Third Person's POV
For two days, the palace halls belonged not to laughter or stolen moments, but to the Golden Council.
Meetings dragged on, endless debates circling around the threat from Gravemere. Scouts reported stone-armored battalions gathering near the borders, merchants complained of caravans waylaid, and the council argued over whether Solara should raise its defenses or pursue negotiation.
Talia, though wearied by the tedium, sat tall through each session. Her voice was calm, measured, commanding in ways that silenced even the most stubborn ministers. But her days ended late, and her nights found her collapsed in her chambers with no time left to slip away.
Rhenessa felt the absence sharply. She had grown used to the queen's light — the laughter in the marketplace, the quiet moments at the fountain, the fire that burned in council chambers. Without it, the palace felt colder, darker, and her own solitude pressed heavier than ever before.
On the third night, Rhenessa sat alone in her guest chambers, her cloak draped over her chair, her violet eyes fixed on the flickering fire. She had resisted the truth for as long as she could, telling herself that her interest in Talia was politics, alliance, admiration.
But no. She knew better now.
It was not politics that made her heart quicken when the queen smiled. It was not alliance that made her long for the warmth of her laughter in the silence of her chambers. It was something far more dangerous — and far more powerful.
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on her knees as her voice broke the quiet.
"I cannot turn from this," she admitted aloud, the words heavy but certain. "I will not."
For the first time in years, the Empress of Noctyra allowed herself to acknowledge her heart — and to vow that she would fight, not only for her empire's future, but for the woman whose light had begun to pierce her shadows.
Rhenessa closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. Tomorrow, she would see Talia again. And when she did, she would no longer hide behind restraint.
The shadows had made their vow.
…..
That evening, Talia lingered alone in her personal garden, the lanterns casting soft light over the lilies and jasmine. The day had been long, filled with endless council debates, but her thoughts were far from Gravemere's threats.
She leaned against the marble railing, her golden eyes turned to the stars. For two nights now she had gone to bed without laughter, without the quiet presence that had come to feel like a balm. She missed it. Missed her.
The realization struck, sharp and undeniable.
She pressed a hand to her chest, as though steadying herself against the rush of warmth that swelled there. I miss her. Not her counsel. Not her title. Her.
It frightened her, the depth of it. She had thought her heart too scarred to ever feel this way again. After the miscarriage, after Caelen's coldness, she had believed love was a door closed forever. She had buried that part of herself in duty, telling herself the crown was all she had left.
And yet here she stood, trembling beneath the stars, because she longed for the embrace of another woman.
Her lips parted, a soft breath escaping as the truth bloomed inside her.
"I am falling in love with her," she whispered into the night. "And I never thought I was capable of it again."
Talia sank onto the bench among the flowers, tears pricking at her eyes — not of sorrow, but of release. She felt crushed once by love, shattered beyond repair, and yet… here it was, fragile and fierce, growing in the shadows of her pain.
For the first time in years, she did not feel broken. She felt alive.
And she would not run from it.
The council had finally adjourned at dusk, and the palace slowly quieted. Talia dismissed her attendants earlier than usual, unable to still the restless beat of her heart. She knew where she wanted to be.
When she stepped into the forgotten corridor that led to the archives, her lanternlight revealed a tall figure waiting in shadow.
Rhenessa.
The Empress turned at the sound of her steps, and for a moment neither spoke. Then, almost without thought, Talia closed the distance. Rhenessa's arms opened as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and Talia fell into them, her forehead pressing against the Empress's shoulder.
The silence was not empty — it was full. Full of all the words they had not yet dared say.
"I missed you," Talia breathed, her voice quiet, trembling.
Rhenessa's hold tightened, her hand gentle at the back of Talia's head. "And I, you," she whispered, the admission soft but fierce. "More than I should."
Talia drew back slightly, her golden eyes lifting to meet violet. The weight of those gazes, so close, felt like the moment before a vow.
No declaration was made, yet the truth hung between them like starlight: this was no longer friendship, no longer curiosity. This was something new, fragile, dangerous — but real.
Neither moved to break it.
Instead, Rhenessa brushed a loose strand of pink hair from Talia's cheek, her touch reverent. Talia let her.
And in that quiet corner of the palace, with only shadows and lanternlight as witness, the unspoken shape of their bond began to take form.
They lingered in each other's arms longer than either had meant to, but eventually, Rhenessa guided Talia to the table where a stack of unopened scrolls had been left by the archivists.
"We've spent days chasing fragments," Rhenessa said, her voice quieter now, as if unwilling to break the intimacy. "But I think… this one may hold more." She slid a scroll across the table, its seal brittle with age.
Talia unrolled it carefully, the parchment crackling. The script was older, faded, but legible beneath the lantern's glow. Her eyes scanned the lines — then widened.
"Rhenessa… look."
The passage spoke of a Covenant of the Sun and Shadow, a pact between Solara and Noctyra in ages past. It described not only alliance, but union: a vow that the royal bloodlines would one day be bound together, to seal peace between light and dark forever.
Her heart quickened as she read aloud:
"When the Sun wanes and the Shadow burns, their heirs shall bind the worlds again — not in war, but in vow."
Silence fell between them, heavy with the weight of prophecy.
Rhenessa's violet eyes searched hers, a mixture of awe and inevitability in their depths. "Your line and mine… we were meant to be joined. By oath. By fate."
Talia swallowed, her throat tight, the truth crashing against the swell of her heart. "And yet… it was never fulfilled."
"No," Rhenessa said, her voice low, steady. She reached across the table, her hand brushing over Talia's. "But perhaps fate does not forget. Perhaps it only waits."
The words lingered, dangerous and sweet, as their fingers remained entwined over the fragile parchment.
For the first time, Talia did not pull away.
That night, Talia lay in her great canopied bed, the golden silk sheets pooling around her like sunlight frozen in fabric. The palace was quiet, the only sound the whisper of the night breeze through her balcony doors.
But sleep would not come.
Her mind turned again and again to the fragile scroll they had unrolled in the archives, the words etched in faded ink: When the Sun wanes and the Shadow burns, their heirs shall bind the worlds again…
Fate had written of her bloodline and Rhenessa's long before either of them drew breath. A vow unfulfilled, waiting like a seed buried too deep. And tonight, when their hands brushed over the parchment, she had felt it — not only history, but something alive, something stirring.
She rolled onto her side, staring at the empty space beside her. How many nights had she longed for comfort and found only cold sheets? How many years had she denied herself warmth, afraid to open her heart again?
Her breath caught, soft and unsteady, as a thought slipped past the walls she had always held: I want her here.
Not the Empress of Noctyra, not a political ally, but Rhenessa — her presence, her voice, her steady arms that had held her in silence.
Talia closed her eyes, her fingers curling into the sheets as if reaching for someone who was not there. The ache was sharp, but not crushing. For the first time in years, it was not grief she felt when she yearned for another — it was hope.
And though dawn was still hours away, her heart was already awake, waiting.