Third Person's POV
The palace of Solara gleamed in the morning light — bright, alive, and utterly deceiving. Sunshine spilled through jeweled windows, turning every corridor to gold, but to Queen Talia do Sol, the light no longer felt pure. It was fractured, unsteady.
It was shattered sunlight.
Three days remained until the Dawn of Solara Ball, and though the realm buzzed with excitement, the heart of its queen was heavy. Beneath the laughter of her people and the scent of jasmine drifting through the halls, something darker stirred — a whisper of betrayal carried on the warm Solarian breeze.
And before the day's end, that whisper would roar.
….
Servants hurried through corridors carrying bolts of silk and trays of golden lilies. The scent of fresh polish and sunfruit lingered in the air, and every corner of the palace gleamed under the relentless hand of preparation.
Queen Talia walked among them, offering gentle words and calm direction, her presence as steady as the sunrise itself. Yet beneath her graceful poise, her body ached, her mind spun, and her heart felt stretched thin—too thin.
The whispers of Maris had not faded.
If anything, they had multiplied.
Every corner of the palace carried echoes of her name, though never in Talia's presence. The queen's attendants had learned to smile too quickly, to bow too low, and to never meet her eyes for too long.
Caelen had grown more distant with each passing day. He dined privately, held council behind closed doors, and only addressed her in brief, hollow exchanges.
Still, Talia kept moving—planning, approving, smiling. Because that was what queens did.
⸻
That afternoon, she stood in the grand ballroom, watching sunlight stream through the crystal windows. The golden floors had been polished to perfection; the banners of Solara hung proudly along the arches, each one painted with rays of soft sage and gold.
"It's beautiful," Stella murmured from beside her. "The people will remember this for years."
Talia smiled faintly. "They will remember the kingdom's light," she said. "Not the shadows behind it."
Stella looked as if she wanted to say something, but before she could, a royal herald entered the room and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice echoing softly through the hall, "an announcement has arrived from the border."
Talia turned toward him, composed but curious. "From which realm?"
"The Empire of Noctyra, Your Grace. The message comes from Empress Rhenessa Daelora herself."
At the name, a soft murmur spread through the attendants in the room. Noctyra—the Realm of Shadow and Flame. Solara's greatest ally in peace, and once, its greatest rival.
Talia's heart lifted, if only slightly. "What news does the Empress bring?"
The herald bowed again and read from the scroll:
"Her Imperial Majesty, Rhenessa Daelora of Noctyra, sends word of her forthcoming arrival to Solara. She wishes to attend the Dawn of Solara Ball in honor of the realm's independence and continued friendship. She will arrive by dusk tomorrow."
The room filled with soft gasps and hurried whispers. Stella's eyes widened in surprise. "The Empress herself? She hasn't set foot in Solara since your coronation, my queen."
Talia's lips curved into a calm smile, though something inside her stirred—a strange, quiet warmth she couldn't name. "Then we shall welcome her properly."
She turned to her attendants, her voice strong, purposeful. "Inform the kitchens and guest stewards at once. The imperial suite must be readied by nightfall. I want the finest silks, the freshest flowers, and the best of our wines. Noctyra's Empress will see that Solara has not dimmed."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" the attendants chorused, rushing to obey.
⸻
As the bustle filled the ballroom, Talia remained still, her gaze lifting toward the sunlit ceiling.
For the first time in weeks, her heart felt lighter—not unburdened, but distracted.
Rhenessa Daelora. The name carried a strange weight, both powerful and mysterious. She had heard tales of the Empress's strength, her brilliance, her command of shadowfire and diplomacy alike. Some said she could charm a council into silence with a single glance; others said she ruled with a heart as fierce as her empire's flames.
And soon, she would stand in Solara—face to face with Talia.
Talia didn't know why the thought made her chest tighten or her pulse quicken. She only knew that something was coming—something she couldn't yet define, but could feel as surely as the sun rising over her realm.
Perhaps, at last, the light would find its balance in the shadows.
….
The sun hung high and warm over Solara, spilling gold through the arched windows of the palace. Three days remained until the Dawn of Solara Ball, and Queen Talia do Sol was drowning in preparations.
The study was a mess of scrolls and sealed letters—menus, guest lists, seating charts, and trade agreements all awaiting her signature. Despite the exhaustion weighing on her limbs, she worked tirelessly, her quill scratching softly against parchment.
She barely noticed the ache in her chest anymore. Work dulled it. Duty buried it.
Until the door slammed open.
"Your Majesty!"
Talia's head snapped up, startled. Stella stood in the doorway, breathless, her usually composed face pale and stricken.
"What is it?" Talia asked, rising slowly, sensing something was terribly wrong.
Stella's hands twisted in her apron. "Forgive me, my queen, but… the King—he's returned."
Talia's quill slipped from her fingers, staining the parchment with ink. "Returned? From where?"
Stella's voice trembled. "From the southern provinces. He—he just arrived at the palace gates."
Relief flickered, fragile as glass. "He's back?"
But Stella didn't smile. Her eyes filled instead with dread. "He… he isn't alone, Your Majesty."
The fragile relief shattered instantly.
"Who?" Talia whispered.
"A woman," Stella said, almost choking on the words. "Pale blonde hair. Freckles. Hazel eyes. She—she looks exactly as the rumors said. Her name is… Maris."
Talia's stomach turned to stone. "And where are they now?"
Stella hesitated. "In the courtyard. The carriages have just arrived. And… Your Majesty—" She faltered, as if the next words refused to leave her throat.
"Speak."
Stella's eyes brimmed with pity. "The King—he announced it before the guards, before the staff. The reason for his… absence."
Talia felt her breath grow thin. "What reason?"
Stella swallowed hard, whispering, "She's with child, my queen. Four months. He's bringing her to the palace—to stay under his protection until the birth."
The room tilted. The words didn't register at first, just a low, muffled roar in her ears.
"He… announced it?" she breathed.
Stella nodded miserably. "He called her 'Lady Maris of the Sunlit Coast.' He—he said she carries the future of Solara."
For a moment, Talia could only stare, her lips parted in silent disbelief. A laugh—sharp and humorless—escaped her throat before she realized she'd made a sound at all.
"The future of Solara?" she murmured. "And I, then? What am I?"
"Your Majesty—"
But Talia was already moving. Her gown brushed against the marble floor as she swept toward the balcony doors, throwing them open. Sunlight flooded the room, harsh and blinding.
Below, the courtyard teemed with motion—guards, attendants, and curious nobles drawn to the spectacle.
There he was. King Caelen, standing tall and smiling as though the world itself had bent to his will. His arm was linked with that of a young woman dressed in soft blue silk, her hand resting gently atop her rounded belly. Her golden hair caught the sunlight, and her face glowed with shy pride.
Maris.
Talia's chest tightened until she could barely breathe.
He was introducing her. Speaking to the gathered court as though unveiling a new dawn. Even from this distance, she could see the way he looked at her—warm, proud, alive.
The same way he used to look at Talia.
Gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd below. Some attendants bowed their heads in confusion, others in quiet shame.
Stella stepped out beside Talia, trembling. "What should we do, Your Majesty?"
Talia gripped the balcony rail until her knuckles whitened. Her voice, when it came, was low and steady, though her heart screamed.
"We do nothing," she said softly. "Not here. Not now."
"But—"
Talia's gaze didn't waver from the scene below. "If he wishes to make a spectacle of his betrayal, let him. I will not give him the satisfaction of my pain."
Her words were cold sunlight—brilliant, beautiful, and burning.
She turned away from the balcony at last, her face a mask of calm even as her body trembled beneath her gown. "Send for the court seamstresses. We continue with preparations. The ball will not be marred by scandal."
As Stella hurried to obey, Talia stood in the middle of her study, staring at nothing. The noise from the courtyard still echoed faintly in her ears—Caelen's laughter, Maris's soft voice, the applause of courtiers who should have known better.
Talia pressed a hand to her chest and whispered, barely audible, "The future of Solara… was supposed to be ours."
The sunlight that filled her study suddenly felt colder.
The courtyard still hummed with applause long after Talia had turned away. She could hear the sound faintly even from the safety of her study — the cheers of fools too blind to see the humiliation their queen had just endured.
She stood motionless at first, every breath trembling with the effort to stay composed. Her attendants hovered near the door, unsure whether to approach. The silence felt heavy, alive.
Then, softly, she spoke.
"He dares."
Her voice was quiet, almost too soft to hear. Then it sharpened — not loud, but clear, edged with the first crack of fury breaking through heartbreak.
"He dares to stand in my courtyard, before my people, with the woman who carries his shame — and calls her the future of Solara."
Her attendants flinched as she swept the ink-stained parchment from her desk. Scrolls and quills clattered to the floor, the sound echoing through the chamber.
"I was born beneath the Solarian sun," she hissed. "The crown runs through my veins. He married into my throne — my bloodline — and now he thinks to parade his betrayal as if the realm belongs to him."
The sunlight poured through the window, gilding her hair and gown, turning her fury into something radiant and terrifying.
For a moment, Stella simply stared, awestruck. Talia had never looked more like the daughter of the Sun itself — powerful, divine, and wounded beyond measure.
But the strength flickered almost as soon as it rose. The adrenaline drained from her body, leaving her pale and shaking. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breath uneven.
"Your Majesty—" Stella rushed forward just as Talia swayed, the edges of her vision swimming with gold and white.
"I'm fine," she managed — but the words slurred slightly. She reached for the desk, missed, and stumbled forward into Stella's arms.
"Fetch a healer!" the attendant cried.
Talia tried to speak again, but the sound never formed. Her knees gave way, and the world tilted into blinding light.
The last thing she felt was the cool marble against her palms and the faint scent of marigolds — then, darkness.
⸻
When she woke hours later, the light outside her window had dimmed into sunset. A healer knelt beside her, whispering softly as she dabbed her forehead with a cool cloth. Stella sat nearby, eyes red from crying.
"My queen," the healer murmured, "your body is under great strain. You've been pushing yourself too hard."
Talia blinked, disoriented, her voice hoarse. "The… ball preparations—"
"Can wait," Stella said firmly, though her voice trembled. "Please, Your Majesty. Rest."
Talia turned her face toward the window. The sun was sinking beyond the horizon, its light melting into shades of rose and amber.
"How ironic," she whispered. "Even the sun must fall."
She closed her eyes, her exhaustion too deep to fight. For now, she would sleep — but her mind still burned with the image of Caelen and Maris, smiling in the sunlight that once belonged only to her.
Tomorrow, she told herself faintly, tomorrow she would rise again.
She was Queen of Solara, born of light — and the dawn always returned.