The Grand Hall of the Imperial Court was filled to capacity — nobles in rich garments, banners of each great house fluttering along the carved pillars. Gold sunlight streamed through stained glass, casting shifting colors on the marble floor. At the head of the hall stood the Emperor, flanked by his sons and daughters.
But all eyes were not on him today.
They were on Prince Rythe, standing tall and resolute beside a woman long thought dead — Elendra, the lost queen, serene in a gown of royal indigo and silver, her omega mark now proudly displayed, no longer hidden by exile or shame.
Rythe's voice rang clear as he stepped forward to address the court.
"Years ago, a grievous injustice was done — not only to the woman who once stood beside the Emperor of this land as his heart and wife, but also to every child born from that union… and to the soul of this empire itself."
Murmurs stirred, but none interrupted him.
"My mother, Elendra of House Marien, former queen consort of this empire, was falsely accused, cruelly persecuted, and driven into exile — not for treason, nor betrayal… but for the simple truth of being born an omega, and loving her mate with the fullness of her heart."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle.
"These accusations were not only false, but fabricated— the work of fear, of manipulation, of those who sought to control the throne through bloodline and bitterness. And for too long, we accepted that story. No more."
He turned then, looking first at the nobles, then at his siblings, before meeting his father's gaze. The emperor gave a quiet nod — not proud, not ashamed — but yielding.
"By Imperial Decree, and with the full support of this court and its ruling bloodline, all charges and accusations against Her Grace, Elendra, are hereby nullified and struck from all records. Her title as Queen Mother of the Empire is restored in full, with all rights, honor, and dignity henceforth."
A hush fell — before the thunderous sound of palms striking chests — the nobles' salute to their reinstated queen.
Rythe extended a hand toward his mother, and Elendra stepped forward with quiet grace.
"In three days' time," Rythe continued, his voice softer now but no less powerful, "there will be a banquet held in this very palace — not a political affair, but a celebration. A return. A healing."
"The Queen returns to her people, not as a whisper from the past… but as the mother of this empire. And it is time her empire welcomes her home."
The court erupted — applause, cheers, and bowed heads. Even the more conservative nobles could find no room to object — not after what Rythe had done to restore the empire's unity.
Behind Rythe, his siblings smiled, the emperor lowered his gaze in something like humility, and Elendra's hand trembled as she brought it to her lips, overwhelmed by a truth she had waited decades to hear.
As Rythe stepped aside, placing his hand gently on his mother's back to guide her forward to the dais, he whispered low enough for only her to hear:
"Welcome home, Mother. The world tried to erase you, but you never stopped being ours."
The Great Salon of the palace had been turned into a flurry of motion — fabric samples, food tastings, flower arrangements, and seating charts sprawled across every surface. Servants bustled in and out with swatches and silverware, while the imperial siblings and their spouses gathered in a semi-chaotic circle near the central hearth.
Rhalia stood at the center, hands on her hips, glaring down at a row of floral centerpieces.
"No. Absolutely not. These flowers are wilting. We're not welcoming Mother back with dying plants."
"Maybe they're symbolic," Kael quipped from his perch near the open window, "you know, death and rebirth, tragedy and beauty..."
"If that's your contribution, Kael, go sit with the hounds," Vaela snapped playfully as she snatched a list from his hand. "Your handwriting looks like a goat danced in ink."
Everyone burst out laughing, including Kael, who held his hands up in surrender.
Maleus and his spouse, a quiet and elegant omega named Thalan, were seated on a velvet settee nearby, deep in discussion about music selection. Thalan offered a list of instrumental troupes while Maleus raised a brow.
"You want harpists? We're not burying her, we're celebrating her."
"And your solution?" Dain—chimed in, "A drum circle?"
"I was thinking more... triumphant horns. Something regal."
"You mean loud," Astrid said with a grin. "You always want things loud."
Elion, the most reserved of the brothers, calmly sipped from a goblet while reviewing a scroll of wine options.
Rythe, who had been silently overseeing the flurry from the edge of the room, stepped in with a raised brow.
"Are you all done turning banquet planning into a battlefield?"
"We're bonding," Astrid replied with an exaggerated shrug. "This is what family looks like."
"A mess," Rhalia added dryly. "A very loud, opinionated, colorful mess."
"We get it from Mother," Vaela grinned.
Their laughter rolled across the room again. For once, no one argued — not about politics, not about position, not about past wounds. They teased, bickered, and debated over wine and napkin rings, but underneath it all, there was a genuine excitement—a desire to make the celebration perfect.
Lareth walked in just then, observing the chaos and folding his arms.
"I see we've resorted to democracy. I'll start digging the moat."
"Or join us," Rythe said with a rare, full smile. "We could use someone to keep Vaela from declaring war on the caterers."
"I only threatened them once," she muttered. "They brought salted honey tarts, Rythe. Salted."
As laughter and voices rose again, a sense of home filled the air — the kind Elendra hadn't felt in decades, and the kind Rythe had spent his life protecting.
In three days, their mother would be honored as she should've been from the start — as their queen, and as the woman who made them family.