The Queen reclined in a steaming bath, the morning sun filtering through the latticework of her chamber windows. Her laughter rippled through the air, light and melodic, as her maidens busied themselves around her. The water was perfumed with crushed flowers and exotic oils, a luxury she insisted upon even in the shadow of war.

​

Her attendants were a mix of the young and the seasoned, their chatter punctuated by occasional bursts of nervous laughter. Among them was a red-haired maid with freckles that dusted her nose like cinnamon, her bright green eyes full of curiosity. A butcher’s daughter, the girl’s hands moved with a brisk efficiency honed by years of hard labour, though her shy glances toward the Queen betrayed her inexperience in courtly life.

​

“Your Grace,” she ventured, her voice hesitant but tinged with excitement, “forgive my boldness, but the tales of your stepsons—do they hold truth?”

​

“Tales?”

​

The maid’s cheeks flushed as pink as her namesake flowers, emboldened by the Queen’s gentle tone. “That they are… striking men, Your Grace. Fearsome on the field, but…” She hesitated. “Gentle in other ways?”

​

The Queen leaned back, feigning a contemplative look as she traced her fingers across the water’s surface. “Striking? Yes, they are handsome, each in their way. Ronan is a storm, all fire and fury, while Korrin has that unruly charm. And Valtor…” 

​

The red-haired maid perked up. “Valtor, Your Grace?”

​

A sly smile curled the Queen’s lips. “Valtor is a spark waiting to ignite, though I imagine he would sooner charm a room into submission than draw his blade.” She lifted one foot from the water, droplets slipping from her toes as she studied it for a moment. “But you know what they say about sparks—they can light the brightest fires or burn entire kingdoms to ash.”

​

The maids giggled, their voices a symphony of youthful amusement. Among them, a dark-haired girl with a round, rosy face and the calloused hands of a farmer’s daughter cleared her throat.

​

“Your Grace, where did Prince Valtor learn so much? He speaks like he’s travelled the world.”

​

“Valtor has a way of making the smallest tale sound grand. But his knowledge comes from books more than battlefields, from whispers rather than war cries.” The Queen’s expression softened slightly, almost imperceptibly, as she added, “He sees the world differently. Perhaps that is his greatest strength… and his greatest flaw.”

​

The red-haired maid caught the shift in the Queen’s demeanour and glanced away, her freckles deepening as her blush returned. Before the moment could stretch too long, another maid—a lanky girl with a gap-toothed smile—interjected.

“And Prince Korrin?” she asked, earning a ripple of stifled laughter. “Why is he so… angry all the time?”

​

“Angry?” the Queen repeated.

​

“Aye, always scowling, and he smells like… like…”

​

“Ale and dirty taverns,” the red-haired maid finished.

​

The Queen laughed. “Korrin is passionate. He’s a man of appetite, you might say. But it’s his loyalty that defines him.”

​

Before more could be said, a knock at the chamber door interrupted the mirth.

​

One of the older maids moved to answer, her steps cautious. She opened the door to reveal a warrior standing rigidly in the doorway, his gaze fixed determinedly on the floor. 

​

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” his voice trembling slightly, “but I bring word—King Tharok sends for you.”

​

The Queen’s smile softened into something inscrutable as she rose from the bath, the water cascading down her skin. Her maids rushed to drape her in a silken robe. His face flushed, and he quickly averted his eyes, fumbling for words that did not come.

​

“Leave us,” the Queen said to her maids. They obeyed swiftly, though not without casting the warrior a mixture of sympathetic and amused glances as they exited.

​

When the door closed, the Queen stepped forward, the silken robe falling away from her shoulders. The warrior’s breath hitched.

​

“Y-Your Grace, I… I didn’t mean… Forgive me…”

​

Her bare feet moved silently over the stone floor as she approached, taking the letter from his trembling fingers.

​

“What is your name?”

​

“R-Rael, Your Grace,” he stammered, his face burning.

​

“Rael,” she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. “Thank you for delivering this.”

​

He nodded mutely, his eyes darting everywhere but at her. She smiled—a knowing, teasing curve of her lips. “Tell me, Rael,” she said, lowering herself to sit upon the edge of the bath, the steam coiling around her like mist on a lake, “have you ever been in a queen’s chambers before?”

​

The question made his throat bob as he swallowed hard. “N-no, Your Grace.”

​

“Pity. It’s an experience not easily forgotten.”

​

As she dismissed him with a wave, Rael stumbled over his words, barely managing a coherent response before retreating in a flurry of nervous energy. The Queen watched the door close behind him, her fingers idly tracing the rim of the bath.

​

Once alone, she tossed the letter onto a nearby table and gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

​

The sound of boots echoing faintly down the corridor drew her thoughts away from the mirror. As she stepped into the hallway, her robe flowing behind her like a whisper, she nearly collided with Ronan, who gripped her arm to steady her. 

“Careful, Your Grace,” Ronan murmured, his tone low and edged with amusement. “You never know who might be watching.”

​

“Indeed,” she replied, tilting her head ever so slightly.

​

The air between them thickened as she held his eyes and made no effort to step back. Ronan’s jaw tightened, his grip on her arm firm but not forceful.

​

“What brings you wandering these halls so early?” he asked.

​

“I could ask you the same,” she countered. “But since you’re so curious, your father sent for me.”

​

Ronan’s hand settled lower, giving her a firm squeeze. “The court will have much to discuss, then.”

​

The Queen leaned in slightly. 

​

“You should be prepared for the meeting with the generals. Let them see the leader you are. You were not meant to follow, Ronan—you were meant to rule.”

​

Before she could move away, Ronan took her wrist. “Do you say these things to tempt me, or do you truly believe them?”

The Queen let herself be drawn into her chamber, allowing the door to shut softly behind them. She moved with calculated grace, slipping free of his hold and stepping toward the large table in the centre of the room. The golden glow of the candles played off her skin as she turned to face him.

​

“I only speak what I see. And what I see is a man who was born to command.”

​

Ronan followed her, his movements less composed, more driven by a restless energy. The room seemed to shrink as he closed the space between them. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his ambition. “And what do you see in my father? Does the court still believe in his strength?”

​

She leaned back slightly, her posture poised but inviting. “The court believes what it is told to believe. It is the generals you must concern yourself with.”

​

“Some still see me as a boy.”

​

“Then make certain they leave seeing a king,” she said as she stepped closer.

​

So close that Ronan felt the warmth of her skin through the thin air between them.

​

The silken edge of her robe slipped from one shoulder, then another.

​

“Show them why men bow when you enter a hall.”

​

Her body pressed against his.

​

His hands rose almost without thought, settling on her shoulders.

​

“Enough,” he said, forcing the word past his lips. “You shouldn’t—”

​

“Show me,” she said.

​

He tried to answer. But she silenced him with a sudden, daring kiss — sharp, claiming — her teeth catching his lower lip just long enough to steal his breath.

​

Her hands moved to his belt, deft and practised, loosening what duty and discipline had bound.

​

“Your Grace—” he began.

​

She did not allow him to finish.

​

With a firm, effortless push, she guided him backward until the backs of his legs struck the wooden chair. He sat without meaning to.

​

She followed him down, settling against him, her presence overwhelming.

​

“Let them see you,” she whispered against his ear. “Strong. Unafraid. Untouchable.”

​

Ronan surrendered, pulling her close, meeting her kiss with equal fire.

​

Outside the chamber, boots passed.

​

Voices echoed.

​

A servant paused.

​

Then hurried on.