Three days later at Emily's villa on the outskirts of Aschenmark, a knock sounded at the door.
It was Mr. Arendt who answered—the butler, shorter and middle-aged with thinning black hair, dark eyes, and a pleasant voice. Not Edward. Her Highness often confused the two, once even dubbing Edward "Matthew" to Emily's eternal frustration, but Edward was the head of house, managing the entire household. Mr. Arendt, the actual butler, served under his authority. Neither was named Matther.
Standing there was Ms. Tempers. Chin high, lips pressed tight, a little too much perfume clinging to her like armor. Her gaze skimmed over the butler as if he were little more than a coat rack.
"I am here to request the audience of Her Highness, Queen Kaelani."
The butler bowed with practiced ease. "My apologies, madam, but the Queen is not receiving visitors. If you wish, I can carry your message."
Ms. Tempers' mouth twitched. That answer was polite—far too polite. Carefully constructed. The sort of answer that reeked of concealment. She shifted, tapping the heel of her shoe against the stone step, perfume cutting through the autumn chill.
"I see," she said slowly. "And will you also tell me why she fled the ball in tears?"
The butler did not flinch. "I am afraid I am not privy to Her Highness's affairs, madam."
But Ms. Tempers wasn't fooled. The Capitol was buzzing with stories—half-whispered tales that clung to the drapes of noble salons and the skirts of maids alike. Everyone had heard something. That Kaelani collapsed from drink. That Kaelani struck the First Prince. That Kaelani took ill.
But one rumor rang louder than the rest. One that slid like a knife through every parlor, whispered with white faces and nervous glances.
That Queen Kaelani of Nubarra was not just a guest in Aschenmark's gilded cage.
She was its victim.
Ms. Tempers' throat tightened. She had heard the stories before, of course—everyone had. The crown did not discriminate. Noblewoman, servant girl, even soldier—if you were female and within the King's shadow, you were fair game. But the suggestion that Kaelani, a foreign monarch, a queen, had been… touched—violated—by that same hand?
If that was true, then none of them were safe. Not a single woman in Schwarzreich, from the highest duchess to the humblest laundress, had agency at all.
And Ms. Tempers—once so calculating, so sharp with her words—felt something colder than ambition crawl beneath her skin.
This was no longer about gossip. This was survival.
Ms. Tempers had not come all the way to Emily's villa to be dismissed at the door. She brushed past the butler with the ease of a woman accustomed to barging into places she did not belong.
"Then let me speak with the lady of the house—Princess Emily," she said briskly.
Mr. Arendt, momentarily taken aback by her boldness, shut the door behind her and gestured toward the waiting parlor. Ever the professional, he asked if she would prefer tea or coffee while she waited. Ms. Tempers waved him off with a flick of her hand.
Minutes later, Emily appeared, smiling in a way that was far too polite to be genuine.
"Ms. Tempers. I wasn't aware you and Her Highness were on speaking terms."
Ms. Tempers dismissed the jab with a casual wave. "Her and I have a complicated past, but she invited me all the same. I've heard the rumors buzzing through the city, and I'd rather come to her directly than place faith in idle gossip."
Emily's smile thinned. "The Queen is not in any condition to receive guests right now."
Ms. Tempers scoffed. "I'm not afraid of a depressed queen."
Emily's eyes slid to the side, her expression saying far more than words. "It's not just depression. She hasn't even had an orgy in almost a week." Emily's voice dropped lower. "That is… not normal behavior for her. I'm worried."
Ms. Tempers straightened. "Then perhaps she needs other friends to pull her out of it. That's what I came to do."
At that, Edward himself appeared in the doorway, his presence commanding the room without effort. Having overheard the exchange, he clasped his hands behind his back.
"Ms. Tempers," he said with measured calm, "Her Majesty is in the back garden. If you wish to attempt to rouse her spirits, you are welcome to try. But be warned—she is… not stable. At times she may seem unhinged."
Ms. Tempers gave a sharp laugh, dismissive. "Unhinged? As though that isn't her entire personality?"
Edward merely raised a hand, bidding her follow. He led her through the villa and into the back garden, where a koi pond glimmered in the noon light.
Only, it was no koi pond today.
Ms. Tempers gasped. Queen Kaelani lay sprawled in the shallow water of the bird bath, clad only in undergarments, hair a wild nest of tangles and weeds. Her legs were thrown wide, shameless as ever, while koi fish swam indignantly around her submerged hips. In one limp hand she held a wine bottle, its neck tipped against the grass, spilling the last drops into the dirt.
"Good God, girl, what have you done to yourself?" Ms. Tempers shrieked.
Kaelani's head jerked up, as though yanked from some half-dream. Her eyes blinked heavily, unfocused, her words slurred.
"Hey, it's you. What're you doin' in my bedroom… this late at night?"
It was high noon. They were outside. And the garden was most certainly not a bedroom.
Ms. Tempers turned to Emily, aghast. The princess only sighed and gazed at Kaelani with the resigned look of someone used to this particular brand of chaos.
Ms. Tempers had heard enough gossip, enough whispers, enough denial. But seeing this spectacle with her own eyes, she realized: the rumors hadn't even begun to scratch the surface.
Ms. Tempers had reached her limit with civility. She strode forward, each step deliberate, until her shadow fell across Kaelani's face. The Queen squinted up from her watery bed, koi circling her thighs, to find the tall, imposing woman staring down with fire in her eyes.
"You spent the night making me believe my pain and chaos were something I could overcome," Tempers said, her voice low but trembling with steel. "And here you are—giving up?"
Kaelani's lips twisted. She lifted one lazy hand in a shrug.
"I had a good run. But now it's time to face the music, I guess. I'll marry some gross-ass prince, become his royal fuck toy, and who knows—maybe I'll catch syphilis and die. Poetic, don't you think?"
Behind them, Edward groaned, the sound edged with genuine pain. He had known Kaelani as fire and defiance, as a force that bent every rule until it cracked. Seeing her wilt into despair made the world feel wrong, broken at its very core.
"So that's it?" Tempers spat. "You're just going to let them take you? Let them take your kingdom? You'll lie down like a whore in a brothel bed and call it destiny?"
Kaelani grabbed her empty bottle, tilted it for the last drops, and found none. "Well," she slurred, "if the palace has a wine cellar and hot maids and soldiers I can molest, I don't see the downside." With a flick of her wrist, she hurled the bottle into the grass, narrowly missing a squirrel that bolted in outrage.
That was it. Ms. Tempers snapped.
This was the woman who, in a single drunken night, had made her laugh—had made her feel, for the first time in years, like she wasn't alone in her pain. Twenty minutes of honesty had done more for her than a lifetime of pretending. And she wasn't going to lose that friend—her only friend—to the same tragedy men had been writing across their bodies for generations.
"Get up, Kaelani," she hissed. "Because if you won't fight for yourself, then I'll drag you out of this filth and make you fight."
"No!" Kaelani suddenly screamed, thrashing in the pond water as though it were quicksand. "I don't wanna fight anymore—I'm tired! I'm done!"
But Ms. Tempers didn't flinch. She plunged a hand down, seized Kaelani's arm, and hauled her upright in one brutal motion. Water and weeds clung to the Queen's undergarments as Tempers' voice cracked like a whip:
"You are going to take a bath. Then we are going to a tea party. Back into society. You will face those rumors head-on, and together we will come up with a game plan."
Kaelani sputtered and cursed, slipping and dragging her heels across the grass, but Tempers marched her forward with unrelenting strength.
Behind them, Emily and Edward exchanged a glance and followed at a safe distance. Neither intervened—neither dared. They knew full well that only Ms. Tempers could seize the Queen like this and not be turned to ash for it.
Because Kaelani Amara Adebayo burned too hot for ordinary souls. But Ms. Tempers?
She was flame as well.
Two women, cut from the same resistant cloth. Two fires that, together, could either temper each other into steel—or set the entire world alight.
____________________________________________________________________________
The late afternoon sun filtered through the garden trees, dappled light falling across linen-draped tables where a large group of wealthy, influential women sat with steaming teas, chilled lemonades, and trays of delicate finger foods.
Their voices were soft, polite… but their words dripped with palace gossip.
"Did you hear the prince kissed another man?" one woman asked, her pink fluffy dress bouncing as she leaned in, golden-brown eyes gleaming. Her curly coils framed a face too sweet for the scandal she adored.
Another, sleek in dark silk with long straight hair and monolid eyes from a far-off land, fanned herself coyly. "Oh, yes—I would give anything to have seen it!"
Laughter and giggles bubbled around the veranda. For these women, gossip was their entertainment, their lifeblood, in a world without theaters or newspapers.
And at the center sat Princess Bennihan Mallory Drachenberg, soldier, officer, and purveyor of every juicy whisper the palace produced. The others leaned toward her, waiting, hungry for her word to confirm or deny.
Bennihan smirked. "Yes, I was there. My brother was only trying to make Queen Kaelani jealous—it was staged."
The table tittered and flushed pink with delight. They loved it. They craved it.
But one girl—red-haired, young, too naïve to know what should not be said—tilted her head. "I heard… the Queen was a victim. Of the crown. Is that true?"
A silence fell. All eyes turned to Bennihan.
She smiled tightly, composed. "That rumor was invented to weaken the crown. There is no evidence of such a thing. But we are investigating."
And just as the last word left her lips—
"Investigating my ass! No evidence my big black butthole!"
Gasps shrieked through the veranda as every head whipped toward the entrance.
Queen Kaelani stood there, wild-eyed and furious, with Ms. Tempers at her shoulder and Emily flushing bright red as she rushed forward to hug her sister.
Bennihan's smile cracked. She whispered harshly, "Why did you bring her here? I was doing damage control!"
Emily hissed back, "Ms. Tempers brought her. And damage control does not mean spreading lies and calling Kaelani a liar. You should be ashamed of yourself, Benni."
But Kaelani was already striding forward, stolen fan in hand, waving it with the authority of a general commanding troops. Her voice thundered.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the garden trees, dappled light falling across linen-draped tables where a large group of wealthy, influential women sat with steaming teas, chilled lemonades, and trays of delicate finger foods.
Their voices were soft, polite… but their words dripped with palace gossip.
"Did you hear the prince kissed another man?" one woman asked, her pink fluffy dress bouncing as she leaned in, golden-brown eyes gleaming. Her curly coils framed a face too sweet for the scandal she adored.
Another, sleek in dark silk with long straight hair and monolid eyes from a far-off land, fanned herself coyly. "Oh, yes—I would give anything to have seen it!"
Laughter and giggles bubbled around the veranda. For these women, gossip was their entertainment, their lifeblood, in a world without theaters or newspapers.
And at the center sat Princess Bennihan Mallory Drachenberg, soldier, officer, and purveyor of every juicy whisper the palace produced. The others leaned toward her, waiting, hungry for her word to confirm or deny.
Bennihan smirked. "Yes, I was there. My brother was only trying to make Queen Kaelani jealous—it was staged."
The table tittered and flushed pink with delight. They loved it. They craved it.
But one girl—red-haired, young, too naïve to know what should not be said—tilted her head. "I heard… the Queen was a victim. Of the crown. Is that true?"
A silence fell. All eyes turned to Bennihan.
She smiled tightly, composed. "That rumor was invented to weaken the crown. There is no evidence of such a thing. But we are investigating."
And just as the last word left her lips—
"Investigating my ass! No evidence my big black butthole!"
Gasps shrieked through the veranda as every head whipped toward the entrance.
Queen Kaelani stood there, wild-eyed and furious, with Ms. Tempers at her shoulder and Emily flushing bright red as she rushed forward to hug her sister.
Bennihan's smile cracked. She whispered harshly, "Why did you bring her here? I was doing damage control!"
Emily hissed back, "Ms. Tempers brought her. And damage control does not mean spreading lies and calling Kaelani a liar. You should be ashamed of yourself, Benni."
But Kaelani was already striding forward, fan in hand, waving it with the authority of a general commanding troops. Her voice thundered.
"It's true! I was raped by the King because he needed an heir. And I'm not going to sit here while you, Benni—who wasn't even there when your father forced me over a desk to breed a child I didn't want—call it a rumor!"
Gasps. Murmurs. Shaking hands covering painted lips.
Kaelani's voice cracked like fire. "That's right—I'm saying it. Because that's what it was. Rape. I'm not dressing it down to spare his reputation. I was a child! And you sit here, calling it gossip? Calling it damage control? No—you're just protecting a predator!"
She spun, fanning herself with violent flicks, glaring at the circle of women.
"We take their shit every damn day! No wonder they think they can do this to us—we let them! We excuse them, we play their games, and when they're done, they toss us aside for someone younger or more fertile!"
Her words struck like lashes. The women sat rigid, some shamed, some pale, some looking away—others staring wide-eyed, faces etched with pain Kaelani recognized all too well.
She steadied herself, her voice dropping lower, darker.
"…We have to watch as they hunt our sisters, mothers, daughters, aunts, friends—and not one of us does anything about it. Well, I'm tired. I'm tired of letting them treat us like used napkins they can wipe their dicks on when they're done."
The veranda was silent. Kaelani's chest heaved, her eyes burning as they swept over the women. Some looked down in shame, some pale with fear, some carrying the hollow-eyed recognition of the same wound.
She jabbed the fan into the air like a weapon.
"Don't mistake me—I am not saying it is our fault that they touch us, harass us, rape us. That evil belongs to them alone. But it is our fault when we do nothing. When we let their crimes become whispers. When we play along, smile, curtsy, and pretend nothing happened—then we make it easy for them to keep doing it. That's on us. And I, for one, am done being complicit."
A beat of silence fell over the veranda. Every woman looked up at her — some with tears, some shaking their heads, some with lips that quivered. Kaelani had gotten to them; she knew it.
Then a single hand began to clap. Ms. Tempers. Emily followed, then another woman, until the sound swelled into a sea of applause. One by one they rose and clapped — all of them, that is, except Bennihan, whose duty was to control the narrative.
Bennihan moved before the applause had even faded. She seized Kaelani's arm and dragged her into the waiting room, out of earshot. "What the hell, Kaelani?" she hissed.
Kaelani lifted her chin, cold as a coronet. "Address me as Your Majesty." The look in her eyes said everything Bennihan needed to know; her fingers slackened around Kaelani's arm and she stumbled into an apology, baffled by how their footing had shifted from friend to adversary so fast. "I only mean—" Bennihan began, voice tight, "you rile up these women and it could do damage."
Kaelani leaned in, close enough that Bennihan could smell the wine on her breath, and answered with fierce calm, "Good."
Bennihan ran a hand through her curls, pulling herself together. "Listen. Father is posturing to seize control of Nubarra. He'll force you to sign those papers. I don't know what he's bargaining for, but it will be an offer you can't possibly accept. And Nicolae—he's missing."
The words landed like a boulder. Kaelani's blood ran cold. "Missing how? Ran off to a brothel to scratch an itch, or—" her voice broke, "—or dead in a stream and called suicide?"
Bennihan shook her head fast. "I don't know. I only know he was with Father and then… gone. I usually find him after Father cools off. I don't think Father would kill him—" she stopped, the memory of Nicolae choking their father flaring in her face. "But after what he did to the king, he tried strangling him—I have a bad feeling."
Kaelani's eyes glimmered with something like tears. She choked it back and breathed out, steadier. "Ok. We don't know for sure yet. No hysteria. I've sent for help — backup is on the way."
Bennihan's voice shook as she answered, "Don't tell anyone else. No one. Especially not the court—if word leaks, it'll be used to break you."
"Agreed." Kaelani wiped at her face, scrubbing away the evidence of emotion with the back of her hand. "First: I need you to go to the east border and escort my cousins I sent for. One's a tracker, the other has a knack for finding people. Bring them to Emily's."
Bennihan's nod was instant, fierce. They were in it now, together.
Beyond the waiting room, the chatter on the veranda rose again — excited, frightened voices as women clung to one another, traded stories, cried, and, for the first time, felt less powerless. Bennihan pushed through the front doors like a storm, mission fixed and ruthless. The ladies watched her go; all eyes turned back to Kaelani.
Kaelani straightened, fan in hand, and surveyed them with an authoritative glance that felt like a command. A small smile creased her face. "Okay—who's ready for a revolt?"
They smiled at each other, a spark catching and spreading. The revolution, as it so often does, began with women who would not be silent anymore.