Seraya’s POV
Three weeks had passed since I agreed to the terms.
Two since the plan had quietly taken root. The lie had not yet been spoken aloud in any formal court, but it no longer needed to be.
I first heard it from one of the maids. A soft murmur exchanged near the kitchens as I passed. A glance held too long, a smile too careful.
“The Queen may be with child.”
“The Queen smiled today.”
I did not flinch. I kept walking. I played the part with precision.
I declined mead at the evening feasts, never making a spectacle of it—only a gentle raise of the hand, a soft murmur that I preferred water. I shifted the way I walked, slowed it slightly. When I stood, I sometimes paused to adjust my hand at my belly, resting my palm just long enough for someone to see.
It was all calculated.
At court, I said little, but smiled more. I wore dresses cut modestly, tailored slightly looser. I sat more frequently than before and only rose when I was asked. Every gesture had meaning now. Every silence served a purpose.
The palace took notice.
And so did Theron.
His eyes tracked me in every chamber now. He no longer held Elowen’s hand when she entered. His voice had gone quieter during court. Twice, he missed his place in the morning briefings.
By the fifth day, he sent for the royal physician. I knew, because the physician came to my chambers afterward, fidgeting like a child.
“I told His Majesty that nothing can be confirmed before the moons change again,” he said, eyes darting.
I met his gaze without flinching. “Then say no more,” I told him. “And say it often.”
He bowed and fled.
It was working. The structure we had built—Caelum and I—it held.
Piece by piece, he was coming undone. The same man who had paraded my replacement now could not stand to watch me smile at the wrong moment.
But it wasn’t easy.
Not in private. Not when the fire was low, and the door had closed behind Caelum.
He didn’t touch me like he did at the start. There was no more urgency, no more claiming. Now, when he undressed me, his hands moved slowly. Reverently. Sometimes, he kissed the inside of my wrist. Sometimes, he brushed the hair away from my cheek before I’d even noticed it had fallen.
We didn’t speak after.
But we didn’t turn away either.
He stayed in my bed longer now. Awake. Breathing evenly behind me, one arm draped over my waist as though the movement came without thought.
And I let him.
I never said a word when his fingers traced circles across my hip, or when his lips lingered just a breath too long on the back of my shoulder.
I had told myself this was strategy. And it was. But strategy had become routine. And routine… had begun to feel like something worse.
At the end of the third week, we hosted a diplomatic dinner for the visiting Lord Regent of Elarion. The great hall had been polished to gleam, the tables set in gold and silver. I wore green silk, high at the neck and fitted at the waist. I did not wear jewels. I didn’t need to.
Caelum arrived late.
He looked every inch the enemy—black tunic, silver stitching, hair tied back, expression unreadable. I did not speak to him directly all evening. I greeted him as custom required. I stood when he approached the high table.
But I did not meet his eyes.
And then, as the plates were cleared and the servants refilled our cups, I felt it.
His hand, placed softly at the small of my back.
It was barely a touch. Barely there. But my body knew it instantly. My spine straightened. A tremble moved down my arms. I dropped my goblet.
The clatter was too loud.
I smiled quickly, covering the flush in my throat. “Forgive me,” I said, placing the goblet down. “The room is warmer than expected.”
I stood without waiting for permission and left the table with measured steps.
I did not stop to explain myself. Not to the regent. Not to Elowen. Not to Theron.
I walked the halls faster than I should have. When I reached my chambers, I closed the door behind me and locked it.
The fire had not yet been lit. I didn’t call for it.
I stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around myself, breath tight in my chest.
I hadn’t meant to cry. I hadn’t thought I still could.
But the tears came all the same. Not violent. Not loud. Just steady.
It wasn’t regret.
It was something worse.
It wasn’t pretend anymore.
