Third Person's POV
The corridors of the palace were alive with the hum of morning. Servants hurried about with trays and linens, sunlight spilled through the arched windows, and the air smelled faintly of citrus polish and blooming marigolds.
King Caelen walked the halls with his usual confident stride, his expression carefully schooled into royal calm. For the first time in weeks, his schedule had cleared — no council meetings, no trade envoys, no Gravemere correspondence.
And so, naturally, his thoughts turned to Talia.
He hadn't seen her properly since returning from his extended trip. Word of her well-being reached him through attendants and council whispers, all of it vague and impersonal. The absence had begun to gnaw at him, a quiet irritation that felt almost like guilt.
Today, he decided, he would mend what time and distance had frayed.
The royal suite doors stood tall and gleaming ahead, sunlight catching on the golden handles. He smoothed his tunic, rehearsing his tone — not soft, but approachable; not pleading, but regretful. Just enough warmth to thaw her distance.
He opened the door.
The room greeted him with silence.
At first, he thought nothing of it — perhaps she was at her vanity, or reading on the balcony. But as his eyes swept the chamber, his pulse began to slow. The bed was neatly made, untouched. The vanity bare of her brushes and jewelry. The air itself felt hollow, stripped of her scent — no marigolds, no honey, no trace of her warmth.
His stomach twisted.
He stepped further inside, calling out softly, "Talia?"
No answer.
A sound behind him — soft footsteps. He turned sharply to find a young attendant standing in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise.
"Your Majesty," she stammered, bowing quickly.
"Where is the queen?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral.
The girl hesitated, as though the question were dangerous. "Ah… the queen, sire, she— she no longer resides here."
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"She moved, Your Majesty." The attendant swallowed. "Two mornings after you left on your final trip. The Princess Suites were… renamed the Queen's Quarters. Her Majesty ordered the renovations herself."
Caelen blinked once, his composure cracking just slightly. "She moved?"
"Yes, sire. The room was refitted for her comfort. The council approved the designation — Her Majesty desired more space for her private work."
More space. Her work. Not theirs.
He stepped past the attendant into the center of the empty chamber, his hands curling into fists. "And no one thought to inform me?"
The girl bowed her head low. "The queen said… it wasn't necessary, Your Majesty. She wished not to disturb your business abroad."
Caelen exhaled sharply through his nose. A laugh — bitter and humorless — escaped him. "Of course she did."
He turned toward the balcony, staring out at the palace gardens below. The very ones she used to tend herself when they were newly married, bright and full of life. Now, even they seemed to favor her.
For the first time in a long while, Caelen felt something sharp bloom in his chest — not anger, but unease.
Talia had made a move.
And she hadn't needed his permission to do it.
By midmorning, the palace was already abuzz with gossip. The king's return had set tongues wagging — the long-absent husband finally seeking to rekindle something that had long turned to ash.
In the Queen's Quarters, Talia sat beside Rhenessa on a low divan near the open window, a silver teapot steaming between them. The room glowed with sunlight — warm, inviting, alive. It was no longer the timid queen's chamber; it was hers.
A knock sounded at the door. Stella stepped inside, curtsying. "Your Majesty, a message from the king."
Rhenessa's brow arched slightly, but she said nothing.
Talia accepted the folded parchment and broke the wax seal, her expression unreadable as she read the neatly penned words aloud.
'My dearest Talia, I would be honored if you would join me for lunch today. I've had a garden table arranged for us, just as we used to share when the world felt simpler. — Caelen'
Talia's lips curved in a wry smile. "The world hasn't been simple in years," she murmured.
Rhenessa leaned back, sipping her tea, violet eyes glimmering with mischief. "How romantic," she said dryly. "The king who ignored his queen for months now invites her to luncheon, as though the taste of honey will erase the bitterness."
Talia's laughter was soft but genuine. "You make it sound like a play."
"Perhaps it is," Rhenessa replied, her smile slow and feline. "But tell me, minha sol — will you humor him?"
Talia folded the note, her demeanor calm but sharp with quiet confidence. "No," she said simply. "Let him dine with his ghosts."
Stella couldn't quite hide her grin as she curtsied. "Shall I send your reply, Your Majesty?"
Talia nodded. "Yes. Kindly inform the king that my schedule is full today. I have matters of the realm to attend to."
"As you wish."
When the door closed, Rhenessa reached for a grape from the platter, tossing it lightly into her mouth. "You do realize," she said around a smirk, "that you've just declared a quiet war?"
Talia shrugged lightly. "He started it the moment he thought he could own me."
Rhenessa's grin softened into admiration. "There's the queen I adore."
⸻
Meanwhile, across the palace —
King Caelen stood before a long mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his embroidered tunic. A spray of freshly cut sunlilies sat in a crystal vase beside him, the bouquet he'd selected himself that morning.
"She'll appreciate the gesture," he told himself under his breath. "It's been too long since we spoke properly."
Maris sat at the edge of the sofa nearby, her hands resting delicately over her small but unmistakable bump. Her hazel eyes watched him carefully, her voice deceptively soft. "You've gone through quite the trouble for her."
Caelen's reflection met hers in the mirror. "She's still my wife, Maris."
Her lips curved — not quite a smile. "Of course. But I thought she'd moved on from the royal suite. I can't imagine she's eager for your company."
Caelen's jaw tensed. "She's still the queen of Solara. It's my duty to keep appearances… and perhaps remind her where she belongs."
Maris rose gracefully, stepping closer, her fingers grazing the edge of the bouquet. "And where do I belong, Caelen?" she asked softly.
He turned to her then, his expression caught between affection and distraction. "Here," he said finally. "With me."
But as he looked back toward the flowers — golden, bright, and hopeful — his thoughts were already elsewhere.
Maris saw it in his eyes.
He still loved the sun — even if it burned him to look at her.
When the messenger returned with Talia's polite refusal, Caelen's temper snapped.
He stood frozen for a heartbeat in his solar, rereading the reply as if the words might change.
"Her Majesty thanks His Grace for his kind invitation, but her schedule is occupied with matters of state."
Occupied.
Matters of state.
The words dripped with detachment — not anger, not hurt. Just cool dismissal.
"She didn't even write it herself," he muttered, crumpling the parchment in his fist.
The advisor standing nearby cleared his throat nervously. "Your Majesty, perhaps the queen is—"
"Enough." Caelen's voice cracked like a whip. The man bowed quickly and fled, leaving him alone with his frustration.
For years, he had dismissed Talia's quiet strength as softness — mistaking her gentleness for weakness, her compassion for naïveté. But this? This deliberate distance — this display of power — felt like a slap.
He threw the crumpled letter across the room. "She dares," he hissed under his breath. "In my palace, under my name."
He needed to vent — to be understood, validated. And there was only one person eager enough to listen.
⸻
Maris looked up from her embroidery when he entered her chambers without knocking. Her face lit up, though she quickly masked it with concern.
"Caelen?" she asked softly. "You look troubled."
He paced before her, his jaw tight. "She refused me."
Maris blinked, feigning surprise. "Refused?"
"I invited her to lunch — a gesture of goodwill, and she sent a message through her attendant. Not even her own hand."
Maris's lips parted just slightly, but the corners twitched — not in sympathy, but in satisfaction. She rose gracefully, setting aside her needlework. "My poor king," she murmured, stepping closer. "She's trying to make you feel small."
"She forgets who she is," Caelen spat. "I gave her stability. I made her queen."
Maris's eyes softened with feigned pity. "No, my love. You made her comfortable. And now that she's learned to stand alone, she's testing how far she can climb without you."
He turned toward her sharply. "What are you implying?"
Maris's smile was subtle, serpentine. "That maybe she needs to be reminded what she's missing. Queens crave power… but they still ache for attention. For desire."
Caelen frowned, unsure. "You think jealousy would move her?"
Maris placed her hand gently on his arm, tilting her head just enough for her golden hair to catch the light. "You know her heart better than anyone. She's proud, but she's still a woman — she'll feel your absence, your distance. Let her see that she's no longer the center of your world."
Her voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "Let her see what she's losing."
He studied her face for a long moment, the tightness in his chest easing into calculation. "You think it would work."
"I know it will," she said softly, trailing her fingers along his sleeve. "All you have to do is stop chasing the sun… and let it chase you for once."
Caelen's eyes darkened with thought — and something colder than hope. "If she wants to play games of pride," he said, "then so be it. But she'll remember who the true ruler of Solara is."
Maris smiled, stepping closer, her hand sliding up his chest. "Then let me help you remind her."
He leaned down, pressing a brief, claiming kiss to her lips — not of love, but of agreement.
What he didn't see was the spark of triumph that flickered in her hazel eyes when he turned away.
Because Maris knew something he didn't.
This wasn't about jealousy.
It was about survival.
And she'd just made sure that when the king and queen went to war — she'd be standing safely in the shadow of whoever won.
The grand courtyard of Solara was alive with music and chatter that afternoon. Nobles from every corner of the realm had gathered for the royal luncheon, a casual event meant to display unity after weeks of tension. Talia sat at the head table, radiant and composed, her every gesture deliberate — serene as sunlight on still water.
But the calm was fragile.
Because across the marble courtyard, the king and his mistress were about to make their entrance.
The murmurs started before they even stepped onto the balcony. Caelen, dressed in gold-trimmed white, guided Maris by the hand. Her gown — a shimmering shade of crimson that clung to her curves — was far too bold for court decorum, but her smile was sweet as honey and twice as poisonous.
Every head turned.
They descended the steps slowly, deliberately. Maris's hand rested on her swelling belly, and whispers rippled through the gathering like wildfire.
"Is she really—?"
"With the king?"
"In front of the queen?"
Talia didn't flinch.
Her posture remained perfect, her golden goblet steady in her hand. Only her eyes, sharp and unblinking, followed the pair as they crossed the courtyard.
Caelen's gaze met hers once — a flash of challenge beneath a veneer of civility. He leaned down to whisper something to Maris that made her laugh softly, and then, before all of Solara's nobility, he pressed a kiss to her hand.
A gasp rolled through the tables.
Rhenessa, seated beside Talia, felt the muscles in her arm tighten. But when she turned to look at her, the queen's expression was unreadable — calm, cold, beautiful.
Rhenessa leaned in slightly, her voice low enough only Talia could hear. "He's trying to provoke you."
Talia's lips curved — not in anger, but amusement. "Then let him."
Her voice was like sunlight breaking through cloud. "He wants the court to see my reaction. I won't give him the satisfaction."
She took another sip of her drink, her tone soft and deliberate. "But I will give him something else soon enough."
Rhenessa arched an elegant brow. "And what would that be?"
Talia turned her head, her eyes catching the empress's like a slow-burning flame. "A reason to fear the woman he's underestimated."
Rhenessa's lips parted, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. "You're magnificent when you're plotting."
The corners of Talia's mouth lifted. "I'm not plotting, Rhenessa. I'm deciding."
As the king and his mistress settled themselves across the courtyard, basking in their scandalous display, Talia rose from her seat. The sunlight caught her hair, turning her into a vision of gold and fire.
The crowd fell silent.
"I think I've had enough of this luncheon," she said softly, her voice carrying effortlessly. "The sun is far too bright today."
Without another glance at Caelen, she turned and swept out of the courtyard, Rhenessa rising smoothly to follow.
Behind them, whispers filled the air again — but they weren't about Maris anymore. They were about the queen.
The woman who had smiled in the face of humiliation and walked away untouchable.
⸻
That evening, as the last light of day faded into amber dusk, Talia stood before her balcony, her pulse steady and her heart fierce.
She could still hear Maris's laughter echoing in the courtyard. Still see the smug tilt of Caelen's chin.
But the bitterness was gone.
She no longer wanted to win him back. She wanted to erase his shadow entirely.
Rhenessa entered quietly behind her, dressed in soft black silk. "You were brilliant today," she murmured. "You turned their game to dust."
Talia didn't turn. "Then it's time I stopped playing."
Rhenessa stepped closer, her voice low. "And what will you do instead?"
Talia turned then — her orange eyes glowing like twin embers, her expression calm but devastatingly certain. "I'm going to remind him," she said, "that I was never just his queen. I am the Sun itself."
She stepped closer to Rhenessa, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried both promise and hunger.
"And tonight, I'll make sure the shadows know who they belong to."
Rhenessa's breath caught — not in shock, but in surrender.
Because the war had just begun.
And for the first time, it would not be fought in silence.