Third Person's POV
Golden light filtered through the open balcony doors, washing over the silken drapes and spilling across the marble floor. Solara's palace seemed to hum softly with morning life — the call of birds in the garden below, the laughter of attendants carrying baskets of jasmine and sunfruit through the corridors.
For the first time in weeks, Queen Talia Do Sol awoke with ease.
She sat at her vanity, her hair half-braided, watching the sunlight play over her skin. Her reflection looked a little brighter today — her eyes more alive, her posture lighter. Even Stella noticed, pausing in her brushing to smile softly.
"You seem in good spirits this morning, Your Majesty," Stella said, carefully looping a pearl through the braid.
Talia's lips curved faintly. "Do I? I suppose I finally slept soundly for once."
"You've been working yourself too hard," Stella murmured. "Perhaps you're finally letting yourself breathe."
"Perhaps," Talia said, though her smile didn't fade.
There was truth to Stella's words — something in her chest did feel lighter. Maybe it was the simple passage of time. Maybe it was the clarity that came after heartbreak. Or maybe, though she would never admit it aloud, it was the memory of a certain pair of violet eyes watching her from across the ballroom.
Whatever the reason, Talia felt… steadier.
She rose from her seat and crossed to the balcony, the sunlight catching the soft coral hue of her gown. From this height, Solara glittered like a sea of gold and white, her people already busy with morning trade. Her heart swelled with affection — her kingdom was thriving, even if her marriage was not.
Behind her, attendants whispered softly as they finished tidying her chambers. She heard them murmur about her glow, her smile, how radiant she looked despite all she'd endured. Talia pretended not to hear — but a quiet warmth bloomed in her chest all the same.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt like herself again — like the queen of Solara, not merely a woman trying to hold her crown together.
Still, deep down, she knew the peace would not last. The Empress of Noctyra was due to remain in Solara a while longer… and though Talia had no reason to be nervous, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that their paths would soon cross again.
The rest of the morning passed in a flurry of polished smiles and quiet command.
Talia moved through the council chamber with her soft authority, listening to petitions from advisors, reviewing trade reports, and approving preparations for the final days of celebration. Her quill moved across the parchment with renewed precision, the warm gold seal of Solara pressed onto each document with steady grace.
Even her ministers seemed to sense the shift in her. The room felt brighter somehow, her calm presence commanding attention without needing to raise her voice.
By midday, however, the steady rhythm of duty began to weigh on her shoulders. As the council adjourned and the servants cleared away the trays of light fruit and honeyed tea, she felt the quiet ache of fatigue tug at her.
"Perhaps that's enough for today," Stella said gently, noticing her queen's weary expression.
Talia exhaled, nodding. "Yes… I think I'll take lunch in the lounge."
But as she stood, another thought surfaced — one that made her pulse quicken just slightly.
"Actually," she said, glancing toward the window where the distant banners of Noctyra rippled in the breeze, "have word sent to the Empress's attendants. I would like to extend an invitation — tea in the Queen's Lounge, this afternoon."
Stella blinked in mild surprise. "Her Majesty Rhenessa?"
"Yes." Talia smiled faintly, smoothing her sleeve. "If she's willing. It's only proper to offer her some Solaran hospitality before the festivities tomorrow."
It wasn't entirely proper — queens and empresses didn't often share tea so privately, especially when politics still shimmered uncertainly between their nations — but Talia found she didn't care. Something about the thought of Rhenessa's company intrigued her. The Empress had watched her in silence at the ball — sharp-eyed, poised, and almost… reverent.
Perhaps it was curiosity. Or perhaps Talia was simply tired of feeling small in her own palace.
"Yes," she repeated softly. "Make sure the lounge is prepared — the golden porcelain set, fresh lilies, and the Solaran blend with rose and vanilla. I'd like it to be… beautiful."
Stella curtsied, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Of course, Your Majesty."
When she left, Talia remained standing by the window, gazing out at the radiant horizon. Her reflection in the glass looked almost unfamiliar — a queen daring to be bold again.
For the first time in months, Talia Do Sol was not simply waiting for life to happen around her.
She was choosing it.
When the messenger bowed before her, Rhenessa had been standing on the balcony of her guest chambers, staring out over Solara's sunlit expanse.
The realm glittered like a sea of gold — radiant, alive, almost painfully beautiful. It was a kingdom that seemed to breathe light. So unlike Noctyra's volcanic peaks and smoke-kissed skies.
"Your Imperial Majesty," the messenger said, head bowed low. "Her Grace, Queen Talia Do Sol, extends an invitation for tea this afternoon in the Queen's Lounge."
Rhenessa turned slowly, her forest-green hair catching the breeze like silk ribbons. For a heartbeat, she said nothing — only blinked, surprised by the message.
"Talia Do Sol," she murmured, her deep violet eyes thoughtful. "The queen herself wishes to take tea with me?"
The messenger nodded, uncertain of her tone. "Yes, Your Majesty. At the hour of Sol's Zenith."
Rhenessa dismissed him with a graceful wave of her hand, but her expression remained unreadable. When the door closed behind him, she let out a low hum of amusement.
"So… she does have a spark left in her," she whispered to herself.
When Rhenessa had first arrived, she had been briefed on the queen's delicate health and the scandal that had rippled through Solara like wildfire. Whispers carried far — even to foreign ears — and the story of a king parading his pregnant mistress through the palace was impossible to ignore.
She had expected to find a broken woman hidden behind silken curtains. Instead, she'd seen a queen — soft-spoken, yes, but regal… glowing even through her sadness.
And now, this invitation. Unexpected. Bold.
Rhenessa smiled faintly, resting her hands on the railing as she gazed back toward the palace gardens below. Somewhere in that golden maze was Talia — gentle, wounded, radiant Talia — trying to hold her world together with trembling hands.
"Tea with the Queen of the Sun," Rhenessa murmured. "I wonder if she knows how dangerous that sounds."
A low chuckle escaped her as she turned to her attendant, who had been watching quietly.
"Prepare something elegant," Rhenessa said. "I'd like to look… diplomatic." Then, after a pause, she added softly, "But not too diplomatic."
Her attendant tilted her head, confused by the Empress's tone.
Rhenessa's gaze softened as she turned toward the mirror, studying her reflection. For the first time in a long while, something stirred behind her steady composure — curiosity, admiration, and a quiet flicker of something far more dangerous.
"Let's see what sunlight feels like," she whispered.
….
The Queen's Lounge gleamed like a jewel tucked within the heart of the palace — soft light spilling through stained glass, painting the walls in hues of gold and sage. Fragrant lilies filled the air, their perfume mingling with the delicate aroma of rose and vanilla tea.
Talia sat gracefully at the head of the low, circular table, her gown a gentle cascade of sun-yellow silk. A gold circlet crowned her pink hair, its soft waves catching the light like ribbons of dawn. For once, she did not feel small or uncertain — she felt… prepared.
When the doors opened, her heart gave a quiet flutter.
Empress Rhenessa entered with her usual effortless command, draped in deep emerald and black velvet that shimmered faintly when she moved. Her forest-green hair fell in loose waves down her back, and her violet eyes — sharp, assessing, yet calm — found Talia almost immediately.
Their gazes held, sunlight meeting shadow.
Talia rose politely. "Empress Rhenessa. It's an honor to have you join me."
"The honor is mine, Your Majesty." Rhenessa's voice was low, smooth — carrying a kind of restrained warmth. She offered a slight bow of her head. "I hope I have not kept you waiting."
"Not at all," Talia said, motioning for her to sit. "Please, be comfortable. I thought a quiet afternoon might be welcome before tomorrow's festivities."
Rhenessa's lips curved into a faint smile as she took her seat. "A thoughtful gesture. Most queens would be too busy preparing to entertain foreign guests so personally."
Talia looked down briefly, tracing her finger along the edge of her teacup. "Perhaps I simply needed the company."
That admission — quiet, vulnerable — hung between them.
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the delicate clink of porcelain as Talia poured the tea herself, the golden liquid steaming between them.
Rhenessa watched her with a subtle intensity. "You serve your guests yourself?"
"Sometimes," Talia said softly. "I find that when one does everything through servants, one begins to lose sight of… connection." She met Rhenessa's eyes again, the faintest spark of warmth returning to her. "Besides, Solaran hospitality demands sincerity — and sincerity is best shown by one's own hands."
Rhenessa chuckled under her breath. "Then I'll gladly accept your sincerity, Queen Talia." She took the cup, brushing Talia's fingers lightly in the exchange.
The touch was brief — accidental — yet it sent an unexpected flicker of awareness through them both.
They talked quietly as the afternoon sun softened, conversation meandering from the splendor of Solara's gardens to the customs of Noctyra's volcanic heartlands. Rhenessa spoke of her people's rituals beneath the shadowfire moon, and Talia listened with genuine wonder, occasionally smiling — the kind of smile that made the Empress forget, for a moment, to breathe.
As the golden light deepened, Rhenessa leaned back slightly, studying the queen. "You speak of your kingdom with such tenderness," she said softly. "It's rare. Most rulers speak first of duty or legacy. You speak as if Solara were a living thing."
Talia hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Perhaps she is. Solara has a soul — I've always felt it. I only hope I've been worthy of her light."
Rhenessa's expression softened. "From where I stand, I think you are the light."
Talia blinked — caught off guard by the words, by their quiet sincerity. Her pulse quickened, warmth flooding her chest. She didn't know what to say, so she only smiled — small, bashful, radiant.
The silence that followed was tender, comfortable in its strangeness.
Outside, the sun began to lower beyond the palace walls — the last rays slipping through the stained glass, casting a halo of gold around the Queen of Solara and the Empress of Noctyra.
For the first time, shadow and sunlight sat together — and neither seemed to mind.
…
The late afternoon light poured through the high arched windows of the king's private solar, bathing the room in molten gold. A breeze carried the faint scent of citrus and parchment — and beneath it, the subtle perfume of Maris.
She sat beside him on the settee, one hand resting lightly on his arm, the other tracing the rim of her teacup. Her pale hair shimmered like spun sunlight, her freckles soft against skin touched by warmth rather than privilege. There was an ease to her laughter, a sincerity that made the moment feel almost… normal.
"Do you ever tire of all this, Caelen?" she asked quietly, eyes fixed on the golden city beyond the balcony. "The marble, the guards, the duty that follows you like a shadow?"
He smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "A king has little room for weariness, Maris. We don't have the luxury of being tired."
Maris turned to him, studying his face. "Even kings are still men."
That simple statement made him still. He looked at her then — really looked. She wasn't noble-born, wasn't refined like Talia. Her speech carried a trace of the common tongue, her gestures unpolished but warm. She reminded him of who he'd been before the crown — before the weight of Solara's legacy settled onto his shoulders.
His fingers brushed hers. "You make me forget that for a while."
She smiled softly, leaning into his touch. "Then I'm glad for that."
For a fleeting moment, there was nothing false between them — no scheming, no guilt. Just two people suspended in an illusion of simplicity.
But the illusion broke with a sharp knock at the door.
Caelen's expression hardened, his hand dropping to his knee as he called out, "Enter."
A guard stepped in and bowed. "Your Majesty, forgive the interruption. The steward reports Queen Talia has not been seen in her study or her chambers since midday. Her attendants say she dismissed them for the afternoon."
Caelen blinked, taken aback. "Dismissed them?"
"Yes, sire. She's been unaccounted for since the noon bell."
Maris frowned, concern flashing briefly across her features. "Perhaps she's unwell again?"
"She hasn't left her chambers without reason in weeks," Caelen said slowly, rising from the couch. His voice was calm, but something had shifted behind his eyes — confusion tinged with unease.
Maris stood as well, setting her cup aside. "You worry for her."
He hesitated. "…She's my wife."
Maris nodded once, trying to mask the flicker of emotion that crossed her face. "Of course."
Caelen turned toward the window, his reflection caught in the light. "If she's chosen to wander, it's unlike her. Not since…" He stopped himself, jaw tightening at the memory he didn't want to touch. The miscarriage.
Maris moved closer, her tone gentle now. "She's strong, Caelen. Whatever she's doing, I'm sure it's harmless."
He gave a faint, humorless smile. "That's just it. Talia doesn't do anything without meaning."
As he left the room, his cape sweeping behind him, Maris stood in the fading glow of the sun, her hands clasped at her waist. She wasn't jealous this time — only uneasy. Because in her heart, she could feel it too: something had shifted in the palace, subtle as a tremor beneath the gold.