The palace was quieter than usual that night.
Rain tapped gently against the windows, and the guards stood stiff and still beneath the torchlight. Inside the king's study, the fire burned low—but King Darian sat awake, staring into it as if it held the answer to a question he hadn't dared ask aloud.
Then the door creaked open.
He didn't look up.
"I didn't call for anyone," he muttered.
"I didn't come to obey," Selene said calmly, stepping inside.
She was dressed simply, her cloak damp from the rain, her crown left behind. She closed the door and walked toward him without fear.
"You've been avoiding me," she said.
Darian finally turned to face her. "I've had much to think about."
"No," she said. "You've had much to run from."
Silence.
Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. "The city still speaks of sons. Of second wives. Of my weakness."
Selene crossed her arms. "And you think I haven't heard it too? Every whisper cuts me before it ever reaches you."
"You act like it doesn't bother you."
"Because I don't have the luxury to fall apart."
Her voice cracked—not with sadness, but with the weight of everything she had carried alone: a throne that never wanted her, a husband who never claimed her, a child the world refused to accept.
Darian looked away. "You've done everything they asked, and they still… they still want more."
Selene stepped closer, her tone softer now.
"They don't want a queen. They want a womb with a crown. But I am not that. I will never be that. I am a wall they cannot shake. I am the reason this city hasn't fallen."
His jaw tightened. "I know."
She paused, surprised. "Then why do you keep standing behind them instead of beside me?"
He stood now, facing her—truly facing her.
"Because I never asked for you. I never asked for this marriage. And I hated that I needed you to survive."
She nodded slowly. "And I hated that I was forced to protect a king who would rather suffer in silence than rise."
Their eyes met—and for the first time, there was no anger between them. Only understanding.
Then he said something she didn't expect:
"Do you still hate me?"
She looked at him—carefully, thoughtfully.
"No. I pity you. But I don't hate you."
A pause.
"I don't hate you either," he whispered. "Not anymore."
Later that night, as the storm outside softened, Selene stood in Lyra's chamber, watching her daughter sleep.
She felt a strange stillness in her chest—not peace, but something near it. A shift.
The king had spoken the truth.
Not love.
Not warmth.
But the first ember of respect.
At that same hour, in a small village two days south, a courier delivered a message to a hooded figure.
The wax seal was Miranna's.
"She is weakening. He is wavering. Prepare the next strike before she wins them both."
And beneath it, a single word:
"Poison."