The silence in the royal garden was not peaceful.
It was sharp, slicing through the air like hidden blades. Birds no longer chirped when Zara walked past. The guards didn't greet her. Even the palace maids kept their heads down and mouths shut.
Everyone had heard about her dinner with the Queen.
And everyone was waiting for her to fall.
Zara stood under the tall rose tree, her fingers brushing the silk folds of the blue gown she had worn the previous evening. Her body still carried the weight of the Queen's cold eyes, and her ears rang with every warning that had been hidden in her polite tone.
"Do not mistake silence for acceptance, child," the Queen had said after the meal. "A bride may be tolerated, but a Queen is earned."
It was not a threat. It was a challenge.
Zara had smiled and bowed, but deep inside, fear clawed at her ribs like a caged animal.
"Your Grace?"
She turned at the sound of a soft voice.
A young maid, eyes downcast, approached her with a scroll sealed in gold.
"From His Highness, the Prince," the maid said quickly, bowing low.
Zara took the scroll, her fingers trembling slightly. The seal was real. She broke it carefully and read the message.
**"You are summoned to my study. Now."**
– Prince Zaire
So much for rest.
She handed the scroll back and walked quickly out of the garden. The palace halls twisted like a maze, but her legs knew the way to Zaire's study far too well by now.
Each step was a silent battle: Her heart begged her to be brave. Her past told her to hide.
When she arrived at the heavy oak door, she paused, smoothed her dress, and knocked.
"Enter."
Zaire's voice was low, commanding.
She stepped inside.
The room smelled of ink and spice. Tall shelves surrounded the space like sentinels, filled with books and ledgers and maps of the kingdom. The prince stood near the window, one hand resting on the carved edge of the table, the other behind his back.
He didn't look at her.
"You met my mother," he said.
Zara nodded. "Yes, Your Highness."
"She was pleased with you."
Zara blinked. "She was?"
Zaire finally turned. "That is what she said. But that is not always what she means."
His tone was flat, but his eyes were calculating.
Zara lowered her gaze. "I tried to be respectful."
"You were. And that may not be enough."
He took a slow step toward her, then another, until only a breath stood between them.
"You are in a palace that thrives on politics, not kindness," he said. "You must learn to defend yourself."
Zara's eyes flickered upward. "And what if I don't want to play those games?"
Zaire's mouth twitched — not quite a smile. "Then you will be eaten alive."
She swallowed hard.
For a moment, silence stretched between them like a tight rope. She could hear the wind brushing against the windows. Her own heartbeat.
Then Zaire's hand reached out.
She flinched.
But instead of grabbing her, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I don't want them to destroy you," he said, voice low. "Not before you understand who you are. And what you can become."
Zara's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he walked back to the table, picked up a second scroll, and held it out to her.
She took it with shaking hands.
The contents made her breath catch.
It was an invitation — no, a demand — to attend the **Council Session** tomorrow morning. As his wife. As the future queen.
"But I've never sat in on a council meeting," she whispered.
"You will," Zaire said. "And you will not speak. You will watch. Learn. Listen."
She clutched the parchment. "Why now?"
"Because they want to test you. And because I want them to know you are not a ghost."
Zara's fingers curled around the paper.
She didn't know if it was a gift… or a trap.
---
The next morning arrived like a wave of ice.
Zara stood beside Prince Zaire in the high hall of the royal council chamber, dressed in a formal wine-colored gown. Her head was held high, though her knees felt weak.
The nobles around the long table turned their heads, whispering in surprise. Some narrowed their eyes. Others scoffed openly.
She didn't blame them.
What was a fragile girl like her doing in a room filled with wolves?
Zaire didn't introduce her. He didn't even look at her.
But he placed one hand on her back — firm, grounding.
And then the meeting began.
They discussed borders and taxes and rebellions in the east. Zara listened quietly, absorbing the words, the tone, the shifts in power behind every glance.
She said nothing.
She didn't need to.
Until a loud, sarcastic voice cut through the room.
"She has a lovely face, Your Highness. But does she have a tongue? Or has she been trained only to bow and blink?"
The voice came from Lord Eshan — a powerful duke with a cruel reputation.
Zara felt the heat rush to her cheeks.
The room stilled.
Everyone watched.
Zaire's jaw tightened. But he didn't speak.
And for the first time… Zara did.
She stepped forward slightly.
Her voice was soft, but steady.
"I have a tongue, Lord Eshan. But unlike many in this room, I know when to use it."
The silence was deafening.
And then — a faint laugh. From someone down the line.
Zaire didn't laugh.
But his lips curved. Just slightly.
The meeting continued.
And Zara knew — she had just made her first move.
---
That night, in the silence of her chamber, she stared at her reflection in the mirror.
She didn't look like the girl who had arrived in this palace weeks ago.
She didn't feel like her, either.
The palace hadn't changed.
But **she** had.
And something deep inside her whispered:
**You are no longer afraid.**