The Queen Consort's salon was never truly empty. Nobles came and went beneath its gilded arches, each one seeking her favor, each one fearing her disapproval. This morning, the chamber hummed with soft voices and the clink of porcelain cups.
Marquis Dareth lounged near the hearth, his plump fingers heavy with rings as he gestured too widely. "The King grows weaker by the season. He hides behind his councils, his decrees lack bite. If not for Her Grace's wisdom, the realm would already be drowning in disorder."
A Lady of the court, sharp-eyed Lady Merielle, leaned closer to Elira, her silks whispering as she moved. "And the First Prince—his condition grows worse, does it not? I heard from a cousin who serves in the outer barracks that his pheromones nearly felled three guards during a routine inspection. Such a creature is not fit to lead."
Their words were daggers wrapped in honey, meant to please the woman who sat at the heart of the room.
Elira listened without interruption, her posture perfect, her hand resting lightly on the armrest of her chair. The pearls around her throat gleamed, each one a token of triumph from battles fought in silence. She sipped her tea as though the concerns of the kingdom were no more pressing than the fragrance of lilies drifting through the air.
"My son," she said at last, her voice smooth as silk, "will bring stability where his brother has sown only fear. But patience, my friends. Seeds must sprout before they can be harvested."
The nobles murmured assent, heads bowing, lips curving in eager smiles.
It was then that the door creaked open, and a maid slipped inside. She lowered herself immediately into a deep curtsey, her voice barely carrying.
"Your Grace. Forgive the intrusion. I bring word."
The room stilled. Even the Marquis quieted, sensing the ripple of importance. Elira set down her cup, eyes alight with a calm curiosity. "Speak."
The maid swallowed. "A man has been granted unusual access to the royal conservatory. He arrived at the palace yesterday under the escort of Lord Percival. He is said to be… a herbalist."
Murmurs rose among the nobles like startled birds.
"A herbalist?" scoffed Marquis Dareth. "And admitted to the Royal Apothecary Garden?"
Lady Merielle leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Surely not without reason. The conservatory is sacred ground. Only the King himself could permit such a thing."
Elira's smile did not falter. She folded her hands in her lap, serene as marble. "And so he has, I imagine."
The Marquis huffed. "Then perhaps the King clings to one last hope—that this rustic physician might tame the beast he calls heir. How laughable."
Laughter rippled, soft and scornful. But Elira did not laugh.
Her eyes lingered on the bowed maid, her tone unhurried. "And what of this herbalist's origins? Do you know from where he hails?"
"Only whispers, Your Grace," the maid answered quickly. "A village beyond the southern hills. No noble blood. No patronage. He seems… ordinary."
Elira inclined her head, lashes lowering. "Ordinary, indeed. And yet placed in extraordinary halls."
Her words were soft, but the room quieted under them. She lifted her teacup again, sipping delicately before speaking once more.
"Do not trouble yourselves," she said to her gathered allies. "Physicians, alchemists, foreign sages—none have cured what curses the Prince. If the King wishes to chase miracles in the form of weeds and roots, let him. It will change nothing."
Her faction nodded, reassured by her poise.
Only the faint glimmer in Elira's eyes betrayed her thoughts. A herbalist admitted under secrecy, given access to the palace gardens? Perhaps harmless. Perhaps not. But whether weed or flower, anything that grew in her husband's shadow would eventually be cut to root.
And she would be the one holding the shears.