Third Person's POV
The council chamber still echoed in Caelen's head long after it had emptied. Talia's voice had carried like sunlight through stained glass, sharp and dazzling, cutting down every minister who dared oppose her. She had stood tall, commanding, radiant — a queen in her full strength once more.
And the court had cheered her for it.
He had watched in silence, the sting burning deeper with every approving murmur, every bowed head in her direction. When had she begun to rise again? When had her sorrow turned back into fire? And why was it that, in that moment, he wanted her more than ever — even as he hated her for slipping further from him?
Maris found him pacing in his chambers, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
"She humiliated me," he muttered, though he knew it wasn't true. "She defied the council openly, as if my word carried no weight. And they—" He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, his jaw tight.
Maris approached, her steps soft across the rug, her growing belly leading her as she came to him. She reached up, her fingers brushing his chest. "She only reminded them she is queen," she said gently. "But you are the king. And when this child is born, no one will doubt your strength. They will see the future belongs to us."
Her voice was steady, coaxing, the balm he craved.
Caelen's eyes softened at her devotion. "You always know what to say."
"Because I know you," Maris whispered, pressing closer, her hazel eyes shining with sincerity. "I know the man you are. Strong, clever, worthy of loyalty. Do not let her shadow poison you with doubt."
For a moment, he breathed easier. He cupped her cheek, staring at the freckles across her pale skin, the warmth in her gaze that asked nothing but love. It steadied him — and yet, beneath it all, the memory of Talia's fire still burned, unshakable.
Maris leaned into his touch, her hand covering his. "She cannot give you what I can. Not love, not devotion… not a legacy."
He kissed her forehead, forcing conviction into the gesture. "You're right. You've given me more than she ever did. More than she ever could."
But when he closed his eyes, it was not Maris's voice he heard — it was Talia's, ringing through the throne room like sunlight: 'What glory is there in jewels if the people suffer in shadow?'
And the fracture within him widened.
The morning after the council meeting, Talia lingered in her solar, gazing out at the bustling streets of Solara below. Merchants called from colorful stalls, children ran between fountains, and the scents of spices and roasted fruit drifted up from the markets.
A smile touched her lips — faint, wistful. How long had it been since she walked among her people, not as their queen, but simply as a woman? She turned to Stella, who stood at her side with that ever-patient look.
"Send word to the Empress," Talia said softly, a spark of mischief lighting her orange-gold eyes. "Tell her I wish for her company today… outside the palace."
⸻
When Rhenessa arrived, she found Talia already waiting in a simple gown of sage-green linen, her hair braided and hidden beneath a scarf. She looked younger somehow, freer, as though she had shed the weight of her crown.
Rhenessa raised a brow, amusement tugging at her lips. "Incognito, then?"
"Only for today," Talia replied, smiling. "I thought you might enjoy seeing Solara not through gilded windows, but through its streets."
Together, they slipped out of the palace, their guards following discreetly at a distance. The moment they entered the marketplace, the world shifted — the air alive with music, the chatter of bargaining voices, the laughter of children darting past.
Talia led Rhenessa to a stall where bright fabrics fluttered like captured sunlight. "Look at these," she said, fingers brushing over a bolt of golden cloth. "Merchants weave them with dyes from the Blooming Isles. My mother used to bring me here to choose ribbons when I was a girl."
Rhenessa watched her, violet eyes softening. She was not the queen here, not the sovereign bound by duty. She was simply Talia — radiant, laughing as she haggled with a merchant, her hands full of trinkets and sweets pressed into her palms by delighted children.
At one stall, a vendor handed them each a skewer of candied fruit, sticky and sweet. Talia bit into hers with a smile that made her glow brighter than the sun overhead. Rhenessa found herself laughing quietly, the sound low and rare, when the syrup dripped onto her fingers and Talia offered her a handkerchief, eyes alight with playfulness.
For a few hours, the burdens of crowns and kingdoms faded. They wandered the markets like any two women, pausing at spice stalls, tossing coins to street musicians, even joining in when a group of children tugged them into a clumsy circle dance.
And for Talia, it was the first time in years she remembered what it felt like to breathe.
After hours of wandering the crowded stalls, Rhenessa and Talia slipped away from the press of voices and the bustle of merchants. They found a quiet corner of the city where an old marble fountain trickled softly, half-hidden by flowering vines. The streets here were quieter, filled only with the murmur of the water and the rustle of leaves.
Talia sank onto the fountain's edge, pulling back her scarf so her pink hair tumbled free. She let out a soft laugh, her orange-gold eyes glowing with warmth. "It feels strange," she admitted, "to be seen as no one special. To walk unnoticed. I think I had forgotten what freedom tastes like."
Rhenessa sat beside her, watching as the sunlight kissed her caramel skin. "And what does it taste like?" she asked, her tone low, curious.
Talia dipped her fingers into the cool water, sending ripples across the surface. "Sweet. Like candied fruit. But fleeting. You taste it once, and you want it again."
Their eyes met, and in that stillness, the playful air of the market shifted. Something heavier lingered — not sorrow, not duty, but a tenderness neither dared name aloud.
Rhenessa's lips curved faintly, almost wistful. "Freedom looks good on you."
Talia smiled, softer now, the kind that reached her eyes. "Then perhaps I should chase it more often."
For a moment, the world was only the two of them, sitting side by side as though they were not queen and empress, but simply women sharing stolen hours.
When at last they rose to return to the palace, the marketplace noise had faded behind them — but the memory of laughter and candied fruit, of sunlight and violet eyes in the quiet, remained with them both.
Caelen had not meant to notice. At first, he thought nothing of the queen slipping away with the Empress — attendants often whispered of her long walks or her meetings in the gardens. But hours passed, and still neither returned.
He found himself in the west courtyard as dusk fell, pacing beneath the golden arches. His thoughts circled like caged hawks: Talia's fiery defiance before the council, the approving smiles of the ministers, the strength she had worn like a mantle once more. It was as though the woman he had believed subdued was rising again, brighter, untouchable.
And now she was nowhere to be found.
By the time the gates whispered open, night had settled over Solara. Lanternlight spilled across the courtyard, illuminating two figures slipping quietly back inside. Talia walked beside Rhenessa, her scarf loosened so her hair tumbled freely around her shoulders. The two women moved close, their arms brushing as they shared a quiet laugh, their faces soft with the ease of companionship.
They looked — comfortable. Too comfortable.
Caelen stood in the shadows, his chest tightening as he watched. The queen's glow was different tonight — not the distant radiance she had worn at council, but something softer, warmer, as if the Empress's presence had eased her burdens. And Rhenessa… she carried herself not as a visiting ruler, but as someone who belonged.
Talia glanced upward, her laughter fading into a smile as she reached to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Rhenessa leaned slightly toward her, violet eyes lingering longer than courtesy allowed.
The sight twisted in Caelen's gut.
He remained where he was, cloaked by the dark, his jaw clenched as they disappeared into the palace halls. But the image stayed — the ease between them, the air of comfort that had not been his in years.
And though he told himself it was nothing, only politics, only courtesy… the fracture within him widened, splitting deeper into jealousy he could not name aloud.
As Caelen lingered in the shadows, the sight of Talia's glow beside the Empress gnawed at him, pulling open an old wound he had long tried to justify. His mind drifted back, unwillingly, to how it had all begun.
It was six months after the miscarriage. Talia had withdrawn into herself, her sorrow like a curtain drawn across every part of their marriage. She spent days in bed, weakened by grief and fever, her body as fragile as her spirit. She flinched from his touch, as though the very thought of intimacy would summon another loss she could not bear.
And so the burdens had fallen on him. The petitions, the council meetings, the endless tide of decisions that Talia once shouldered with grace. He had been exhausted, his temper raw with the weight of responsibilities he had never been trained to bear. How had she done it all? he often thought, resentment creeping in where admiration once lived.
One night, restless and aching for escape, he returned to an old haunt — a poker table in the city where the sons of merchants and minor nobles gathered. It was there, in the smoky glow of lanterns, that he first noticed her.
Maris.
The daughter of a palace servant, hovering at the edge of the room with a tray of drinks, her pale hair catching the lamplight. She was no noblewoman, no court beauty draped in jewels, but there was something disarming in her hazel eyes — something that saw past the crown and into the man beneath it.
She laughed when he cursed a poor hand, offered him another cup when the others only jeered. And when he looked at her, freckles dusted across her cheeks, she looked back with a softness Talia no longer gave him — warmth, attention, devotion.
That night, when exhaustion and loneliness weighed heavier than loyalty, he let himself be pulled toward her smile.
And from there, the fracture had begun.