Duke Phideus steps forward smoothly, breaking the frozen moment.
His voice is warm, genuinely pleased, as if he hasn't noticed the way Leander's face has gone white as parchment.
"Your Majesty! What a pleasure to see you, though I'm grieved it couldn't be under happier circumstances. King Wilius was one of my dearest friends. We spoke just weeks before his illness took a turn... He was so proud of you, so confident in the king you would become."
Leander's royal training kicks in like armor sliding into place.
I watch the transformation happen in real time. The shock smoothing from his features as he returned his gaze from me toward Duke, his spine straightening, his grip on the staff becoming steady rather than white-knuckled.
But his eyes betray him, returning to my face again and again as if testing whether I'm real or some hallucination conjured by guilt.
"Duke Phideus. Your presence honors us. My father spoke of you often, always with the greatest affection and respect."
"The feeling was entirely mutual, I assure you."
Duke gestures toward us with easy grace, his tone almost conspiratorial.
"And may I present my ward, Lady Rosetta of House Valmont. We went hunting in the forest near the eastern border, and instead of game, we found the King's first wife. More than that, she turned out to be a distant relation of ours."
He pauses, letting the absurdity settle.
"Can you imagine, Your Majesty? Oh, and she's not where she's supposed to be, naturally. But she's under our protection now, which I trust settles any... concerns about propriety. And these are my children, of course—Lord Kyrell and Lady Maren."
I feel Kyrell's hand press more firmly against my back. A warning, a reminder.
Stay calm. Stay strong. Breathe.
"Lady Rosetta." Leander's eyes lock on mine, and I see him struggling to reconcile what he's seeing with what should be impossible. The silence stretches too long, becomes uncomfortable. "Welcome to Reaton. I hope you'll find your stay... comfortable."
The word "comfortable" sounds bitter coming from him—a mockery of everything that's passed between us. My old name sounds foreign on his lips now, wrong somehow.
"Your Majesty." I dip into a curtsy, grateful that years of court training make the movement automatic even when my knees feel like water. "Thank you for your gracious hospitality. It's an honor to attend such a momentous occasion."
I keep my hands carefully hidden in the skirts where no one can see them shaking. My voice is formal, distant. The voice of a stranger addressing a king, not a wife speaking to the husband who destroyed her.
"Duke Phideus has explained the... circumstances of your arrangement." Leander's jaw is tight, each word carefully controlled. An acknowledgment of the new reality—that I'm beyond his reach, claimed by a powerful ally he cannot simply dismiss.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Each word feels like swallowing glass. "The Duke has been most generous. After everything that happened, I'm grateful to have found... family."
The word "family" is deliberate, a reminder that I'm not alone anymore, not the isolated woman he could brand mad and discard.
"I see." His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. The silence stretches again, and I can feel the entire corridor holding its breath, watching this encounter. "And you're... well?"
It's such an absurd question given everything that he himself knows he put me through that I almost laugh. But there's something in his eyes—genuine concern, or perhaps guilt—that stops me.
"As well as can be expected, Your Majesty."
He knows exactly who stands before him, and so does everyone else in earshot. But Duke Phideus's bold framing—admitting I'm the King's first wife while simultaneously claiming me as family under ducal protection—has trapped him.
He cannot have me arrested without creating a scandal that would shake his new reign to its foundations. He cannot dismiss me without insulting one of the realm's most powerful nobles.
So we stand there, former husband and wife, king and the queen he destroyed, forced into civility while the weight of everything unsaid threatens to crush us both. Everyone watching knows our history, everyone can feel the tension crackling between us.
A bell chimes deep within the palace, the sound reverberating through stone corridors. Relief flashes across Leander's face so quickly I almost miss it.
"The coronation will begin shortly." He steps backward, already turning away. "Duke Phideus, your presence at the ceremony would honor me greatly. Lady Rosetta, Lord Kyrell, Lady Maren—please, make yourselves comfortable. We'll speak more after the ceremony."
He's gone before any of us can respond, his entourage following quickly. Running from the ghost he thought he'd safely buried.
"Well," Maren says into the silence. "That went better than I expected."
"Better?" I stare after Leander's retreating form. "He looked like he'd seen a corpse walking."
"He did." Duke Phideus's voice is grim. "But he didn't call the guards, didn't have you arrested, didn't demand explanations. That's as much as we could have hoped for."
***
The great hall is magnificent. I'd forgotten how overwhelming Reaton's state ceremonies could be.
The soaring ceilings and the massive tapestries depicting generations of royal history. The hundreds of candles that turn the space into something that feels holy and oppressive simultaneously.
Nobles pack the hall in their finest silks and jewels, as I stand with Duke Phideus's party in the middle section—noble enough to be present, not important enough to be close to the dais.
Perfect positioning for observation without drawing attention.
Leander is crowned King with full ritual. The High Priest's voice rings through the hall as he recites the ancient words, places the crown on Leander's head. Leander kneels, rises, every inch the commanding ruler he was born to be.
I watch the man I once loved take his vows—to protect the kingdom, to rule with justice, to place Reaton's welfare above all else—and I feel only grief.
Not for what we are now, but for what we were before everything shattered. Before the losses carved us into strangers. Before duty and guilt turned love into something cold and poisonous.
Then Cecily steps forward.
She's radiant in cloth of gold, the fabric catching candlelight until she seems to glow. Her golden hair is arranged in elaborate braids wound with pearls. She's beautiful—almost painful to look at in her beauty and triumph.
The second wife who succeeded where the first wife failed.
The Queen's crown settles on her head, and the court erupts in celebration. Cheers, applause, the stamping of feet against stone. I watch Cecily's smile—gracious, humble, the perfect picture of a beloved queen—and my nails cut crescents into my palms hard enough to draw blood I don't feel.
But I stay silent. I smile like everyone else, I applaud like everyone else, I play my part.
The herald's voice rises above the noise, commanding silence. "The presentation of the heirs to the throne of Reaton!"
Everything inside me goes very still.
Two nursemaids step forward from behind the thrones. Each carries an infant wrapped in royal silks—blue for princes, embroidered with Reaton's crest. Almost two months old now.
Bigger than the last time I held them. Growing without me. Changing without me.
One baby is solemn, wide eyes taking in the crowd with serious attention. The other babbles happily, tiny fists waving. My Cassiel, my Kai… the names I wanted to give them, the names they should have.
"Crown Prince Adney and Prince Madok," the herald declares, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "Sons of Their Majesties King Leander and Queen Cecily! Heirs to the throne of Reaton!"
My vision tunnels until all I can see are those two tiny forms being held up for the crowd's adoration. My breath comes in sharp gasps that I can't control, can't hide.
The world tilts sideways, and I'm distantly aware that I'm swaying when Kyrell's hand closes on my arm—steadying, and warning. His grip is tight enough to anchor me to reality when maternal instinct and righteous fury are screaming louder than strategy or caution.
My entire body trembles with the force of restraining myself. Every muscle locks tight.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
I want to scream, want to rush forward and tear my babies from those lying arms. Want to tell every person in this hall the truth—that those are MY sons. That I gave birth to them. That they were stolen from me while I was bleeding and broken and helpless.
Kyrell's grip tightens and his voice reaches me through the roaring in my ears, low and urgent, "I know, I know… But not here. Not now."
I'm not sure if I'm standing or sitting. If I make a sound or stay silent.
The world narrows to those two tiny forms being held up for the crowd's adoration while Cecily stands beside them, accepting congratulations with gracious smiles. Playing the devoted mother to children she stole.
The ceremony continues around me while I fight the most difficult battle of my life—the battle to stay silent when every cell in my body demands I scream the truth.
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