The palace halls had grown colder—not from winter, but from whispers.
Every corner of the court buzzed with the same question:
"Will the king take a second wife?"
The scroll had been delivered to King Darian two days ago. Signed by seven nobles and sealed with golden wax, it sat unopened on his table. He had read the message without breaking the seal:
"For the future of Elyria, the king must secure a male heir. The queen has had her chance."
He hadn't spoken to Selene since. Not about the letter. Not about the council's vote. Not about the rumors that now circled her name like vultures.
Selene, however, did not wait for permission to act.
In the quiet of her private hall, she summoned her closest allies—Commander Lirael, two merchant heads from the southern quarter, and Lord Venn, the only councilman who had openly supported her.
A map of Elyria lay on the table. Red stones marked trouble spots—rebellious districts, merchant guilds loyal to Miranna, and key noble homes.
"I'm not fighting for my crown," Selene said, eyes fixed on the map. "I'm fighting for my daughter. For the city that would be torn apart by men who still think power comes from a man's hand."
"They won't move quickly," Lirael said. "They still think you'll go quietly."
Selene looked up, her voice calm but cold.
"Then let's show them I don't know how."
That evening, a special council meeting was called.
All twelve council members. The king. Queen Selene.
She entered the chamber wearing black and silver—the colors of mourning and battle. Her hair was tied back, and on her hip rested a ceremonial dagger, legal for queens to wear only during council disputes.
Every eye followed her.
Lord Carven stood first, bold. "Your Majesty," he said, turning to Darian, "the law permits a second queen. We believe this is necessary."
Lady Ilaira frowned. "We must proceed carefully. Queen Selene has served well."
"Served," Carven repeated mockingly. "But she has not succeeded."
Before the king could respond, Selene stepped forward.
"I know what you want," she said. "You want a woman whose belly is more valuable than her brain. A woman who smiles and bows and obeys. That's not what I am. And it's not what Elyria needs."
"You cannot defy the law," Carven warned.
"I defy your fear."
She reached into her cloak and pulled out a rolled document.
"My claim to this throne is not just my marriage. It is this—signed pledges from the eastern and southern provinces, the high priestess of the Flame, and five of the trade guilds that keep this city alive. If you strip me of my crown, I will not go quietly. And you will not stand long enough to replace me."
Gasps echoed through the chamber.
King Darian rose slowly. For the first time, he looked between the council and his queen—and truly saw the storm behind her eyes.
"She won't bend," Miranna whispered from her seat.
"No," said Lady Ilaira, "and that's why she deserves to wear the crown."
That night, Selene walked alone to the royal balcony. The city glowed beneath her—calm for now.
Darian joined her there.
"You've changed," he said.
"I've only become what I had to be," she replied.
They stood in silence for a long moment.
"She's strong," he murmured, thinking of Lyra.
"She'll be stronger," Selene answered.
Then he asked the question no one else had dared:
"If the next child is a girl again… what then?"
Selene turned to him, face like steel in moonlight.
"Then you'll have two reasons to be grateful instead of one."