Seraya’s POV
The streets of Lysavia pulsed with unrest, though no swords had been drawn. There was no smoke, no fire, no siege—but every hall, every corridor buzzed with tension. Revolution in Virelia did not come with blood. It came with whispers, with silence that spread like ink, with the absence of bells and the stillness of prayer altars. Power was shifting. And everyone felt it.
Seven days had passed since the wedding collapsed, and still the court had not settled. The nobles were split. Letters were burned before being read. Old alliances cracked, new ones formed overnight. Half the realm cursed my name. The other half had begun to say it with reverence. I was no longer the Queen they ignored. I was the Queen they feared.
And yet, I felt nothing. Or I had taught myself to feel nothing. I woke each day and dressed alone. I sat through meetings without Caelum, without allies. I gave no declarations. I made no pleas. I waited.
Now, at last, the Council had summoned a vote. Not just on me. On the crown itself.
The Great Chamber was lit by hundreds of wall-mounted torches, their flames dancing against the tall, arched windows. The nobles lined the tiered seats in hushed tension. High Ministers, guild heads, temple elders. All present. I entered through the northern arch, my steps unhurried, the long crimson train of my gown whispering across the stone.
No herald called my name. I did not need one.
I made my way to the center dais and turned to face them, standing without fanfare. No crown adorned my head today. Only dignity.
“You did not summon me to ask questions,” I began, meeting no single gaze. “You summoned me to weigh the weight of scandal. Of silence. Of a kingdom that has wandered into shadow.”
A few voices stirred—small, uncertain shifts in the stillness.
“I will not speak of guilt. Nor will I waste your time with defense. I have no need to plead for mercy.” I looked down for only a breath, then raised my chin. “What I will say is this: for years, I was queen in name but not in power. My hands were dismissed from state matters. My voice was treated as decoration. My body, as property.”
Now they were listening.
“I was told to be patient. To endure. That my worth lay in my silence. And still, I endured. I watched my husband take my place at council, give my lands away by treaty, welcome another to share his bed—all while asking me to smile through it.”
A few nobles looked to Theron, who sat two tiers above, expression stony. He did not interrupt.
“But when I carried life,” I continued, my voice steady, “I remembered that a woman does not rule because she is granted permission. She rules because she must. Because she has survived what others would not.”
That was when Theron rose.
He did not shout this time. He did not gesture wildly. He simply spoke.
“You were not meant to be discarded,” he said. “I lost myself. In ambition. In fear. And in you—I saw something I did not understand. But I do now. I see it clearly.”
A beat passed.
“Stay,” he said. “Stand beside me again. For our child. For the court. For what we were.”
There was a tremor in his voice, one I had not heard in years. I could feel the hall leaning forward, straining for my reply.
I looked at him. Really looked. I saw the man I had once married. The boy who had taken my hand at the river’s edge, who had promised I would never have to bow. And I saw the king who had let me be buried alive beneath the weight of his pride.
“You loved what I gave you,” I said, my voice calm. “Not who I was.”
He lowered his eyes.
The council moved to vote before nightfall. No speeches. No debate. The chamber doors were sealed, and the names cast. One by one, the markers fell into the bronze basin.
By dusk, the verdict was clear.
Theron was stripped of title.
I was named Queen Sovereign of Virelia.
No consort. No husband. No regent.
I stood alone.
The coronation was held in the smaller garden hall—an echo of what tradition demanded, but no less sacred. There was no grand procession. Only the quiet placing of the crown upon my head, the seal of the realm pressed to my palm.
When the ceremony ended, and the chamber emptied, I stepped outside into the garden. The moon hung full above the courtyard, casting silver across the lilies. The air was sharp, clean, untouched by incense or applause.
Caelum stood at the edge of the stone path, waiting.
He did not bow. He did not reach for me.
He sank slowly to one knee, head bowed, hands open.
“I do not kneel to a queen,” he said. “Nor to a crown. I kneel to you. Not as ruler. As woman. As fire.”
I stepped forward. My fingers found his hands. I lifted him up—not as a victor raising a subject, but as one survivor greeting another.
Then I kissed him. Not in shadow. Not in secrecy. In the moonlight. As his equal.
30
