Third Person's POV
The road to Gravemere stretched like a scar across Solara's northern plains — gray and endless, where sunlight felt weaker and the earth grew harder beneath the hooves of the royal escort. King Caelen rode ahead of his men, the wind sharp and cold against his face.
He told himself this journey was about duty — about meeting with Gravemere's emissaries and managing the rising tension near their shared border — but that was only half true. The other half, the part he would never confess aloud, was that he needed distance.
Distance from the throne.
From Talia.
From the guilt that had begun to feel like a weight around his neck.
By the third week of travel, he had steered his course not toward the Gravemere capital, but toward the quiet coastal villa near the cliffs of Loryn Bay — a secluded place meant for reflection. Or, as he preferred to call it, rest.
The waves below crashed against jagged rocks, filling the air with salt and thunder. Caelen stood at the cliff's edge, watching the horizon glow with the fading light of dusk. For years, that glow had reminded him of Talia — warm, soft, unwavering. But now, when he thought of her, it was with a strange ache that he could neither name nor soothe.
She had withdrawn after the miscarriage two years ago — silent, grieving, unreachable. At first, he had tried to comfort her. He truly had. But as the months wore on, her distance grew into something that felt like rejection. Her touch vanished. Her smile faded. And every attempt to reach her felt like speaking to sunlight through glass — beautiful, but cold.
He hadn't gone looking for someone else. It had just… happened.
⸻
A Year and a Half Ago — The Beginning
It had been at an old friend's poker night — one of the few evenings where he allowed himself to drink without worrying about the crown. The room had been thick with laughter, pipe smoke, and the clatter of cards.
That was where he met her — Maris.
She wasn't of noble birth, but the daughter of a palace servant who had accompanied one of his advisors to the gathering. She was young, clever, and unafraid to tease a king when his hand was weak. Her laughter had been infectious, her eyes a warm hazel flecked with gold, and her manner so disarmingly genuine that Caelen had found himself relaxing in her presence for the first time in months.
He had returned to that table again and again under the pretense of friendship. It was harmless at first — shared wine, shared secrets, a reprieve from the emptiness that haunted his marriage. But one night, when the laughter died down and the others had gone, she reached across the table and touched his hand.
"You don't have to be a king with me," she'd whispered.
That had been the moment.
From there, it had all unfolded far too easily — a slow descent dressed as comfort.
⸻
Now, standing alone on the cliffside, Caelen tried to convince himself that what he and Maris shared was love. That it meant something. That the child she carried would restore what Talia had lost.
But the unease in his chest wouldn't fade. The image of Talia — radiant, quiet, distant — lingered behind his eyes. She hadn't written to him once since his departure. Not even to ask about his safety.
He frowned, tightening his gloves against the sea wind. "She's planning something," he muttered. "She always is."
Turning away from the ocean, he started back toward the villa where Maris waited — her silhouette already visible through the open window, candlelight soft against her hair.
For now, he would rest.
For now, he would let himself believe that what he had wasn't a mistake.
⸻
Back in Solara, the palace had never felt lighter.
For the first time in months, the air was free of tension, free of the heavy presence that followed the king's every move. Servants whispered that the queen smiled more. That her laughter — once a rarity — could sometimes be heard echoing faintly through the golden halls.
That morning, Talia stood in the royal archives once more, bathed in shafts of warm sunlight that filtered through tall glass windows. She looked different now — no longer the quiet, uncertain queen of weeks past. Her gown was pale gold threaded with sage, her crown absent, her hair loose and gleaming. She looked like freedom personified.
Rhenessa arrived moments later, a subtle grin tugging at her lips. "You seem lighter, my queen."
Talia turned, eyes alight. "Perhaps because, for once, I am. The air itself feels different without him here."
They shared a smile — knowing, dangerous, sweet.
Together they descended to the lower shelves, revisiting the corner where they had found the map and ancient treaties. Tonight, there was no rush, no need to whisper or hide. Their shoulders brushed as they searched; their hands met now and then, each touch deliberate, no longer an accident.
They pored over scrolls, tracing names and symbols that had long faded from history. Their discoveries spoke of unity — of a time when the kingdoms of Sun and Shadow were not rivals, but partners. Lovers, even.
Talia paused, her fingers lingering over a faded crest carved into stone: two thrones facing each other, one crowned in flame, the other in shadow. "They ruled together," she murmured.
Rhenessa's gaze softened. "Perhaps it's time they do again."
Talia looked up at her, their faces close, breaths mingling in the dusty quiet. "Perhaps," she whispered, "the past is trying to remind us what was lost."
Hours later, they slipped away from the archives and into the Sealed Garden, their sanctuary beneath the stars. Lanterns flickered along the paths, painting their faces in soft light.
Here, they did not speak of treaties or thrones. They simply walked — hand in hand, shoulders brushing — basking in the quiet joy of being unobserved, untethered, and, for once, free.
Rhenessa turned to her, the faintest smile playing on her lips. "It's strange," she said softly. "I've fought wars, conquered lands, commanded men. And yet, peace only found me here."
Talia's hand tightened around hers. "Then stay a while longer."
The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was infinite.
The days that followed were some of the most productive Solara had seen in years.
With the king gone, Queen Talia stepped effortlessly into full command of the throne. From dawn to dusk, the royal palace pulsed with quiet awe — ministers and attendants whispering about the queen who no longer needed her king to rule.
She presided over council meetings with poise that silenced even the most vocal of lords. Her voice, once soft and hesitant, now carried a steady warmth edged with authority.
"Trade with the Eastern ports will resume once the drought lifts," she said one morning, her gaze sweeping the long table of advisors. "And as for Gravemere, their envoy will meet me upon my terms, not the king's."
No one dared argue.
By midday, she had handled twice the work that usually required both monarchs. Documents were signed, treaties revised, complaints resolved — all with grace and precision. Even the palace staff began to notice the change; the queen's steps were lighter, her laughter freer, her eyes brighter.
She was no longer the fragile figure shadowed by grief — she was light itself, contained and unyielding.
Rhenessa, often present as a silent observer during the councils, could hardly conceal her admiration. There was pride in her eyes every time Talia rose to speak, every time she made a decision without deferring to anyone else.
That evening, as the final rays of sunlight bled across Solara's horizon, Talia stood by the window of her study, overlooking her kingdom. Scrolls and letters covered her desk, yet her heart felt unburdened.
Caelen's absence had once frightened her. Now, it felt like freedom.
Rhenessa entered quietly, her shadow long in the golden light. "You've managed both crowns today," she murmured. "Do you ever tire of carrying the sun?"
Talia smiled, a tired but radiant curve of her lips. "No. I've simply learned it was always mine to bear alone."
Rhenessa stepped closer, her voice low. "And how does it feel, knowing you never needed him?"
Talia's gaze drifted toward the horizon, where day met dusk. "Liberating," she whispered. "And terrifying — because now I know I can't go back to what I was."
Rhenessa's hand brushed hers gently. "Then don't."
The queen turned to her, meeting her gaze — the deep violet eyes that had seen both war and tenderness. "Then stay," she said softly, "and remind me what it means to live for myself."
And for a long, quiet moment, there was nothing but the soft hum of twilight and the faint scent of jasmine from the garden below — a reminder that freedom, once seized, could never be given back.
That evening, as the palace quieted beneath the glow of sunset, Maris walked through the grand corridor toward the queen's study, her steps uncertain. She had requested an audience with Talia — polite, formal, and by the book. But as she neared the door, the guards hesitated to even announce her.
It was a cruel reminder of where she stood.
When the door finally opened, Talia was alone, standing by the tall windows overlooking Solara's gardens. The light wrapped around her like a halo — soft, gold, commanding. Her gown shimmered faintly, the color of sunlit silk, her hair loose and wreathed with small white blossoms.
"Lady Maris," Talia greeted smoothly, turning with a faint smile. "To what do I owe the visit?"
Maris dipped into a curtsy, though her pride made it shallow. "Your Majesty. I wished to speak with you regarding… His Grace. The king."
Talia raised a brow, her tone calm, almost gentle. "Ah. Yes. I hear he's enjoying his trip. I trust he is well?"
Maris hesitated. "He sends his fondness," she murmured. "And his thanks for your understanding."
The queen's lips curved — not cruelly, but knowingly. "Understanding is a queen's duty, Lady Maris. Though I must admit, it takes great restraint to understand… everything."
Her words were light, yet Maris felt the weight behind them. She shifted nervously, her hands instinctively resting on her rounded belly.
"You must be very brave," Talia continued, her tone almost kind. "To walk the palace halls as you do. I imagine it's difficult, living in a place where every eye remembers what was once sacred."
Maris swallowed. "I never wished to—"
"To replace me?" Talia's voice was still soft, but there was no warmth left in it. "You couldn't, even if I let you."
Silence fell — thick, suffocating, broken only by the sound of the breeze through the open balcony doors.
Then, Talia smiled again — bright, flawless, queenly. "Do take care of yourself, Maris. The court has sharp teeth, and I'd hate to see you bitten before your child even takes its first breath."
With that, she turned back toward the window, dismissing her without a single gesture.
Maris lingered for a breath, anger and humiliation burning hot in her chest. For the first time since she entered the palace, she truly saw the divide between them — not of love or jealousy, but of power. She was a commoner wearing borrowed silk, and Talia was the sun itself.
And no matter how brightly Maris tried to shine, she could never outshine the dawn.