Seraya’s POV
I didn’t move until the sun was gone.
Not because I was weak.
But because if I moved too soon, they’d see me crack.
The temple bells rang low. Dusk had settled, and I stood. I brushed off my skirts. Smoothed my hair. Not out of pride—but because queens don’t get to look broken.
My joints ached from sitting still too long, but I ignored the stiffness. I walked back through the palace like I hadn’t cried. Like my world hadn’t shifted beneath my feet and left me scrambling for balance.
The courtiers looked up when I passed. Quiet stares. Careful voices. Faces that once smiled at me now turned away like they didn’t know what to do with my ghost.
They used to bow deeper when I entered. Speak softer. Watch their tongues. Now, their eyes slid past me like I was no one at all.
And when she walked in—Princess Elowen, replacement-wife, the perfect picture of grace and diplomacy—they bent like flowers in full sun.
She didn’t even need to demand respect. She just… took it.
One sweet smile, one flick of her sleeve, and they followed. Even the high priest, the man who once called me “blessed by the gods,” turned to her first during the ceremony rehearsals. As if I hadn’t once stood in that same place, wearing that same crown.
I didn’t eat that day. Couldn’t. Every dish they brought out had been arranged for two queens. One seat closer to the king. One seat not mine.
The meal dragged on like some slow, public execution. I sat there, straight-backed, silent, my stomach turning with every glance they threw past me.
I’d barely spoken. Barely breathed. I just sat there, straight-backed, and watched them pretend like I was part of the past.
She had my throne, my husband, and now the eyes of the court.
And I hated her for it. Not just for taking what was mine—But for making it look easy.
When I couldn’t take the sound of their laughter anymore, when the tightness in my throat became unbearable, I stood. Quietly. Walked out.
No one stopped me. No one asked where I was going.
I waited until the halls emptied. Until the heavy steps of the guards faded into nothing. Until the oil lamps burned low and the whispers turned to a hush. Then I slipped through the side door, down the servants’ path that led to the north garden.
The one place that still felt like mine. Not because I needed to hide. Because I’d never let them see me fall. The air outside was cool, sharp with the scent of stone roses.
The petals were soft, but the thorns were real—fitting.
I walked the winding path by the fountain, the stones slick under my shoes, the branches overhead heavy with rain that hadn’t fallen yet.
The night was too still. And I knew what that meant. That’s when he appeared.
Caelum. King of Drosmere. The man who gave his sister to my husband like a gift in exchange for peace. The one who helped replace me.
He stood near the terrace, calm as ever, dressed in black. His hands were behind his back, his posture easy but alert. His eyes, when they shifted to me, were as cold as winter.
He looked like he belonged here. Like he wasn’t the reason everything had fallen apart.
I didn’t stop walking.
“Delivering your sister to a king with a rotting spine?” I asked.
“Better than the war your court was too soft to survive.”
The anger hit me hard. I didn’t think. I just moved. I shoved him.
He didn’t move an inch. So I did it again. This time, he caught me.
His hands closed around my wrists. Not rough—but firm. Solid. Like iron.
We stood there, locked in place, too close. My breath came fast, sharp between my teeth. His grip stayed steady, like he could outlast any storm.
“Next time,” he said quietly, “aim higher.”
I glared at him. “I loathe you.”
He leaned in just enough to make it worse.
“Good,” he said. “Then we understand each other.”
