

 

He should have let himself rest. But his mind refused it.

 

Every quiet inhale she took only reminded him of how breakable she was- how easily the world could reach in and take what he owned. What he loved. 

 

Fuck, love. 

 

She had changed everything. 

 

When he first married her, he hadn’t expected to feel anything. At all. She was a treaty. A pretty, little, acceptable thing signed in ink. A noble girl with enough noble blood from the Brambles to keep peace between an empire and a dying south. He had thought she would do her duties, nothing more. 

 

But instead, she bloomed. 

 

And he, somehow, bloomed with her. 

 

She had made warmth a living thing in this palace. Laughter in the halls, green creeping up from cracks in his stone, the scent of honey and clover trailing behind her like a veil. He hadn’t known what it was to love someone until her- not this kind of love. Not the kind that burned quietly and devoured at the same time. It wasn’t gentle. It never could be. It was all-consuming. Terrifying. Necessary. 

 

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her. His fingers lingered there- on the curve of her neck, the soft pulse beneath her jaw. She stirred faintly, murmuring his name in her sleep. 

 

His chest ached. 

 

He had fought wars, endured sieges, stood knee-deep in blood and snow- but nothing in his life had ever undone him like hearing his name fall from her lips in the dark. Theron leaned around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “What have you done to me?” he whispered against her skin. 

 

He didn’t need an answer. 

 

She had made him soft in ways no blade could. She had made him human again. 

 

And he hated it. Gods, he hated it.

 

Because it meant that she’d found her way though his armor- through the years of ice he’d built around himself- and he hadn’t even noticed until it was far too late to stop her. He figured her watching him turn a man to stone for answers would’ve done that. But no. 

 

She laughed too easily, spoke too freely, touched too much. She held this stubbornness that no one else dared to keep. She didn’t flinch in terror at his temper, didn't recoil when he turned cold. She looked at him the way no one else ever had- as if he wasn’t just a king made of stone, but a man beneath it. 

 

It was infuriating. 

 

It was addicting. 

 

 And now, as he watched her sleep- hair tangled against the pillow, one hand loosely near her mouth- he felt that dull, unfamiliar ache in his chest that always followed her. The one that whispered mine in the quiet between breaths. 

 

He’d spent his life being feared. Feared by enemies, feared by allies, feared by the very people he’d sworn to protect. But not her. Never her. 

 

From that first meeting, Melira met his sharpness with a sting. Like those bees that she kept in her conservatory, she was fearless. She matched his anger with her patience, his rashness with her cleverness. It made no sense to him. She should hate him. She should despise him. And yet, somehow, she loved him. 

 

It was her that made the weight of the crown feel less like a shackle and more like something he could bear. 

 

He reached out before he realized what he was doing, brushing her cheek with the back of his finger. She stirred, her lips parting in a faint sigh, but she didn’t wake. 

 

He should’ve pulled away. He didn’t. 

 

Instead, his fingers lingered- tracing the faint line of her jaw, the curve of her throat, the soft pulse beneath his thumb. Her skin was warm, and that warmth bled into him like sunlight in spring. 

 

For the first time in years, he wanted something that wasn’t strategy or survival. He wanted her. Not as queen. Not as a peace treaty. Not as a symbol. 

 

Just her. 

 

And that terrified him more than any war ever could. 

 

Because wars he understood. Battles could be won. Enemies could be crushed. But this? This kind of wanting had no end. 

 

He drew back, exhaling through his nose. “You are dangerous, Queen Bee,” he murmured, so softly even he barely heard it. 

 

But when she shifted in her sleep, rolling toward him- as if she’d heard, as if she trusted him even in dreams- he couldn’t help the faint, helpless smile that curved his lips. 

 

Maybe she was dangerous.

 

Maybe he didn’t care. 

 

He laid back beside her, careful not to wake her, and stared at the ceiling until the first pale light of morning began to creep through the curtains. 

 

Sleep never came. 

 

Only her name- quiet, unbidded- repeated like prayers in his mind. 

Chapter 22: God's Grace

The first bells of Gods Grace woke her up, shaking her from head to toe. The sun had risen, its lights coming in through the window in white streaks. The room smelled of the herbs and roses that Theron had gifted her so many nights ago. 

 

Melira stirred beneath the now wool sheets, her toes curling in a stretch, her hands coming up to brush the sleep from her eyes. She was aware of something warm beside her, pulling her in closer. A finger trailed over her body like a ghost. Not her finger. 

 

His. 

 

Theron. He was beside her, already awake and just staring at his finger moving across her stomach. He traced the curve there, breathing slowly. Reverently. His head was near her chest, a kiss being pressed into her side in lazy motions. 

 

Melira didn't stop him, instead she ran a hand through his hair, pulling him up so she could kiss him instead. When they separated, she murmured, “You’re up early.” 

 

“I didn't want to miss a second of this,” he sighed, “Of you.” 

 

“Did you sleep?” 

 

“I dreamed,” he kissed her again, slowly, sweet, like he was savoring the feel of it. “You saved me last night.” 

 

Melira drew back just enough to study him.

 

He searched her face, his voice quiet but weighted: “I almost went too far. I almost lost another piece of myself. And you stopped me.” His hand slipped around her waist, pulling her carefully against him, like she was something fragile and precious. “I don’t deserve you.” 

 

Her chest ached at the confession, at the stark truth in it. She kissed him again, softer this time, her hands holding his face steady. “You have me anyway.” 

 

His hand slid down her stomach, soft, reverent. The warmth followed. She parted her legs, but he didn't move to touch her there. He kissed down her neck, over her collarbone, across the top of her breasts, but nothing more. 

 

“Theron,” she breathed his name, the beg right there in her voice. 

 

“May the Gods Grace you,” he whispered as he moved lower, pulling her nightgown down so he could kiss her breast fully. He clutched her tighter. Her hands tangled in the curls in the back of his neck. 

 

Then he pulled back, a small smile on his face. “I have gifts for you.” 

 

Melira huffed out an annoyed sigh. “Give them to me later,” she leaned up to kiss the underside of her jaw, her hip grinding against his. 

 

His hand slid down and low, his fingers finding her wet already. “Are you quite sure you can wait?” 

 

Melira gasped as he circled her clit before sliding along her folds. She arched into the touch. He moved again, this time pinching the skin before smoothing it out. His menstruations grew, his fingers moving around, barely touching, not inserting into her. He was getting her so close. 

 

 She groaned, “Very sure.” 

 

“If you say so,” his hand disappeared. He rolled off her, swinging his legs off the bed and reaching for his robe. 

 

Melira laid in the bed, half-delirious, but very frustrated. He just left her a mess, withering and wet on the bed. She felt cold and empty. How fucking dare he? 

 

She sat up, her face flushed. He was at his trunk, pulling out two black velvet wrapped lumps tied with golden string. When he looked at her, he burst out laughing. She must’ve looked so angry. 

 

“You said you wanted to wait on your gifts,” he crossed back over to her, holding one in each hand. “So, we can wait.” 

“I swear to the Gods, if you don't-” 

 

He placed a lump between her legs. “Open this one first,” he instructed. She glared at him, but followed his instructions, curiosity getting to her. 

 

Her fingers pulled at the string, undoing the bow with one tug. Her hands pushed the velvet to the side.

 

Inside the velvet wrap was a collection of books- not many, maybe four or five- but all were worn and hand bound in aged leather, bearing a distinct dirt and leaves scent. Melira ran her hand across the top cover, the imprint of its title long faded. She flipped through the pages- sketches of plants and trees, animals, small notes written in margins. And on the back cover, her father’s name. 

 

Melira blinked hard, trying to fight the tears that had suddenly sat in the back of her throat. 

 

She had thought these journals were gone. Burned away when the war hit the library on the outskirts of the Brambles. The last of her father’s knowledge of the ancient magics that existed were now sitting in her lap. 

 

“I found them in the vaults,” Theron said, quietly. “I wanted to make sure they went back to the right hands.” 

 

“I thought they were gone,” she looked up at him. “Thank you.” 

 

He passed her the second gift. This one was smaller, lighter. She put the books to the side, gently, promising silently to read them at another time. Her fingers fumbled on the string, shaking from the control of keeping herself in check. 

 

Inside, resting on the velvet was a delicate hair piece. A long falcon feather, pale at the tip and dark at the base, had been trimmed and set into a clasp of silver. Woven into the base were tiny metal inlays of hawthorn leaves, barely visible unless the light hit it just right. 

 

Melira’s finger pressed over the leaves, feeling the impression dig into her skin. Her namesake, Hawthorne, attached to what he found as his sanctuary. “It's beautiful,” she whispered. 

 

“It's Hollow’s feather,” Theron finally sat on the bed, “Something to remind you, you can fly free anytime you wish.” 

 

Melira didn't speak, her finger brushed through the barbs of the feather. There was no more frustration, despite what her body was now desperately craving. 

 

“I have a gift for you too,” Melira looked up at him. When he didn't answer, she swung her legs over the bed and reached for her trunk. She pulled out the key, now wrapped in a swatch of honey yellow silk and tied with a piece of twine. She turned and gave it to him. 

 

She watched as he untied the string with gentle hands, pushing the silk away to reveal the key. It had been polished, the black iron now shined like obsidian. The handle still had the mountains, but now engraved into them were a braided bramble branch, the teeth shaped to fit perfectly into the lock. 

 

“A key?” Theron turned it over in his hands, eyebrows raised. 

 

“To the conservatory,” Melira crawled back into the bed, kneeling in front of him. “To share my sanctuary with you.” 

 

“It was meant to be a place for you, not-” 

 

Melira closed the distance and kissed him, hard. His hands came up around her waist, one sliding up to the ends of her hair. When she pulled back, she whispered, “Let it be a place for us.” 

 

He didn't respond, not with words. His fingers grazed over the metal mountains. She was afraid she overreached or under thought the gift. That moment of trust that she wanted so badly for him to understand, he wouldn't accept it. 

 

It was silent for a while, just the two of them enjoying each other’s company. Soft touches here and there. Then he looked up at her. There was something raw and vulnerable on his face, one that didn't have words to match. He kissed her, brushing her cheek with his fingers. 

 

“I love you.” 

 

Melira stuttered. The open admission to his feelings. The crack in the stone. She didn’t know what to think or say. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. The air had gone still, filled with a breath that was caught in the back of someone’s throat. He loves her. 

 

“I didn’t need to hear it,” Melira whispered, “I could tell with your actions.” 

 

“But I needed to say it,” Theron pushed himself closer to her. His eyes were too open, too clear. They were stone-gray, they were glass. “Ten thousand actions could never hide what I learned to feel for you.” 

 

She leaned into him, their foreheads touching. She knew the moment he gave her the conservatory with her bees; when he shoved his wrist into her face and she could smell his scent on her; when he sat by her bedside and told her that losing his child wasn’t her fault. All the little things, the looks, the teaching, the strength… she knew all along. 

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

When the call for worship came, Melira and Theron did their duties and attended. They stood in the front of the temple, before the veiled faces of the gods- today was the start of the rare time of year where the gods reminded them that their fates were not always watched. The priest anointed their brows with sacred oil, its sharp scent of clove and pine filling their nostrils. Melira bowed her head in reverence. Just one, she silently said to the Gods, Just one child to prove everything in me to him. To them. 

 

If the Gods had something planned, they didn’t bother giving her the response. 

 

They then moved on to the festival itself, hand in hand. Snow had fallen overnight, covering the land in a fresh white blanket. The main paths were clear but they had left swatches of land alone for children. They raced through the slush, flinging snowballs and shrieking with delight, while vendors around them shouted out their wares- sugar-glazed almonds candied fruits, and a delectable drink that Theron procured for them called hot chocolate. 

 

Theron seemed content to observe the children playing from the side, but Melira nudged him gently. 

 

“Do you know what I miss about winter in the Brambles?” She asked in a quiet voice. 

 

“What?” He raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Making snowfolk.” 

 

“I beg your pardon?” 

 

She pulled on his hand, leading him to a corner the children had neglected playing in. “Snowfolk,” she continued, “With sticks for arms and coal for eyes. I would make a whole army or village.” 

 

“And you were their queen?” 

 

“Obviously,” Melira turned to face him.

 

He made a sound of amusement, and before he could reply, Melira was crouching in the snow, bundling and packing a lump together to form the torso with quick practiced hands. Theron hesitated, just watching her. 

 

“Go get me sticks and something for the face,” she instructed, “Like a carrot.” 

 

He nodded hesitantly, but went off towards the vendors. When he returned, it was with two short sticks, a handful of stones, and a bright orange carrot he purchased from a farmer. He approached Melira like a soldier preparing himself for battle. 

 

“Your tools, Snow Queen.” 

 

“Why thank you, steward,” Melira graciously accepted. 

 

“I'm a king.” 

 

“And you just fetched me items,” she teased, “that makes you a steward. Help me with the head.” 

 

He sighed but knelt beside her. Together, they packed the snow into a roughly rounded head. She showed him how to hollow out where the eyes and smile would go before placing the stones in . The face was lopsided but friendly looking. The carrot stuck out proudly. She handed him the sticks for the arms. 

 

He stuck them in a bit too enthusiastically and the whole snowman slumped to one side. 

 

Melira laughed, breathless and bright. “You maimed him!” 

 

Theron scowled, “He’s got character now.” 

 

They built two more, Melira sacrificing her scarf for one and Theron breaking an extra stick into little pieces to make a crown for the other. It was silly and simple, but it was as real as could be. 

 

As Theron scooped up another handful of snow to push into a new snowman, she saw his collar open just enough to see the skin underneath. Too easy.

 

Melira scooped up a small handful, stepping gingerly up to him and dumped the snow into the opening. 

 

He froze as the snow hissed against his skin. 

 

Melira was already running. 

 

She shrieked with laughter as he gave chase, scooping up a snowball of his own. She ran in a wide arc, staying on along the edge. He caught her anyway, arms wrapping around her waist and her feet lifted into the air. They spun from the momentum, she kicked her legs uselessly, trying to free herself from his grip without any real effort. 

 

“That was mean,” he growled in her ear. 

 

“You loved it,” she shot back, breathless. She half-twisted in his arms, aiming a kiss on his nose. 

 

“I love you,” he lowered her gently, kissing her slowly as he did. His gaze had softened, he looked around for a moment. “Come.” 

 

He didn't wait for permission. Instead, he took her hand and led her off the open area- past the stalls, past lingering looks and music, until the sounds of the festival and their guards had faded behind a dusted wall. A hidden alcove tucked between two parts of the palace, where tall stone hedges curled like guarding sentinels and an old stone bench waited, covered in snow. 

 

Melira let him guide her there, heart thudding from the excitement. 

 

Theron turned once they were alone, snow crunching under his boots. He looked at her as though he was trying to memorize the sight of her flushed face, dancing eyes, and the snow melting in her hair. 

 

“Do you think disappearing is wise?” Melira asked, playfully fiddling with the clasp on his coat. 

 

“I didn't think anyone should see how I'm about to punish you for that little stunt back there.” 

 

Melira blushed hard, lowering her gaze. That sent a thrill through her. It shouldn’t have, but it did. 

 

Theron stepped closer, his fingers brushing the edge of her jaw, tilting her face back up toward him. “No hiding, now,” he said softly. 

 

“I wasn’t,” she whispered back, breath catching as he leaned in. 

 

He kissed her again, but this time it wasn’t playful. It was deep and slow, his teeth catching on her lower lip. The kind that stole all the warmth from her hands and poured it straight into her chest. One hand slipped beneath the edge of her cloak, fingers finding her waist. She shivered- not from the cold. 

 

Their lips parted with a sound too soft for the snow to echo. Melira pulled on his coat, trying to get him to close the distance between them. But he was faster, twisting her around so her back was to him. 

 

“Hands on the wall,” he murmured, running his own hands along her waist and pulling up her dress. When she obeyed, he squeezed the back of her thighs, sliding his hand up and over her behind. She hissed as the cold brushed against the bare skin, as his heat brushed against hers. His fingers found her cunt, sliding through her folds. She moaned, pushing back against his touch. 

 

“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispered. 

 

Melira strained her neck to look back at him, “I thought I already did?” 

 

Theron’s lips curved into a smirk as he leaned over her, his breath warm against her skin. His hands moved with deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment, as he pushed her gown up, exposing her bare flesh to the cold. Melira shivered, not just from the temperature but from the way his gaze devoured her. His touch, when it came was firm, hard, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist before slipping lower. She arched her back instinctively, her body responding to his command before he spoke it. 

 

“Still so eager to please me,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her collarbone, his breath sending shivers down her spine. His fingers found the edge of her undergarments, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he slid them aside, exposing her to the cold air and his hungry gaze. Melira’s breath hitched as he leaned closer, his lips pressing against her skin, his tongue tracing a path over her earlobe. His touch was deliberate, calculated, each movement designed to heighten her anticipation. 

 

His fingers slipped between her thighs, his touch firm but gentle as he parted her folds. Malaria gasped, her body tensing as he pressed a single finger inside her, his touch slow and deliberate. She was already slick, her body responding to his dominance with an eagerness that bordered on desperation. He angled his hand, curling his finger just right, and she whimpered, her breath forming his name in the cold air. 

 

“Theron,” she murmured, her voice a mix of a plea and surrender. 

 

He steadied her hip with his other hand, his grip firm as he began to move, his finger sliding in and out of her with a rhythm that was both teasing and relentless. Melira’s body rose to meet each thrust, her core tightening around him, her pleasure building with every stroke. She could feel his gaze on her, intense, focused, as if mapping her responses, learning the language of her body. She felt her breath quicken, her moans growing raw and desperate as the coil of pleasure tightened within her. 

 

Her head dropped back, her hair spilling down as she surrendered to the sensations. She was close- so fucking close- her body trembling on the edge of release. But just as she thought she would shatter, his hand stilled, then withdrew. The emptiness was jarring, a void where his touch had been, and Melira’s eyes fluttered open, confusion and longing warring within her. 

 

Before she could voice her protest, a sharp, icy cold replaced his touch. She twisted her head, her gaze landing on Theron’s smirk. He was holding her still, a handful of snow melting against her bare flesh. The cold was a shock, one that sent a yelp from her lips, biting through the heat, searing her skin as it dripped down her leg. Her body shuddered, caught between the frosty pain and the sudden pleasure, her breath hitched her legs trembling. 

 

Theron leaned over her again, running a hand over her behind and pinching her freezing clit. “That is vengeance,” he hummed. He began to warm her back up sliding his fingers back over her folds, slipping his finger into her pulling a low moan from her. 

 

She arched backwards into it, silently forgiving him for the shock. The vengeance broke her climb, but he was slowly building her back up. His name came out in a whimper, a whisper, a moan. And then she felt his tip prodding at her entrance, sliding down through her wetness. He teased her for only a moment, before pushing into her fully. 

 

It was quick, rough, a pure search for both of their reliefs. Her little shouts came out with the rhythm of his thrusts. His hand found a hold on the back of her dress, pulling hard enough for the collar to come up and cut into her throat. Melira’s eyes closed, her head falling forwards in ecstasy. Her groans and moans were echoing off the stone walls around them, she was sure that the people they left behind were hearing each one. 

 

Theron was animalistic, punishing. He kept muttering about how good she felt, how incredibly tight she was. The hand that was braced on her hip dipped down to press against her clit, circling and pinching. That made the whiteness build faster, and Melira shrieked as it overcame her, fingers digging into the stone. 

 

He came only moments later, continuing his movements as she tightened and clutched around him. He gripped her tight, letting her climax around him and enjoying his own release with his head thrown back and eyes closed. 

 

Melira almost collapsed into the snow, but Theron caught her, scooping her up in his arms and sitting down on the bench, her across his lap. She nuzzles into his neck, his hand landing on the curve of her stomach. 

 

“You will be the death of me, Melira,” he said into her hair. 

 

“Better me than the Gods,” she responded. 

 

He chuckled at that. They didn't move for a long time, his hand smoothing up to cup her chin, kissing her softly and slowly. Her fingers tracing the pattern on his coat. The hush of winter around them felt sacred, the cold air was biting but cozy. The softness that they had finally gained had wrapped them up with a ribbon. 

 

Tonight, politics will begin again at the ball. But for now, they exist in their own world. Basking in the gentle touches and hopefulness of the blindness of the gods. 

Chapter 23: Balls and Gifts

Notes:

Happy Thanksgiving to anyone who celebrates!

Figured I'd post this today as this weekend is gonna be a busy one!

I just want to say how thankful I am for those that read and leave kudos, it's great to know that someone out there is enjoying Melira and Theron's story.

The Hall had been transformed once again. It sparkled like a frosted lake, candles flickered and danced with each passing breeze of a guest. The air smelled of pine, cinnamon, and various perfumes. The colors of candy melted together as nobles greeted each other with polite words and the holiday greeting. Music and laughter swelled from the crowd, crushing out any secrets that might have spilled out on the floor. But it fell silent when Melira entered by Theron’s side. 

 

She descended the hall like the sun, her dress catching the light like spun honey. The fabric was pale gold- almost ivory, but kissed with warmth, flowing over her body like melted candlewax. The bodice clung to her with elegant simplicity, the skirts full but weightless. A crown of early winter blossoms and tiny sunstones rested on her head, a silent tribute to both their lands. She looked every inch a queen, radiant and untouchable. 

 

Gods, did she feel powerful. Theron looked proud, his head high, his hand tight on hers as it rested on his arms. The crowd parted to let them through. It was tradition that, on this night, the court and chosen commoners would present their gifts to the royal pair- symbolic offerings of loyalty, hope, and ambition. When they reached their seats that would overlook the crowd, they turned. Lyanna and Sera took their place behind them, ready to help Theron’s manservant remove gifts and put them on the viewing table to their right. Theron’s hand didn’t leave hers as they settled. 

 

One by one, the gifts were brought forward. 

 

From the Western Fronts, a miniature tree with it’s branches dipping into a pool of coins, was brought forward- a wish for prosperity.

 

A foreign emissary offered rare silks, dyed the color of blood and gold- a reminder that sacrifices give way to new growth. 

 

The village representative gave them a woven blanket, stitched with flowers- a prayer for warmth in the cold to come. 

 

The temple gave them sacred oil- a gift from the gods to show their blessing on the couple. 

 

Melira smiled at each in turn, offering thanks and taking note. Court politics were spoken not with words tonight, but with symbols. 

 

Then came the box. 

 

It was small. Unadorned. The servant who brought it forward trembled slightly. Melira reached for it, setting it on her lap. Most of those that approached them tonight were nervous, scared their gift would be deemed an insult to the royal household. When she opened it, her heart stopped and the world around her drained itself of color. 

 

Inside, settled into a bed of black silk, was a dead wasp. Its wings are perfectly preserved in amber resin. Nothing else. No message. No mark of sender. A hum of tension rippled outward like a dropped stone in a still pond. Everyone below craned their neck to see what had caused their queen to break. 

 

Theron’s jaw tensed, his eyes flashed around the crowd, trying to pinpoint the sender by the reactions alone. Melira just stared at it, trying to come up with something to say. She wouldn’t flinch, not here. Not now. 

 

It wasn’t a gift, it was a warning. 

 

Theron went to stand, she knew he would demand someone step forward. But she stopped him with a touch and instead smiled at the servant, “Tell whoever sent you to deliver this: thank you.” 

 

That sent a murmur through the crowd, and Theron resettled next to her, although he was stiff and hard to the touch. He nodded in approval at her action. She handed it over to Sera and barely had time to breathe before the steward announced: 

 

“Lady Eardine Halethorne, keeper of the West Estate, former Lady of the Brambles.” 

 

So she did come. Melira had wondered if her mother had received the invite she sent out. It wasn’t necessary for her mother to appear, but Melira gave the courtesy out of curiosity. Her mother all but admitted that she was a part of the plot when it came to her poisoning, and she was tired of having to hide behind her power to make her mother stop. At least, here, publicly, there was nothing the women could do to cause Melira more pain. 

 

She hoped. 

 

Theron reached for her again, as if his hand could be a shield for whatever was about to occur. But Melira shook her head slightly. She won’t show fear. Not here. Not with everyone watching. 

 

Eardine curtsied deeply. To the court, it looked proper, respectful. But Melira took it as mockery- the same kind she’d learn to endure as a child. The bow of a serpent before it struck. 

 

“My queen,” she began, her voice syrup-sweet. “My daughter, I offer this humble gift to you. May it be a reminder of where you came from as you grow into your new role.” 

 

Melira’s stomach coiled. Her blood turned cold. She wanted to dismiss the gift, but that would be wrong. Instead she forced herself to meet her mother’s eyes. 

 

Two servants stepped forward. Between them was a long, wooden case carved with pictures of trees. They opened it for her, and Melira had to grip her chair tightly to keep from pushing it away. The court leaned in with vague interest, expecting an ornamental blade or perhaps some family token. 

 

Nestled against black velvet lay a thin birch rod, smooth and ghost-pale, no longer than her forearm. Its handle had been wrapped in green silk, and the bottom was capped with a delicate band of silver etched in curling vinework. It was beautiful- painfully so. 

 

Melira knew exactly what it was. 

 

A switch. 

 

Her back screamed at the memory of being hit with it. The scars felt like they had reopened. It was the same kind of switch her mother had used when Melira was under her “care”- when she was forced to endure the discipline that existed from a woman who hated her. The same switch that had left the welts where the world couldn’t see them. Granted, this one was newer, carved with care, but it was a tribute to all she had endured. 

 

A weapon disguised as sentiment. 

 

A card was set before it, her mother’s careful, curing hand had written: “For discipline, tradition, and the strength of queens.” 

 

Her throat tightened. Around her, courtiers murmured, admiring the craftsmanship, oblivious to the string behind it. Only Theron seemed to notice her stillness. He took over waving it away then stood. 

 

The low murmur of the ball quieted instantly. His black and silver attire shimmered faintly under the chandelier light, and when he spoke, his voice was the kind that carried- calm, measured, unmistakable stone. 

“On behalf of Queen Melira and myself,” he said, his pale eyes scanning the room, “we offer our thanks for the generosity shown tonight. Each gift, whether symbolic, practical, or personal, will be remembered.” 

 

He paused, letting that hang in the air just long enough for the subtle meaning to sink in. 

 

“And as tradition, I have one of my own to offer.” 

 

Melira readied herself to stand, he was about to announce her pregnancy. 

 

He continued, “By royal decree, and in accordance with our newly ratified treaty, the territory known as the Brambles shall now be designated a royal reserve- protected under the crown’s name in perpetuity. No blade shall be raised there without royal consent. Its lands, waters, and traditions are henceforth sovereign and sacred.” 

 

Gasps rippled through the crowd- some from shock, others from disapproval. The Brambles had long been dismissed as wild and untamed, too dangerous or distant to matter. But to Melira… it was home. 

 

Now it was protected. 

 

No one could get their hands on it. 

 

They won.

 

She stared at Theron, startled. He had not told her this was coming. When she spied papers with the Brambles written on it, he brushed her off. Only a flicker of warmth beneath his otherwise regal bearing. 

 

It took her a moment to collect herself, to find the words to speak and stand. When she did, it was slow. “I had not planned to speak this evening,” Melira said, her voice clear of the shakiness she was feeling. “But it seems the king has a habit of surprising me. It was not the announcement I had thought he would make.” 

 

A hushed laughter came over the crowd. 

 

She let it settle before continuing. “Since he has claimed the Brambles under the crown’s protection, I must claim something of my own. For too long, my people have been silenced, treated as exiles within our own lands. Tonight, that ends.” 

 

She lifted her chin, meeting the eyes of lords and courtiers alike. Some leaned forward, sensing what was coming. Others looked visibly uneasy. 

 

“By my authority, as Queen Consort, I restore my house- House Halethorne- to it’s rightful place on the council and with a seat in this hall. Their line- my line- will be seated once more among the peers of this realm. To ensure that the Brambles never again go voiceless, a representative chosen by the people will hold a permanent chair on the royal council.” 

 

Her eyes scanned the crowd until it landed on Marell. “Whether I am Queen or not.” 

 

The silence was sharp, heavy. A wave of whispers burst almost immediately after- shock, outrage, incredulity. To restore a disgraced house? One that caused a war? To give the wild forest a seat among nobility? It was, to them, unthinkable. 

 

But Melira stood tall, her voice carrying above the din. “We are no longer the forgotten wilderness. The Brambles are a part of the crown.” 

All she needed now was an heir to keep that from being disputed. Theron moved to her side, his hand sliding into hers- a show of force and agreement. The orchestra struck up again, too soon, too loud, as if to drown the thunder that had just broken the hall. But Melira felt it in her bones: tonight the Brambles had risen, and nothing could push them back into the shadows. 

 

Theron and her greeted courtiers as they descended the dias, the need to suck up to the royal couple outweighing their hatred for Melira’s declaration. Many gave their holiday well wishes. Lord Halven was among them, his wide body making others give way. He was dressed in deep plum, his fingers still covered in rings. 

 

He bowed low, “May the Gods Grace you, your Highnesses.” 

 

“Thank you, Lord Halven. And to you as well.” Theron answered for both of them. 

 

“I also want to apologize,” he turned slightly, angling his body so there was a clear view of her mother who had migrated to Lord Marell’s side. “Had I known she would actually attend, I would have ensured a distraction… or a delay.” 

 

Melira’s breath hitched only slightly, “No apology necessary, my Lord.” 

 

Still, Halven stepped closer, “If there’s anything I can do to… lessen her presence while she’s here. Quietly. It needn’t be a public matter.” 

 

Melira reached forward to take his hand, grateful for the offer beneath the formality. “There will be,” she said, equally quiet. “But it must be done in shadow, not in flame.” 

 

Understanding flickered across his face. “Then when the shadows call, let me know.” 

 

The conversation turned to updates on the provinces and trade routes he oversaw, as well as general winter discussions. But the loyalty was there and for that Melira was grateful. Vellian appeared by Theron’s side at some point, pushing a cup of wine into his grip. Their conversation was light but in low tones. Melira couldn’t hear what they were saying into each other’s ear.  

 

When the music changed, Vellian extended his hand. “May I have this dance, Your Majesty?” 

 

Melira smiled, looking at Theron for a nod of approval. Once it was given, she accepted it. Vellian pulled her to the dance floor, his hand resting respectfully on her waist, the other clasping hers lightly.

 

 “I’m shocked King Theron allowed you to sweep me away,” Melira commented.

 

“I’ve bribed him with my charm,” Vellian responded with a grin, “Although to be perfectly honest, he’s a horrible dancer. He used to step on Lyanna’s toes all the time in dance class.” Vellian was a good dancer. Smooth and graceful, guiding her through the steps with a practiced ease. He danced like someone who knew the steps personally and intimately, and wanted his partner to feel the same. 

 

“You seemed surprised,” he continued, “At the Brambles being made a royal reserve.” 

 

“I was,” Melira admitted. “It was not a gift I could’ve ever dreamed of. A very clever one to keep it out of other’s hands.” 

 

A smirk, “I thought the same thing.” 

 

They moved along, twirling and then back again. Melira saw women fan themselves as he came by, their eyes jealous at how he held her. He truly was the wanted bachelor in the mix. When they passed Marell and Amira, the glare was heated and harsh. 

 

“Who knew a little bee could make such powerful enemies in court,” Vellian murmured. 

 

“I’ve also made some powerful allies,” Melira shot back, “Unless you consider yourself an enemy now?” 

 

“After seeing how soft the king has become?” Vellian raised an eyebrow, “Never. Unless…”

 

“What?” 

 

“I’d like permission to formally court your Lady-in-Waiting. Sera.” 

 

Melira peeked over his shoulder at where Sera was laughing at something that some courtier was saying. She was dressed in a light green with white swirls of flowers. Her hair was curled slightly around her face, with a small flower tucked into it. “You don’t need my permission.” 

 

“But I do, “ Vellian explained, “Any romance between nobility must be approved by both sides of the royal household. I’ve already asked Theron, now I need to ask you. If you wanted you could even command her to marry me without the official courting. You have full control over any unmarried woman in this room.” 

 

Her eyes landed on Amira again. If that was the case, then that means…. 

 

She shook her head, “Sera is hard to impress and a force to be reckoned with.” 

 

“Oh good,” he grinned, giving her one last spin as the music ended, “I do love a challenge.” 

 

They bowed to each other, “Then good luck, Lord Vellian.” Melira started her way back to Theron’s side, but her hand was grabbed as the next waltz started. 

 

“One last dance, Your Majesty?” 

 

Melira turned. Marell had his hand on her wrist, tight and demanding. She suppressed a shiver. Vellian stalled beside her, ready to push the man off if she wanted to. She could feel Theron’s stone-glare from here. 

 

“I would be honored, my Lord.” 

 

The waltz was slow and deep, Marell’s hand was professional and polite, not necessarily guiding her through the steps, more like forcing her to follow. Melira felt cold, impersonal but at the same time intrigued. 

 

She tried to keep herself aloof, uninterested. But she could tell from how people watched she was failing, miserably. Instead she studied the man more closely. 

 

He was tall, with greying red hair. His eyes had the same tightness that Amira held, although on him it came from years of hardship and discipline. He was broad but not muscular, firm but not stone. It was almost as if he was trying to imitate Theron’s physique but couldn't quite figure it out. His coldness was clammy, not harsh or off-putting, more like a snake caught in the grass. 

 

And he hated her. He blamed her for something that she wasn't even born for. His feud with her father, childish and ridiculous now, still lasted to this day. He wanted her land, the new reserve ruling must’ve killed him inside. 

 

But why her? If he wanted the land, he could've asked. He could've been pleasant, sucked up to her. Instead he pitted his own daughter against her, woman against woman. All for land and an extra vote. 

 

Unless there was more. 

 

Unnerved by the silence, Melira broke it with a question. 

 

“Why do you hate me?” 

Marell’s grip didn't lessen, his eyes though had turned on her. He no longer held poise, but something more, something curious. Like a cat toying with its meal before pouncing. The corners of his mouth twitch, as if she had said something funny. 

 

“I don't,” he said simply, his voice smooth like velvet. “Not you. Not exactly.” 

 

Melira raised an eyebrow, “A strange way to show your affection then.” 

 

He chuckled, a low sound that didn't meet his eyes. The music swelled and he spun her with surprising precision, bringing her back again just as the music lowered itself. “You make my blood boil, it’s true,” he said softly, “Just not for the reasons you think.” 

 

Melira’s body stayed rigid, “Then enlighten me, my Lord.” 

 

“It is not you I despise, your Highness. It is what you represent. What your so-called crown upholds. That place called, ‘the Brambles’,” he said the word like there was ash in his mouth. “It should've rotted beneath the feet of the late king, when the Second War truly struck it. Your blood shouldn’t exist. Your father was an idiot, your mother a power-hungry harlot. And yet, here is a girl playing at being queen. Myth and wilderness crowned in gold, guarded by wolves and fools.” 

 

“It is the legacy you despise, then.” 

 

“I despise weakness masquerading as strength,” he corrected her, although it felt like the heel of a boot on her. “You rule with heart and memory- sentiment. Rime needs steel. I refuse to watch this court rot with the rest of your land, I refuse to let your blood poison it.” 

 

Melira didn't miss a beat, “And since you are so familiar with poison, you would know best.” 

 

“I beg your pardon, your Majesty?”

 

“You poisoned me,” she hissed, halting the dance. They were close enough to the edge to make people think she had just grown weary, nothing to draw suspicion. “You. It might not have been your hand that poured the drink or your letters sending for the two vials that summoned death to the palace- but it was you. You’ve tried to erase my bloodline from the moment I entered this place.” 

 

His eyes narrowed, “I’d advise you to be careful of your accusation.” 

 

“Cern told us,” She was angry, the buzz building in her with dangerous warmth. “As his arm turned to stone. Lyanna confirmed it. I may be emotional, Lord Marell, but at least I speak the truth and not dance around it.” 

 

Marell’s nostrils flared- subtle but enough to know she got to him. A ripple of emotion through a man who kept his in check behind a fake stone mask. He might’ve hit from the shadows, lurking in the background and letting others do dirty work, but Melira saw things in the sun. Including him. 

 

“I see,” he recomposed himself, even straightening his shoulders. “If that is the case, then why dance at all? You’ve already decided the outcome, you’ve placed the blame.” He looked over his shoulder at the dias. Theron was boring a hole through his head with the intensity of his glare. Vellian was trying to distract him, but Melira could tell it wasn't working. 

 

He turned back to her, “If you truly want the truth, Queen Melira, then set your sights on my daughter. I am not the only one complicit in this little story you concocted.” 

 

Little fucker, Melira hissed in her head. He was throwing his daughter to the wolves, letting her take the blame for something she was probably forced to do. Melira didn't like the girl, but that doesn't mean she deserves her father’s blame. 

 

Melira took one last look at him, finally seeing the man he truly was. For all the strategy, all the calculations, all of the stupidity of this endless political war, he was nothing but something trying to outlive something else. 

 

And he would kill for it. 

 

The music was reaching the end. Melira curtised, her ivory gold dress spilling to the sides of her like a waterfall, her crown catching the light just right. This wasn't a bow to show respect, this was one that was solemn enough for a funeral. 

 

“May the Gods’ Grace bless you, Lord Marell,” Melira said as she stood. “I certainly hope their blindness helps your own.” 

 

She made her way back to the dias, her head higher than it had been moments before. The court parted for her and it felt like they all sighed as she took her seat beside Theron. 

 

 “I thought there was going to be blood on the floor,” Vellian joked over his cup of wine. “I’m sad to see there isn't.” 

 

“What happened?” Theron’s hand went for hers, pulling her close so she could recount the event in a whisper. 

 

When she was done, she noticed that the goblet he was holding, and its contents, had turned to stone. He was angry. Angrier than she was. 

 

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Theron growled, “I’ll call-” 

 

“No,” Melira cut him off, “Vellian can keep an eye on him. I need to get to Amira first, I have a plan on getting her out of here. If she’s smart, she’ll take this last chance, if not, then we kill them.” 

 

“He just admitted-” 

 

“Yes, he did.” Melira cupped Theron’s cheek, “You’re right. But this is a threat that I need to eliminate. I love you, but let me deal with this.” 

 

Theron leaned in her touch, jaw tense beneath her palm. His stone-gray eyes searched hers for a long moment before he let out a low breath. “Fine. But if this is not resolved by morning, it’ll make what I did to Cern child's-play.”

 

Melira gave a firm nod, brushing her thumb over his cheek as a thank you. Then she stood, making her way through the crowd once more. 

 

The music had shifted into something light and careless again- completely at odds with the weight in her chest. Amira hadn't filed when she was given the chance. That, in of itself, had spoken louder than words. 

 

She found the woman standing along the edge of the ballroom, nursing a cup of wine in her hands. Her eyes were on Lyanna as she flirted through a group of courtiers trying to get on Melira's good side. Her red hair looked like blood in this lighting, dark and broody. Like a ghost, half-there, just floating on the edge of existence. 

 

“You didn’t take my offer,” Melira said, her voice soft, like talking to a wounded animal. 

 

Amira didn’t look at her. “Why should I?” she asked, voice cool. 

 

Melira sighed. “He’s making you the scapegoat, Amira. You know that.” 

 

“Oh, how kind of you to come all this way to pity me.” Her voice turned bitter. “You win the throne, now you're offering charity? Please.” 

 

Melira’s voice sharpened. “This isn’t charity. It’s a warning. Your father is done. He won’t go down without dragging as many people down with him, and you are in a convenient spot to be pulled.” 

 

“I’m not stupid,” Amira snapped. “I know what he’s doing.” 

 

“Then why did you stay?”

 

Amira finally turned to face her, eyes flashing. “Because it’s better than taking scraps from you. I don’t need your protection.”

 

“No,” Melira said softly. “You need a way out.” 

 

She stepped closer, lowering her voice so no one else had the chance to overhear. “He’s already made you the villain. You’ll be arrested in the morning, probably by the same people who used to bow to you. And if it’s not arrest, it’s exile. Alone. Powerless. Stripped of everything.” 

 

Amira didn’t flinch, “So now you’re threatening me?” 

 

“I’m offering you one last chance. Take it or don’t. But know that I see what he’s done to you.” 

 

“You see nothing.” The mask cracked for just a moment- Amira’s eyes glittered with something like pain, something she quickly buried. “You stand there in your gold crown and perfect dress, acting like you’ve suffered. You have no idea what it’s like to live in someone’s shadow your whole life, to be sharpened like a blade and then left to rust the second you lose your edge.”

 

Melira didn’t respond to that. There was no point in comparing their two lives. Instead she just sighed and said, “I can arrange a marriage for you. A minor house, inconsequential to the court, far away from here. You can keep your title, your safety. Your life.” 

 

Amira’s hands clenched around the stem of her glass. “And if I say no?” 

 

“You can’t. Not twice.” 

 

She let the words hang between them. 

 

“I won’t take your pity,” Amira spat. 

 

“Then take my pragmatism,” Melira replied. “This is the final chance, Amira.” 

 

She left her standing there, the music rising around them. Amira stared after her, jaw tight, pride warring with the bitter knowledge that she was already halfway to the execution block. 

 

She climbed the dais again. She can't say she didn't try to save Amira from a date she didn't deserve, not fully. It almost made Melira feel worse for her actions. Maybe she should've let Theron arrest them, not even give Amira or her father the night. There would still be a full investigation, questioning, and most likely judging of their sentences. Plus, Marell had a son. He would need to be taken care of as well. 

 

Court politics was exhausting. 

 

 As Melira sat beside Theron, the weight of everything that had transpired fell on to her shoulders like a boulder. Her crown felt heavier, her dress too tight, her shoes pinched her feet. The gilded warmth of the ballroom has turned suffocating, the music and laughter grated on her ears like cat screams. 

 

Theron took her hand again, reaching across the open space between them. This thumb brushed the skin on the underside of her wrist, grounding her. 

 

“She’s not taking the offer, is she?” He sounded almost disappointed. Melira winced internally, Amira was his friend growing up, or at least a familiar face. This must feel like the ultimate betrayal for him. 

 

“No,” Melira sighed, “I don't think she will.” 

 

Theron nodded but didn't respond. Tomorrow, he will deal with this. He will take over, have Vellian start the investigation and the questioning. Marell, Amira, Cern- they were no longer her concern. 

 

And maybe that was a good thing. 

 

Melira sat back in her chair, watching the crowd of nobles before her. Each one had their own agenda, their own plans for power, love, survival. There was no way for her to control it all. If queens were meant to, they wouldn't need a king. Beside her sat a man who wanted to protect her, who was willing to kill her enemies without a second glance. Handing over anyone who wronged her was the easy solution. 

 

But was it right? 

 

She looked over at Theron, watching as he sat too stiffly, eyes too hard, mouth frowning just enough. He didn't view what he wanted to do as wrong. He viewed their deaths, their arrests, their betrayals, as a part of court life. This was normal. Yes, he was angry. He was furious, she could tell just from the angle of his head, the way his hand draped down from the arm rest. But he was also composed, as if he was used to holding it all in. 

 

Maybe that's what control truly was. The ability to feel anything, but keep it bottled up. 

 

Below the dais, the musicians had started the final waltz of the night. Nobles swept across the floor again, a sea of colors. If they had felt the tension in the air, they were ignoring it. Maybe, like Theron and unlike Melira, they were used to it. Oblivious to the morning light that would place their home on fire. 

 

“We need to shut the palace down,” Melira whispered, “No one is allowed to leave. Not without permission.” 

 

Theron nodded in agreement and tapped Vellian’s arm to tell him the same directions. Soon, court protocol would start sending noble families to bed, bowing off before the midnight guard changed over. She watched as Marell and Amira started the chain, joining arms together as they discussed what both had spoken about with Melira. Secrets among secrets. 

 

“Are you ready?” Theron asked. Melira nodded, standing and making her way through the crowd. One last chorus of well wishes hit deaf ears. Theron took a longer time behind her, thanking their guests with a firm handshake or nod of approval. 

 

By the time they had reached their bedchambers, Melira was exhausted. She collapsed on the bed, arms out across it with an exaggerating sigh. Theron was undressing somewhere near the foot of the bed, pulling his nightshirt that had been set up for him on. 

 

“Are you alright?” He asked. 

 

“I’m tired,” Melira propped herself up on her elbows. “The ball went well.” 

 

“Did it?” 

 

“I assume so? Unless you think my actions were unacceptable.” 

 

“I think,” he reached down and pulled her by her waist until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. “You held that room like a queen should. Although, giving Amira a chance to accept your offer after she already denied your earlier one was a mistake.” 

 

Melira looked up at him. His fingers found the binds that kept her bodice in place, undoing it slowly, but with determination. “Why?” 

 

“Amira admitted her guilt. Twice. You have her admission by your own ears. Arrest her and take her off the board,” Theron got the last bit undone and helped slip the dress off. 

 

She frowned. He spoke so nonchalantly as if this were merely a game of stones and territory. 

 

“She’s not the one I want off the board,” Melira muttered, letting her dress fall to the floor in a pool of gold and ivory. “Her father is the poison. She’s just… the cup it was poured into.” 

 

Theron paused at that, then crouched in front of her, resting his hands on her knees. “That’s a dangerous distinction to make.” 

 

“She’s not innocent, but she’s not the architect,” Melira said. “Marell built the fire and told her to sit in it- you heard what he said- he threw her name like it was just another piece to barter.” 

 

“And that’s what makes it dangerous. She wants to prove him wrong, or worse- right.” 

 

“Even though she was your friend?” 

 

“Amira was never a ‘friend’. She was a convenience, just as everyone else is in the palace,” Theron handed Melira her own nightdress. “The only person who is not a convenience is you.” 

 

Melira let the matter drop, for now. But in her mind, the world made less sense than before.

Chapter 24: Purge

Notes:

Hello, hello, hello!

Shorter chapter today, sorry! Originally it was going to be longer but I decided that this one should stand separate.

Happy reading!

By morning, the storm inside the palace had broken. 

 

Not in thunder or wind, but in the brittle breathless hush that came after. Like the moments after a snowfall- still, white, waiting. But beneath the tension was razor-sharp. The gates of the palace had closed like the snapping of a frostbitten branch. No one entered. No one left. Guards moved through the halls like wind sweeping across iced stone- silent, relentless, chilling. Riders were grounded. Messengers detained. The servants’ wing was frozen in place, all motions slowed, like deer caught under snowfall waiting to see where the next crack would come. 

 

It wasn’t a purge. Not yet. It was the build-up of pressure before an avalanche. 

 

Theron, without ceremony, began the investigation. 

 

The proclamation came from his own mouth at the council table as they convened bleary-eyed and anxious. Vellian was appointed acting Investigator, his first act swift and public- Marell’s household and Cern’s remaining servants would be arrested and questioned by the end of the week. 

 

Before the hour turned, more followed. 

 

Marell was seized from his room mid-meal. He went quietly, properly, convinced that he did nothing that deserved this treatment. He looked unafraid, merely irritated. Like a man annoyed, the game hadn’t ended in his favor. 

 

Amira was next, pulled from her room as she left. The guards claimed her traveling trunk was open, clothes had been hastily packed. She said her mother was ill and she wanted to go home to Stonehane to check on her right away. But Vellian arrested her regardless, claiming that her own mother couldn’t save her anymore. 

 

Cern was dragged out of the dungeons. He looked awful and smelled worse. His hair had turned paler than silver, his face was gaunt with hunger. His stone fingers had fallen off, his shoulder had a large crack in it. Lyanna turned away as he passed her in the hallway, tears streaming down her face. 

 

The questioning took place in a small room with thin panels that the king and queen could sit behind. They were flanked by two guards, a scribe, and her ladies. Vellian was the only one allowed to sit at the actual table, his hands folded in front of him. It was clinical. Ruthless Efficient. 

 

“Who gave the orders?” 

 

“Why?” 

 

“Did you knowingly poison the Queen?” 

 

“Who poured the vials?” 

 

“Why did you implicate your daughter?” 

 

Threats, questions, warnings. They swam in Melira’s mind in the shadows of their panels. Cern’s was the easiest to sit through. The man was broken enough to only speak the truth. Sera had to take Lyanna out of the room for it. Amira refused to break, her eyes on the panel where Theron was sitting. She blamed her father, claiming she had no knowledge. Marell blamed his daughter, claiming all he did was assist in making sure she wasn’t caught. 

 

After the last of the testimonies, the room emptied like a well wrung dry. The guards escorted Amira and Marell to separate cells. Vellian gave his final bow. The scribes tucked away their notes. Even Sera left silently, arms around Lyanna, both of their expressions unreadable. Only Melira and Theron remained behind the thin panel, still cloaked in the shadow of royal anonymity. 

 

Melira didn’t move. 

 

Her hands lay curled in her lap, the fingers stiff and white at the knuckles. Her stomach churned, not from hunger, not from fear- though she could argue for both, she was eating more and more everyday- but something deeper. A hollowness that pulsed beneath her ribs, echoing through her spine. 

 

She had done it. She had handed over Amira. Handed over Marell. Cern was broken. And she had watched, cold and quiet, behind the screen as they squirmed and pleaded and lied. 

 

She had ordered the palace locked down like a tomb. Her mother was trapped in the Rosewing Tower, awaiting Melira’s next plan. 

 

All in the name of vengeance. 

 

Just the way Theron had taught her. 

 

She took a deep breath. There was one last thing she needed to deal with. One last mouse trapped in this palace. 

 

Her feet carried her till she came to the Rosewing Tower, now a familiar path since her arrival. The doors with their carved flowers seemed like an ironic warning. Nothing that was about to happen would be pretty. At least, not in the way Melira once thought. 

 

The doors opened without fanfare, Melira swept in like the bees that she often found solace in now. The last loose end sat by the fire, drinking spiced wine like it was any other winter morning. Draped in greens and silvers, hair pinned to perfection. 

 

Lady Eardine didn’t rise when Melira entered the room. She didn’t so much as turn her head. The air between them was brittle with silence, brittle like frost on dead branches. Melira didn’t move from her spot just inside the doorway, she felt like a little girl all over again. Terrified but determined to go through with it. 

 

She pulled from her pocket the letter, unfolding it. “My Lord,” she read the letter aloud. “I have trimmed the flower as you requested. Our gardener had done their part wonderfully. I hope that any future trimmings are alerted to me before the deed is done. I trust the storm is passing unnoticed. The stone fortress that the garden seems to be surrounded by will surely be blown over by now. Keep having your flower be watered, eventually you will gain what you want. I assure you, the bees and the hive will die out with the cold weather. Just let the harsh winter hit first.”.

 

“Are you done?” Her mother took another sip of the wine. 

 

“No,” Melira said, stepping forward. She put the letter away, finally stepping forward, away from the door. “You are. You will go back to the western estate, you have my permission to leave. Then you will stay there. If you ever return, either to here or to the Brambles or reach out to anyone in this palace, I will have be executed for your crimes. The letter is damning enough. Marell pointed towards you twice.” 

 

Her mother scoffed, “So you would exile me?” 

 

“I have another option.” Melira pulled from her other pocket two vials. One was green, with swirls of yellow pollen in it. The other was clear, a string of something honey-gold settled at the bottom. “One of these is poison. The other isn’t. Pick one and drink it. If you do, you will be forgiven, your exile will be forgotten. You will be welcomed back to the palace with open arms.” 

 

“And my seat on the council?” 

 

“Stonehane is open for the taking.” 

 

Melira’s heart was in her throat, she felt like she was about to vomit. Sera had given them to her, both were poisonous. One took at least a few hours before it took effect, the other would be immediate. If her mother took this option, reached for either vial, that would be it. There would be no turning back. Half of her wished her mother would accept exile and disappear, but the other half knew she wouldn’t. 

 

Her mother’s eyes flicked between the two, her tongue skirted across her lips. “You would poison your mother?” 

 

“No,” Melira shook her head, “I am simply giving you a choice.” 

 

Eardine’s hand snatched up the clear one faster than Melira could blink. She uncorked it and swung it back in one gulp. When she was done, she sighed and waited a moment before smiling. 

 

“I guess the Rosewing Tower will be my permanent residence,” she said, tossing the vial into the fire with a smash. 

 

The glass shattered in the fire. It sparked briefly- just a flicker- then was gone, as though the flames had devoured it without ceremony. Eardine smiled, victorious. Melira stared at her. 

 

A minute passed. Then two. 

 

No trembling. No convulsions. No telltale signs of pain or struggle. Eardine’s lips curled upward. 

 

“I assume,” she said with sweet satisfaction, “this means I chose correctly.” 

 

Melira didn’t speak. Her eyes followed the curl of smoke rising from the hearth. Slowly, she nodded once. “I suppose it does.” 

 

Her mother’s expression became smug, as if she had won some final battle neither of them named aloud. She rose from her seat, graceful as ever, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeves. 

 

“I will have my things packed and be on my way to Stonehane before nightfall,” Eardine said coolly. “You’ll find I keep my word better than you think. Thank you, darling, for giving me a seat once again. Perhaps you’ll be easier to deal with than I had imagined.” 

 

Melira didn’t move. Not even as her mother gilded past her to the stairs that led up to the bedchambers. It wasn’t until the silence closed in again that she finally turned away. 

 

Her feet carried her to the conservatory, her mind endlessly empty of thoughts and feelings. She had done it. She had knowingly given her mother poison.

 

Unless it wasn't, a side of her warred as she pushed the doors open, locking them behind her. Maybe neither of the vials were poisoned, it had all been a test from Theron who knew about her plans. He loved his tests. Maybe he told Sera to give her fake poisons, things that looked deadly but weren't. 

 

Melira collapsed on a bench, her bees flooding to her like a blanket. The realization of what these past few days had led to crashed on her like a wave. She had let three people walk to their deaths, watched them admit to things that they might've been corrupted into doing. And to top it off, she just tried to kill her mother. 

 

Gods, what had she done? 

 

Who was she now? Had she turned into the stone that seemed to thrive in the coldness of the winter? She had killed not just one person with her actions, but multiple. A generation would remember her as the queen who purged the castle of it’s lords. Melira couldn't tell if the world was shaking or if she was. She couldn't tell if the vengeance had been justice or if it was simply her losing herself to the world that she had been forced into. 

 

She lay down on the bench, the bees shifting with her. She had stopped the terror, she had done what was necessary to ensure that her throne was secure. She had rooted out the rot that carved its way to the surface. 

 

She had won. She had achieved the impossible. 

 

So why did it feel so horrible? 

Chapter 25: Silver and Black

She paced in the antechamber, her hands twisting and knotting at her stomach. She hadn’t slept in what felt like days, her heart had been too jumpy, too out-of-control. Today would be the first day that the council convened since God’s Grace. Her seat had all but been secured with the actions she had delivered alongside her husband, and yet her mind couldn’t seem to settle and accept it.

The snow had come in the night, wet and heavy, thick layers laying across the grey stones like a blanket. It weighed down the whole castle, creating this overcast dreary feeling of oppression. According to the servants, the time between God’s Grace and spring was the worst time of year. Life in Rime would be grey, solemn, cold- lifeless. No celebrations took place during the thickest part of winter, its darkness was the only thing that came through.

Melira was already feeling the dreariness etched into her bones. The greyness at the funeral for her mother didn’t help. It felt as if the entire world was mourning her mother’s death, whereas Melira felt nothing. When a servant came and told her they found her mother’s body on the stairs only an hour after her departure from the Rosewing Tower, Melira could only nod. When Sera dressed her in a black wool dress- simple, with grey bramble branches along arms- she could only stand there and watch herself in the mirror. As her funeral procession passed in front of the royal dias, Melira could only stare at the coffin. And when it came time for Melira to speak a small remembrance speech, she recited only what was necessary:

“She was my mother. She raised me and for that I will be forever grateful.”

Afterwards, Melira’s solemnness was blamed on grief. The poor queen had lost what was left of her family, they all claimed, she would be grieving for eons.

But she knew the truth. There was no grief. Only a hollow quiet inside her chest, ringing like the pause between breaths. Only the faintest echo of a question that had lodged itself like a splinter in her thoughts: had she killed her mother… or had she only handed the tools to kill herself?

The latch on the antechamber door clicked. She startled, spine going rigid, hands pressed flat against her skirts. A guard bowed. “Your Majesty. The council is assembled.”

Her pulse thudded once, heavy and slow, as if her own heart disbelieved the words. She straightened, smoothing the wrinkles she had just dug into her gown. The wool- the fashion now that it was truly winter- scratched at her skin, heavy as the snow outside, her new tiara stating her position in court dug into her head.

She forced her breath to steady, chin lifting, and walked toward the carved doors.

This was the first council meeting since Marell, Cern, and Amira were arrested. They currently were sitting in the dungeons below her feet. She knew that this meeting would be the discussion as to their sentence. Evidence would be presented, convictions would be heard, and at the end, consequences will be dealt.

The room was silent as she made her way to Theron’s side, back to the chair she had grown used to sitting in. The councillors sat already in their places, their eyes fixed on her- some pitying, some wary, some calculating. Marell’s seat on the far side of the table sat empty. Cern’s had been removed altogether. Two new faces had joined them instead. Lord Carien Smith- regent representative to Seawell until Cern’s fate was decided- and Lord Easter- Marell’s brother.

Melira took her seat at the head of the table, her tiara caught the firelight as she settled. Every eye in the chamber followed her. She wondered what they were thinking? Did they see a girl broken down by weakness and grief? Or did they now realize the power that she held in her hands?

Theron did not wait for ceremony. He nodded to Vellian to begin.

“The crown must give its judgement.” Vellian’s voice was steady, smooth as brimstone. “The Lord Marell, Lady Amira, and Lord Cern, stand accused of conspiring to poison the Queen, of treachery against the realm, and of breaking their sworn oaths of loyalty. We have heard their confessions. We have heard their denials. Today, we decide their fates.”

The council shifted uneasily. Lord Halven cleared his throat, his eyes darting toward Melira quickly and then quickly away. “Your Majesties, if I may- Marell was a longstanding voice of this council. It… unsettles many to see him dragged so swiftly from his chambers. A trail before the realm, perhaps, might-”

“No,” Theron cut in, sharp as the strike of the blade.

Silence answered him.

Lord Carien spoke next, his tone careful, as though treading ice. “And Lady Amira? She swore that she knew nothing. That her father manipulated her.”

Vellian sighed, as if this discussion was a bore. “In accordance with our laws, ignorance is not innocence. She sought to flee in the night before her questioning. Her trunk was packed, her passage arranged. Guilt, even if veiled, betrays itself.”

Cern’s name brought no defense. The councillors murmured about his condition, the stone cracking from his body, his mind too far gone. Lord Carien muttered that mercy would end his suffering when he saw him.

Through it all, Melira wanted nothing more than to just sink into the floor.

Her hands were folded neatly on the table, her expression stayed carved into composure. She felt the weight of every eye glance her way, waiting for her to speak, waiting for her to give the queen’s judgement. But her lips never parted.

Rime did not need her words. The land itself was decisive and merciless.

“For their crimes, and should the council agree,” Vellian continued, “Lord Marell and Lord Cern are to be executed. The Lady Amira will be stripped of her titles and banished to a convent of their Royal Majesties choosing.”

“A convent?” Easter frowned. “She is not to suffer the same fate as her father?”

“As stated by Lord Carien, she claims to have been manipulated.” Vellian responded. “We do not punish the daughter for the crime of the father.”

“Is this the wish of our Queen as well?” Easter sat forward. “To subject two men who had been loyal to a public execution? To send an innocent girl away from all she knows?”

Melira fought to keep her face as impassive as possible. He was testing her, seeing if she would break.

The chamber’s air thickened, every gaze swinging toward her. Melira felt the pressure of the glares settle on her shoulders, heavy as the snow outside.

Her lips parted before she could think of an answer. “It is not innocent to have knowledge of the truth,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “Lady Amira had a chance to tell the truth, yet she fled. That speaks for itself. As for loyalty-” her gaze flicked to Marell’s empty spot, “-loyalty is measured by action, not by years at this table. The crown cannot afford to mistake one for the other.”

A faint murmur rolled around the table, some approving, some uneasy. Easter sat back, lips pressed thin, but he did not press further.

Theron inclined his head, gesturing towards Vellian.

He cleared his throat. “Then let's proceed with the vote.”

One by one, the councilors raised their hands- Halven without hesitation, eager to prove his loyalty; Carien, after a pause; Easter, slow and reluctant. Theron and Vellian were the most sure and steady out of the group, their hands raising in almost unison.

Melira’s own hand hovered at the edge of the table. She could feel the weight of her crown, the press of her gown against her ribs, the firelight catching her reflection in the polished wood. Every instinct screamed at her to finish what she had begun, to prove she was no child, no weakling hiding behind her own skirts.

The silence stretched.

Theron did not look at her, but she could feel the awareness in him, like a tether pulling taut between them. The council’s eyes began to shift her way.

Her hand raised.

“The sentence passes,” Vellian declared, quick and divisive. The matter was settled. “Unanimous.”

Chairs scraped against stone as the councillors rose, bowing before filing from the chamber. Their murmurs trailed away into silence, leaving only the crackle of fire.

Melira stood slowly, readying herself to move back to her conservatory, to complete what work she wanted to get done before the end of the day. The chair scraped against the stone floor, making her wince.

“You hesitated.” Theron’s voice was quiet beside her.

Her breath caught, she froze with her hands clutching at the wooden edge. She felt the weight of his words settle over her, heavier than the crown.

“I…” She forced herself to meet his gaze, though her voice softened, frayed at the edges. “I didn’t realize that sentencing those I’ve faced at this table would be so… hard.”

A half-truth.

Theron studied her, his silence long enough that the fire snapped and popped between them. At last, he inclined his head, as if granting her that shield of her own words.

“Hard,” he repeated. “But necessary.”

Necessary. It is necessary to dole out justice to those that deserve it. Did that mean she deserved her own version of it? She murdered her mother. She murdered herself.

Where was the “necessary” justice for that?

Melira’s throat tightened around the thought. The chamber smelled faintly of smoke and stone dust, the air heavy with judgement. She had lifted her hand, just as they wanted her to, and now blood would be spilled because of it.

Her fingers curled against her skirts as though to anchor herself, but the fabric only scratched at her skin. Necessary. The word rang again in her skull, dull and unyielding, a hammer striking iron.

Theron was moving beside her, gathering the papers left on the table, his movements steady, methodical, as if nothing in him had ever doubted the sentence. “The executioner will be informed. Their fates are sealed before the week is out.”

She swallowed, the motion painful. Her lips parted, then closed again. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t betray her. Nothing she could admit without undoing the fragile image they had built.

So she nodded instead, though the weight of it made her neck ache.

Theron came to stand beside her, his hand brushing the small of her back- light, fleeting, but enough to ground her for the span of a breath. His eyes lingered on her profile, searching, though he did not speak again.

He let her stride to the door. Her reflection caught on the windows and ice as she made her way through the castle.

A queen in the bed of her own making.

____________________________________________________________________________

The square was hushed, snow falling in slow flakes that clung to cloaks and lashes. A scaffold had been raised, its wood darkened with frost. Two posts stood at the center, ropes hanging slack from their beams. Melira thought it unfair that the flakes were so beautiful, that the grey skies seemed to accent the stillness that sat in the square. She thought it wrong to see the world be quiet for such a horrid event.

But maybe it was because it held its breath. Maybe it was because there was nothing left to say.

Melira stood with the council on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Servants and townsfolk, as well as lesser nobles, stood below them. Theron’s hand was on hers on the banister- steady, grounding- but Melira itched to pull it away. To turn her face away from the scene altogether.

The doors opened below them, a thud that broke the silence like the thunder. Marell and Cern were led forward, their chains rattling against the silence. Cern was held up by two guards, dragging him along, while Marell walked stiff, his chin high. Though Melira could see the way his head twitched, eyes hunting through the crowd for a familiar face. Cern was mumbling, the silence amplifying his words- a prayer to the Gods.

Behind them was Amira, her beauty long gone. Her red hair was braided but a mess of knots, her skin was tarnished with dirt and mud, her dress torn and faded. She walked with the same stiff measure as her father, her head high and proud. The guard barely had to tug on her chains to keep her moving, stopping just at the end of the pathway. A front row spot for her to view the death of her father.

The herald’s voice rang out, “By order of King Theron- first of his name, Stone King of Rime, Emperor of the Eastern Lands- the traitors Marell and Cern are sentenced to death for crimes against the throne. Does the sentenced have any final words?”

Marell’s eyes lifted to the balcony, locking on Melira’s face as though he had been searching for her all along. His lips curled into a bitter smile.

“I have no words for tyrants,” he said, voice steady and sharp, cutting through the snow-laden silence. Then his gaze dropped, settling on his daughter. “For my children- stand tall. Do not let them see you bow. You are my blood. Do not forget it.”

Melira saw the young woman tremble, her fists clenched around the chains that bound her.

Cern’s prayers grew louder, a frantic litany to the Gods that Melira herself believed no longer would answer. No words for his daughter or son. Just a cracked voice, the sound spilling into the square until one the guards cuffed him across the mouth, gray flecks of stone flying off him. Even then, he kept mumbling through the cracked lip.
Theron raised his hand. Enough. A silent command. Final and unyielding.

The executioner gestured for the men to be placed in their spots. They placed the nooses taut around the men’s neck, asking for forgiveness from both of them. The wood groaned as they were forced to stand on the marks, rope swaying with the movements.

Melira’s heart lurched against her ribs. She thought her breath might catch in her throat, choking her like the rope now tightening against theirs. She wanted to look away, but Marell’s eyes burned through her, daring her to.

The silence stretched. The crowd did not cheer or cry out. It only watched.

Then Amira’s voice rang out- hoarse, breaking, yet sharp enough to pierce Melira’s bones.

“Father!”

The word tore from her chest, raw and unrestrained. She surged forward in her chains, as if she could fling herself between him and death. The guards held her fast, though her scream still echoed across the courtyard.

Melira did not flinch. His eyes never left hers.

The lever flipped.

Cern’s prayer ended with an estranged gasp. Marell’s body jerked, shoulders snapping, his head bowing once, final and unyielding.

Amira’s knees gave out, she fell, collapsing into the guards that held her. Her mouth screamed wordlessly.

Melira could not breathe. Her hand tightened on the stone banister until her knuckles burned. She felt Theron’s grip tightened against hers, warm anchoring, but it felt like a vice. Pressing her deeper into the coldness.

Something inside her cracked. She couldn’t breathe.

She was the first to turn away, skirts brushing cold stones as she fled the balcony. Behind her, the herald’s voice called for Rime to bow in prayer- begging the Gods to take the two souls and judge them fairly.

She didn’t stop running until she reached the conservatory.

Once there, she threw her crown to the floor, the rattle of metal and stone falling on deaf ears. Melira found herself back at her hive, the bees clinging to their queen as if to comfort her. She slid to the ground, back against a stone bench, knees drawn up under her chin.

What justice was there for the one who sat guilty on a throne?

Her mind replayed the events. She had raised her hand. She had spoken the words. She watched the their deaths like it was nothing. Yet the motion felt strangely foreign, as if watching it from a dream.

A queen’s body. Not her own.

The guilt got heavier the more she pulled into herself. Once she would've argued until her throat ached. Once she would've fought until Theron placed a hand on her leg to stall her stubbornness. Once she would've thrown her weight against the stone until it cracked under her fingers.

Her hand twisted into the silver skirt, threaded in black braids. Her hair was still wild, still a tangled knot on the back of her head. But everything about her felt sharp, iron-born, stone. She felt like a shadow of the girl that had come from the wild Brambles, one that had been tamed and primed into the someone she never wanted to be.

She whispered into the hums of the bees, their ears the only ones to hear. “I don't know who I am anymore.”

The words broke something in her. Her head dipped down to her knees, pressing into her forehead. The tears came slow and steady, cracking the facade she had built up all morning. Her chest felt hollow, scrapped raw. The dress was suffocating now, her fingers loosely pulled on the strings on her back.

“I don't know who I am.”

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Within The Kingdom