For the first time in years, the court's morning session started without the Empress seated beside the Emperor.
The space at the right hand of the Dragon Throne was conspicuously bare. It had been scrubbed, polished, and freshly adorned with lilies—as if the palace could erase her memory with flowers. But to those who had seen her sit there in silence day after day, the emptiness spoke louder than any decoration.
Lucien sat unmoving, cloaked in a charcoal-black robe, the imperial crest fastened at his chest. He had not acknowledged the absence. Had not spoken her name.
But the ministers had.
In private.
Behind fans, in coded letters, between wine sips at court dinners.
The Empress was gone.
And the empire trembled with what that meant.
Lord Maelric of Eastwyn, tall and aged like the ironwood of his home province, cleared his throat during council.
"Your Majesty, with respect… there has been unrest among the eastern duchies. They worry the absence of Her Majesty signals instability. The nobles speak of succession, of alliances needing redefinition. Trade routes are being renegotiated."
Lucien lifted his gaze slowly. "Are the duchies rebelling?"
"No, Your Majesty. But they're… uncertain. They no longer know what loyalty looks like."
Lucien leaned back in his throne. "Loyalty," he repeated. "It should not depend on a woman's presence."
Maelric hesitated. "Yet she was not just a woman. She was the crown's spine in the eyes of the outer provinces. Their daughters dreamed of her quiet power. Their wives read her movements like scripture. Her presence was balance."
Lucien said nothing.
Because it was true.
When Aurora walked beside him, the court had looked steadier—like a portrait where one line held the rest together.
Now that line was gone, and the frame cracked.
Lady Teresia, who seldom spoke in meetings, lifted her voice. "There are whispers, Your Majesty. That she may begin writing. That she might become… vocal."
"Vocal?" Lucien's tone held no amusement.
"They say she has already written to the widowed Duchess of Nerea. That she spoke to working women in the southern quarter of Vareth. That she listens."
Lucien's fingers tightened slightly around the armrest of his throne. "And what does she say?"
"That women can survive without palaces," Teresia said, not unkindly. "That being unseen does not mean being unworthy."
The silence in the chamber stretched.
"She is becoming dangerous," muttered Lord Rheston.
"No," Teresia replied before Lucien could speak. "She is becoming real. That's more dangerous."
Lucien dismissed the council shortly after, with no explanation. He stood alone again in the empty chamber, staring at the carved dragons that arched over the throne—guardians of the empire.
They looked back at him with stone faces.
He didn't know when he'd last felt in control of them.
Not long after, Seraphina entered without being summoned.
"You're unraveling," she said bluntly.
Lucien didn't bother to answer.
She stepped forward, gaze sharp. "You think you're being noble. Dignified. But you're making it worse. The people don't respect silence anymore."
Lucien turned slowly. "And what would you have me do, Seraphina? Parade you before the court with my unborn son and a smile?"
"I would have you acknowledge the future!"
"And pretend the past is gone?" he growled. "She is still everywhere. In the hearts of the people. In the silence of these halls."
He took a step toward her. "Tell me, Seraphina. If I crown you tomorrow, do you think they'll forget the woman who chose to leave power rather than remain unseen?"
Seraphina's breath hitched. "You let her become a legend."
"No," he said. "I just didn't stop her."
She turned and left, her footsteps loud against the marble.
And once again, he was alone.
In a quiet lecture room at the edge of Vareth, Aurora sat on a wooden bench with a dozen other women, listening to a young teacher discuss trade taxes. It was nothing glamorous—no gowns, no jewels, no silks—but she listened like it mattered.
Because it did.
These women were widows, tailors, herbalists. Some had never been inside the city's palace gates. Most had never been educated. But they were eager, sharp-eyed, and full of the hunger Aurora had once buried beneath protocol.
When the lesson ended, one of them turned to her.
"You're her, aren't you?" she whispered. "The Empress."
Aurora smiled softly. "Not anymore."
"You still carry it."
Aurora reached for the woman's hand. "Then let me help you carry yours."
That afternoon, she walked through the streets with Mireille beside her. The rain had stopped, and the smell of wet stone and lavender filled the air.
"Word's spreading," Mireille said.
"I know."
"You're going to become dangerous."
"Good."
"You're going to draw enemies."
"I've had worse."
"You're going to scare him."
Aurora paused at a corner, where two children were drawing in chalk on the stones.
"He was never afraid of my silence," she said. "Let's see how he does with my voice."
They continued walking until they reached a small bookshop where Aurora met with the publisher who had once begged her to write her memoirs.
"You may not have been allowed to speak as Empress," he said. "But now you can write as a woman."
She signed the agreement the same day.
Not for fame. Not for vengeance.
But because stories mattered. And she had lived one too long in silence.
Days passed.
Then a week.
Then two.
Each day, new rumors swirled through the court.
"Aurora is opening a school for girls."
"She met with the widow of the War General."
"She's been teaching street girls how to read."
Lucien heard each one like a stone against a window.
He wanted to stop them. To forbid her. But to do so would only elevate her further.
And worse—he wasn't sure he wanted to stop her anymore.
At night, he found himself reaching for her letters. Not the ones left in her chamber, but the ones he had hidden.
Letters she had written during their marriage—formal things, sent through courtiers, always polite. But between the lines, her sorrow had been inked so carefully.
He read one over and over again.
I am here, my lord. Even if you don't see me. I exist quietly. But I am whole. And one day, I may not wait to be seen.
He folded the letter slowly.
It had always been a warning.
Not a plea.
By the second month of her absence, invitations began arriving at Aurora's estate.
From noblewomen. From scholars. From politicians' wives.
She read them one by one, considering.
"Are you going to build a court of your own?" Mireille teased.
Aurora looked at her with a wry smile. "No. I'm going to build a mirror. So women can finally see themselves in it."
That week, she hosted her first salon—a simple afternoon gathering for women to discuss ideas, not fashion. Power, not embroidery.
They came in secret at first.
Then openly.
And soon, the echo of her name filled Vareth in a new way.
Not as Empress.
But as Aurora.
As herself.
And far away in the palace, the Emperor listened to that name repeated with awe.
And he realized—
He had never truly known the woman he married.
And now the empire did.
And he wasn't sure if that terrified or moved him more.