The queen of Adverland sat alone in the guest chambers granted to her. Silk pillows stacked behind her back, gold rings clinking as she lifted a crystal cup to her lips. She wasn't drinking – just thinking. Thinking far too much for a woman used to controlling the room.
Earlier that day, Camilla was walking through one of Eldenwilde's velvet-lined corridors – walls glimmering with candlelight, her heels soft on the marble floor – heading to the chamber prepared for her by Eldenwilde court.
It was tradition.
The groom's family would travel to the bride's palace.
There, they would plan the engagement and wedding.
The official ceremony would be held in Eldenwilde – and afterward, the bride would be escorted back to Adverland where a more private royal ball would celebrate the union.
Prince Morven would remain for a few days with her, but his father, the king of Adverland, would soon return – affairs of the kingdom waited for no one.
Then came the interruption – or perhaps, the setup.
Ivy.
She wasn't just passing by the corridor – she had been waiting.
Her timing was too graceful. Her curtsy too rehearsed.
"Your highness," Ivy said softly, Boeing so perfectly it looked like a page from a royal manual.
Her voice was calm, unshaken. Her dress….far too extravagant for a midday meal.
Princess Ivy had entered the way jewels are worn in daylight – too bright for the hour, too shiny for the room. Her sapphire dress had shimmered like ocean glass beneath chandeliers, laced with gold that screamed for attention.
Camilla had watched her descend those stairs like a royal peacock unaware that her feathers were already loosing their sheen.
"She tried too hard," Camilla murmured, almost amused.
She had seen it in Ivy's eyes – the way she looked at Havynlee, not with admiration, but envy sharpened to a knife's point. She had caught the twitch in Ivy's smile as Morven looked only at the maid's daughter. She had dressed for war but brought a flute to a sword fight.
Pathetic.
A perfect little puppet, Camilla thought. All silk and rehearsed curtsies. She'd been raised in a palace of perfumes and poison – where smiles had edges and compliments came with a slit to throat. But Ivy had learned all the wrong lessons.
What exactly did Ivy say again?
Something about a maid dying the very day her son proposed.
Something about how 'strange things happen in Eldenwilde.'
"She doesn't know how to scheme quietly." Camilla mused. "She doesn't even know how to hate with grace."
The moment Ivy had bowed too deep, too slow – Camilla had felt it. The whisper of calculation , tucked under the sweetness of her voice.
Her concern over the maid's death wasn't grief.
It was fear.
A warning masked as care. As if to say, look at your son's bride – wherever she walks, death follows.
Camilla's lips curved.
She'd seen better actors in royal court. Ivy wanted to shine – but she was no sun. She was a jewelled dagger pretending be a dove.
And yet….
Camilla's fingers toyed with golden rings on her fingers – smooth, cold, heavy. Her gaze drifted toward the distant window, but her mind stayed firmly on what had just unfolded.
There had been something strange in the dining room.
It wasn't just Ivy's theatrics or her perfectly measured bow.
It was Havynlee.
The way she hadn't flinched when insulted. The way she'd lifted her teacup with the serenity of a queen, not a girl born by a maid.
That smile – faint, eerie – like she knew something they didn't.
And then the maid….dead, poison.
A cup.
Camilla had not missed how Ivy spun the story –
Cloaked in concern, dripping with fear…. "Isn't it a bad omen?" She had said, voice low, sweet.
Bad omen?
Camilla didn't need Ivy to plant that seed….
It had already bloomed in her mind.
She had known, long before Ivy's whispering began, that this union – this absurd proposal between her son and that pale girl with silence in her bones – was a mistake.
A maid's daughter would not bring glory.
She would not secure alliances or birth a royal future of strength.
She would bring rumors, scandal.
Rot beneath the gold.
And now – death? On the same day her son proposed with a ring?
Camilla wasn't a woman ruled by superstition.
But she was a woman ruled by image, by legacy.
And this….this was beginning to look cursed.
Ivy was jealous, yes. And Camilla saw that – clear as glass. But the girl had a point.
Camilla's fingers stilled. Her face remained passive, elegant, unreadable.
This was a mistake.
Havynlee was a mistake.
A beautiful, dangerous mistske.
Not because she didn't dress too extravagant or sat too quietly at the royal table – but because she did both, and still held the room like it belonged to her.
One girl had been trying too hard to be perfect – looking like a walking engagement ring.
The other didn't need to try at all.
Too quiet.
Too calm.
Too unnerving.
Too dangerous to underestimate.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
Camilla didn't rise, "enter."
The doors opened sharply – her son, prince Morven, stormed in with fire in his.
"Mother," he snapped, his voice low but tight with fury. "What was that stunt you pulled in the dining hall?"
Queen Camilla didn't flinch. She was already reclined against silk cushions, her expression unreadable, her fingers laced across her lap like a woman born into power and never once denied it.
"I don't recall performing any stunts," she said cooly. "Unless you mean breathing."
"You insulted her."
"She's a maid's daughter," Camilla replied, as if the fact alone was reason enough for exile. "You may drape her in pearls, but that blood will always show."
"She's not just the daughter of a maid – she's my bride," Morven's voice cracked. Not with fear. With rage.
"She's a princess now, and if you can't respect her, you will at least…."
"Oh, shut up," Camilla cut in, rising slowly.
Her dress whispered along the marble as she approached him.
"You're a prince of Adverland. And instead of securing alliances with true royals, you plant your crown in the lap of scandal. A maid's daughter? In my court?"
"There's no scandal," Morven spat. "The scandal is how far you're willing to go to keep the throne in the hands of 'pure' booodlines. This isn't legacy – this is your vanity talking."
Camilla's hand twitched. For a brief second, she looked like she might slap him. But then she laughed – soft and cruel.
"This is legacy we're talking about. History. Nobility. What will people say? That the prince of Adverland married into a bloodline that used to serve tea in palace kitchen?"
Morven's jaw clenched. He didn't answer.
"Out of all the kingdoms…."
Camilla's voice dropped, bitter.
"You could've married princess Satsura of Valor. She rides into battle with sapphire armour and six castles. Or queen Shanna of Abatti, whose dowry includes entire fleets. Even Ivy, for heavens sake – she is full royalty."
"But none of them are Havynlee," he said.
Silence.
Camilla turned her back to him.
"So you'll ruin everything… for a girl who says nothing. For a girl who lets the room insult her and doesn't lift her head."
He didn't reply. He didn't need to.
Camilla's voice grew tight, nearly breaking.
"You want me to bow one day to a maid's daughter? To call her 'your majesty?' To watch her sit on my throne, in my palace, and take what was meant for royalty?"
She turned to him, and shook her head, voice dropping to a whisper.
"What will the nobles say? What will the court think? You think they'll knell for her?" She asked. "You think when you place that crown on her head, they won't remember that she was born by a maid, and her mother carried broom through palace halls? You think I'll bow to her."
"She's not her mother," Morven said through clenched teeth. "And you forget yourself. You forget love – the reason kings fall and kingdoms rise."
"Love?" Camilla echoed like it was a disease. "Love is a candle in a storm. It flicker, it dies. What endured is legacy, and yours is about to become the laughing stock of every kingdom. From Adverland to the vale."
A silence stretched between them.
"I've never seen beauty like hers," Camilla admitted suddenly, and it startled Morven into stillness. "Not even in the mirror when I was young – she's….too perfect. It frightens me."
"She frightens you because you can't control her," he said.
Camilla didn't deny it.
"But let me tell you something, Morven," Camilla turned back sharply, stepping closer.
"I am the queen of Adverland. The court answers to me. Even your father listens when I speak –"
"But not me." He cut in quietly. "You don't control me. And I will marry Havynlee."
He bowed stiffly and walked out.
Camilla stood still for a long while, staring at the door.
No one had ever defied her like this.
And yet….what could she do?
Morven had made his choice. But deep inside, a storm was growing. And she wasn't finished yet.
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