Weeks had thinned into a brittle quiet. In the hall of lords the hearth burned low and voices went in circles like vultures over a carcass—who would sit the empty throne, who could stitch the kingdom back together.
Suggestions fell like stones: pick a distant noble, raise a villageman, let the throne remain empty until a miracle.
Each answer met a flicker of hope and a louder shrug.
Then Lord Hale cleared his throat and the chamber slipped to a hush.
"You forget," he said, plain as a ledger, "a prince yet lives—if not in flesh, then in his mother's womb."
The word moved through them.
"Prince?" came a dozen small, startled voices. "Where?"
Hale's eyes did not flinch. "Have you all forgotten? Queen Iridessa is with child."
A ripple turned into a rising murmur—realization, then uncertainty.
Lord Brennor's mouth thinned. "But he is not yet born. How… how could he rule before he is here?"
"Then Queen Iridessa will rule for the child and the people," Lord Hale answered. "Or she rules for the crown until he can." His hand landed on the bench as if to pin the notion in place.
Cold resistance rolled from Brennor's side. "We have never had a woman king," he said, voice brittle.
Lord Fenn's face burned. He rose before the hall had time to scoff, hands clenched, words spilling like grain.
"Never had a woman who fed the hungry when the drought burned our fields, never had a woman who bribed her own danger to send for aid while we debated and did nothing. Queen Iridessa wrote to other kingdoms with courage—she fed the villages. She is not simply a woman; she is a steward of mercy. If we want mending, we pick the one who has already mended."
Agreement whispered and swelled. Brennor's protests thinned to sputters.
Another lord, with a cautious mind, raised the only pragmatic point left "We should ask her. Let this not be a crown forced down her throat.
"If we agree, I will speak to her," Lord Hale offered, and hands went up like weathered wheat—aye after aye until only the stubborn sat still.
-
Iridessa's chamber was full and cool, a single window breathing in the late air. Miri sat at the foot of the bed, hands folded over each other, watching the thin swell at Iridessa's center as if it were the last flame they had between them. Iridessa herself stood by the low table, fingers tracing a map of slow nerves across the wood, eyes distant.
Lord Hale entered without pomp—only the slow step of a man carrying duty instead of show. He bowed once, then straightened, his face a ledger of respect and urgency.
"You wished to leave," he began, the words soft but certain, "to return to your homeland."
Iridessa's laugh was short, surprised. "I did. The thought of fields I knew, of a land that raised me—that was my dream. This palace weighs like a net." She pressed a hand to her belly as if to feel the truth there. "I never wanted crowns. I only wanted peace."
Hale's eyes warmed with a memory she could not see. "This is your home as well, whether you want it or not. The people you fed in the drought call you theirs. The men and women you sheltered, the letters you sent—those are not small things, Your Majesty. They are the stitches of a kingdom. You can mend it."
She shook her head, the motion cutting through the chamber like a dull blade. "They will say I am foreign. They will say I am a woman. They will say I am unfit."
A small sound—Miri's voice, steady as a bell. "You walked the streets with a sack at night. You left your safety to hand bread to children who would not dare look a lord in the eye. You wrote to other courts when the pantries were empty. Who among them counts as more fit? Who else took the risk you took?"
Iridessa closed her eyes; a prick of wetness gathered at their corners. "King Rael told me once—before he… before he died—'Hold the kingdom together.' He said it as if the words were weight in his hands."
The memory shifted in her throat; for a second the chamber smelled of old paper and the ghost of his breath. "He asked me to hold the kingdom together."
Hale stepped closer, lowering his voice until it was only for her. "He saw something in you he trusted. The laws do not forbid a woman. The people will follow a steady hand. You do not take this crown for yourself, you take it for them, and for the child beneath your heart."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. The chamber held its breath.
Miri's chin lifted; she had seen Iridessa feed a village in the worst of days—seen her come back filthy and smiling, refusing thanks, seen all of her courageous acts. In the silence, all that courage seemed to stand before them, plain and unadorned.
Iridessa's voice came small and certain, as if drawn from a place she had not known existed. "If they need me to hold them, then I will stay. For the child, and for them. I will not abandon a people I have learned to love."
Tears slipped down her cheek. Miri reached for her hand and squeezed, a small, fierce pressure. Hale inclined his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in a tired relief.
"Your Majesty will not be alone," he promised. "We will stand with you—those of us who serve the land and not only the line."
Outside, through the window, the late light lay like a promise. Iridessa placed both hands upon her belly, feeling the slight, impossible certainty of life inside. She drew in a breath that trembled and then steadied.
"Then let them come," she said. "Bring me their oath, and I will take up the throne."
Hale took his leave with a bow that carried the weight of the council's vote.
Miri stayed, eyes bright and unashamed, to fold the small cloth from Iridessa's lap.
When the door shut and their whispers fell to the hush of the chamber, Iridessa knelt by the window as if to find the world beneath her feet. The kingdom beyond was quiet, a kingdom waiting.
She rose at last, shoulders set. If the crown would come—not as a prize, but as a task—she would accept it. The throne would not be empty any longer.
-
The palace gates opened wide. For the first time since Magnus coronation, not for a war, not for a decree of punishment, but for hope. Word had spread across the villages, across the barren farmlands and broken houses—Elareth was to have a king again.
The villagers streamed in, carrying whatever their hands could gather—small fruits, dried herbs, wildflowers, even jars of clean water, their most precious offerings. They filled the palace square until there was no space left, their voices rising in a low hum of expectation.
Inside the great hall, draped now with fresh linens and garlands made by women from the village, the lords stood in their circle.
The priest, ancient and bent but strong in voice, raised his staff high as Queen Iridessa walked forward. She was robed not in jewels, but in a white gown as simple as rain, her hands trembling yet steady, while Miri, dressed in rich silk, walked just behind her, carrying her veil.
At the front of the hall, Iridessa's kin from her kingdom stood among the lords, their faces alight with pride, for though she was far from the soil of her birth, she was no longer only theirs—she was Elareth's.
The priest's voice thundered.
"Elareth has suffered. Elareth has been broken. But today, Elareth rises."
He looked to her. "Iridessa, daughter of Dhalmar, but mother of Elareth's hope, do you accept the throne?"
Iridessa's chest rose, her eyes glistening. For a moment, she faltered, but then King Rael's last words rang in her heart, Miri's whisper of courage echoing close, and the memory of the people's suffering pressing heavy in her spirit. She raised her chin.
"I accept. For the people."
The priest lifted the ancient crown, gold dulled by age but still burning with memory, and set it gently upon her head.
"Behold, your King. Iridessa of Elareth!"
The hall shook with the roar of voices.
"Long live the Queen!"
"Long live the Queen!"
"Long live the Queen!"
Miri nearly leapt for joy, her face wet with tears.
Villagers outside fell to their knees, bowing as tears streamed down their faces. Some held fruits high, others lifted water jars, offering their thanks as if to the sky itself.
And for the first time since the war, joy swept through Elareth.
And far away in Velmora, Aurora sat by her chamber window when the messenger arrived. She broke the seal, and as her eyes moved across the lines written by Iridessa's careful hand, her lips parted into a smile.
Elareth had a king again.
Not of cruelty. Not of neglect. But of courage.
She pressed the letter against her heart, whispering, "Finally… the kingdom has the king it deserves."