Seraya’s POV
The scroll arrived on a silver tray, passed forward by trembling hands. I hadn’t known how badly I needed to see the royal seal until it was staring back at me. The words were read aloud before the entire court—no warning, no preamble, no space to prepare.
The annulment was revoked.
There was no apology. No declaration of faith restored. Just a clean, final order.
For a moment, the room didn’t react. Then came the low murmurs, the shifting weight of those seated around the chamber. Heads turned. Whispers gathered speed.
“She’s secured her title again.”
“She must be pregnant.”
“Clever, very clever…”
I stood tall, but inside I felt the ground shift. This was what we’d fought for. What we’d risked everything to hold. For one hour, I breathed—freely, truly. For one hour, I let myself believe the worst had passed.
It didn’t last.
The voice came from the rear benches, one of the lesser lords. Young. Insignificant on paper. But his tone was precise, rehearsed, and loud enough to cut through the chamber.
“With respect to the decree,” he began, “are we to accept a claim of pregnancy without confirmation?”
The room quieted. My fingers curled against my skirts. I turned slowly, unwilling to show the way my chest had tightened.
He didn’t stop. “I mean no insult to Her Majesty, but if her condition is to shape the fate of the crown, it must be seen—must be tested. Words are not proof.”
A few murmurs rose again. One noble shifted uncomfortably. Another gave a small nod.
And then Theron stood.
He didn’t look at me. Not at first. His voice was calm, nearly pleasant. “I support Lord Fenric’s concern. It is not a matter of trust—it is tradition. Let a healer, one chosen by the court, not her house, verify the Queen’s condition.”
When his gaze finally met mine, there was no warmth. Not even anger. Just cold certainty.
My breath caught.
I wanted to speak. To call it what it was—humiliation, retaliation, desperation masked as procedure. But my mouth was dry.
The High Priest stepped forward, offering his hands in a measured gesture. “We do not need a spectacle. If Her Majesty agrees, the rites of confirmation may be conducted in private. A healer of her choosing, alongside one chosen by the court. Before the reinstatement.”
The chamber swelled with whispered approval. My skin prickled under every glance.
I didn’t trust myself to speak.
Then a chair scraped against the stone floor.
Caelum stood.
He said nothing. He didn’t have to. The sound alone turned every head in the room.
He didn’t move toward me. He simply looked. From across the chamber, his eyes found mine and held them.
There was no anger in his expression. No fear. Only unwavering focus. A quiet strength that didn’t reach for attention, but stood as proof that I wasn’t standing alone.
I held his gaze for a heartbeat. Then I turned and walked down from the dais.
Not hurried. Not careless. But faster than I meant to.
The doors to the side passage opened with difficulty. The guards called after me. I didn’t stop. I ducked into the servant corridor before they could follow, pressing past two maids and through the winding halls that led toward the outer gardens.
The walls pressed close. My breathing turned shallow. The rush of blood in my ears drowned out everything.
When I reached the outer arch, the air hit me like a wave. The sky had dulled to grey, the garden dim and quiet.
I stepped down onto the path, skirts brushing against low branches and slick stone.
I didn’t stop until I reached the bed of carved roses near the edge of the terrace.
There, I knelt.
The pressure in my chest had reached a height I couldn’t control. I pressed one hand to my stomach, gripping the fabric beneath it.
My breath broke. Not into sobs. Just short, hard exhales that refused to deepen.
It was all crumbling. Again.
Everything I had bought with silence, every step I had taken to stay ahead—it was falling apart beneath the eyes of men who had already decided I wasn’t enough.
I didn’t hear him approach.
But I felt him.
Caelum knelt beside me, the warmth of his body a contrast to the cold creeping into my fingers.
He didn’t speak. His movements were slow, deliberate. His hand moved to mine, settling gently over it.
He didn’t press. He didn’t grip. He just let it rest there, a weight and an offering.
I didn’t look at him. But I let my hand turn beneath his. Let our fingers curl together.
His skin was warm. His palm steady.
He could have said anything. He didn’t.
And he didn’t need to.
Because in that moment, the silence between us spoke more than the accusations had.
And I knew—I wouldn’t fight this alone.
30
