The candlelight in Maria's chamber had burned low, pools of wax trailing like veins across the table. Outside, the keep slept beneath a bruised sky. She hadn't moved for hours. She only sat by the window, her mind somewhere far beyond the stone walls.
When the door creaked open, Mara slipped inside with her usual soft footed grace.
"My lady," she said quietly, "the King requests your presence at dinner."
Maria didn't turn from the window.
"Tell him I'm not hungry."
Mara hesitated. "He insisted you join him and Lord Varin tonight. The council matters are done, and..."
"Tell him," Maria cut in, still watching the dark horizon, "that I'm unwell. I need rest."
The maid lingered a moment longer, as though she wanted to warn her, but said only, "Yes, my lady," and left.
Maria exhaled slowly. The truth was she could not bear to sit at that table again beneath the King's cold eyes, beside Lord Varin's easy laughter, pretending everything inside her hadn't begun to quietly unravel.
In the great hall, dinner had long begun when Mara approached the dais. The scent of roasted venison and wine clung to the air, and the chatter of nobles dimmed as she stopped before the King.
"Your Majesty," she murmured, "Her Grace says she is unwell. She asks forgiveness and wishes to rest."
Lord Varin barely looked up from his plate. "She's been pale all day," he said absently, reaching for his goblet. "Let her be."
But the King's knife stilled midway through the cut.
"Unwell," he repeated, the word deliberate, too quiet.
Mara's hands twisted in her apron. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"And yet she finds strength to ignore a royal summons."
The room sank into silence. Even the servants froze.
Lord Varin shifted uncomfortably. "Your Majesty, surely she..."
"No," the King said, standing. "Surely she will explain herself to me."
He left the hall without another word. The echo of his boots followed him down the corridor like thunder rolling through stone.
Maria didn't hear him at first. The door opened so softly she thought it was the wind until his shadow fell over her.
He stood there, tall, still wearing his crown, his expression carved in ice.
"You would deny me at my own table?"
She turned, slow and steady.
"I meant no slight, Your Majesty. I only need rest."
"Rest," he repeated, his gaze sweeping over her like a blade. "Do you think I rest? Do you think a crown allows sleep, or peace, or the luxury of silence?"
Maria's fingers curled against the fabric of her gown. She wanted to tell him he had chosen this life, that power was his addiction, but she knew better than to accuse him.
He took a step closer.
"When I call for you, you come. That is what queens do. You are bound to my command now, Maria."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper sharp enough to draw blood.
"You will be what I make you, Maria. And you will dine tonight. You will sit beside me and smile for every watching eye, because in this court, perception is law."
He turned before she could speak. The finality in his movement dismissed any possibility of appeal. He left, leaving the scent of wine and steel in his wake.
There was no room to argue. He didn't shout; he didn't need to. His authority filled the space like a storm before rain.
When he left, she sat still for a long while before standing. Her face was calm again, composed, but her pulse thudded beneath the silk at her throat.
Dinner would be served cold by the time she arrived, yet every eye would be on her, and he would know she'd come because he willed it.
By the time Maria entered the great hall, the air had grown thick with a silent, heavy unease. The chatter had ceased the moment the doors opened, and every noble turned to watch her long walk. The King's absent chair was now filled again by his formidable presence, while Lord Varin looked a mixture of bewildered and relieved at the Queen's appearance.
Maria walked the length of the table with quiet, controlled grace, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound that broke the profound silence. She moved deliberately, keeping her eyes fixed on the empty space ahead of her, deliberately ignoring the King. She sat down in her seat without a glance toward him, her movements precise and contained.
The King didn't look at her. He continued carving his meat with cold, deliberate focus, his expression a mask of unreadable indifference. Maria mimicked his stillness, her hands folded perfectly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the platter of cooling food before her. She made no attempt to engage, offering a silent, composed refusal to acknowledge his authority.
When the servant poured her wine, his hand brushed hers, not by accident. Aedric's fingers lingered just long enough on the back of her hand for her to feel the cold, sharp presence of his unspoken command. The touch was brief but absolute, a silent reminder of his will.
Maria lifted her cup, drank slowly, and offered a faint, shimmering smile to the room.
It was a beautiful lie, that smile. The court instantly believed, dissolving the tension with the silent confirmation that the King's will was law and the Queen was compliant.
But beneath the table, hidden in her lap, her hand trembled slightly from the internal violation of his touch and the furious constraint of her forced obedience.
And the King's gaze, when he finally turned to her, was cold and penetrating, lingering on her face. His expression, though unreadable to the court, said clearly that he had noticed the lie, the tremor, and the quiet, rebellious fire hidden beneath her porcelain composure.
He had forced her to come, but he could not force her to submit entirely. The silence between them remained a tense, unbroken battlefield.
Maria's calculated defiance continued over the following days, maintaining the tense, silent battle that had begun with the King's summons. The Queen honored the royal table, but offered only absolute silence and the most minimal, respectful courtesy.
The small lunch was held with only the royal party present: Aedric, Maria, and Lord Varin. Maria entered and sat without meeting Aedric's gaze, her cold shoulder serving as a visible, persistent rebuke.
Aedric, dressed in his severe black working attire, was clearly irritated by her sustained withdrawal, yet he struggled to breach the formal wall she had erected. He attempted a neutral conversation to reassert control.
"The reports from the East state the coastal harvest was significantly lower than anticipated this year," Aedric stated, directed toward Varin but intended for Maria. "The Crown will need to compensate with greater grain shipments from the central plains."
Varin nodded. "Indeed, Your Majesty. It falls to the Queen's new ledgers to confirm the available reserves."
Aedric finally looked at Maria, a flicker of annoyance in his cold eyes. "Queen Maria. You have spent weeks studying the financial records. What is your assessment of the winter grain availability, should we divert stock East?"
Maria glanced up, her expression perfectly composed, her answer clipped and technical.
"The Southern plains yield is sufficient," Maria replied, her voice toneless. "But the logistics of the Northern pass are inefficient. The diversion will be costly and delayed."
She paused, then added a subtle dig, delivered with chilling politeness. "Such matters were managed with greater foresight in Sareen. We optimized routes to prevent reliance on emergency diversion."
The comparison stung Aedric, who prided himself on the military efficiency of his kingdom. He ignored the barb, returning his attention to Varin. "See that a full report is drafted on the route inefficiencies."
Varin, sensing the simmering hostility, tried to steer the conversation to safer, less technical waters.
"The people of Eldrath were pleased to see you ride with the King yesterday, Your Grace," Varin offered smoothly. "It is good for the stability of the realm."
"I am pleased that my duty was fulfilled," Maria answered, taking a sip of water. Her short reply conveyed no personal enjoyment, only obligation.
Aedric's jaw tightened. He disliked her lack of warmth, but he hated her use of his own cold logic against him more.
That evening, the tension was heavier, fueled by the morning's exchange. The formal setting did nothing to thaw the atmosphere.
Aedric watched Maria as she ate, the sight of her distant grace stirring the unacknowledged jealousy sparked by Kael's letter. He needed to reassert his claim over her focus, forcing her to acknowledge his presence.
"I received a formal petition today regarding the establishment of the Northern fleet command, Queen Maria," Aedric stated. "A matter that directly concerns the alliance with your father. Your cousin Kael is proving... aggressive in his terms."
Maria placed her fork down, her expression hardening instantly, protecting her kinsman. "Kael is the Warden of the Gate, Your Majesty. His aggression is merely professional loyalty to the terms agreed upon by my father."
"Loyalty," Aedric repeated, the word tasting like ash. "He seems equally loyal to your well being. I trust you are still adjusting to the north cold like he mentioned."
Maria looked directly at him, her eyes sharp. "I am perfectly well. My health is as strong as the King requires it to be."
Varin quickly interjected, trying to ease the pressure. "Your Grace must miss the warmth of your home, however. Do you recall much of the sea, now that you are so deep within the mountains?"
Maria closed her eyes for a brief, almost imperceptible moment, and when she opened them, the raw longing was briefly visible beneath her composure.
"I miss the heat, Lord Varin. I miss the light," Maria said, addressing Varin but directing the sentiment straight across the table. "I miss the sound of my father's court, where the walls were made of stone, but the hearts within were not."
The statement was a direct, elegant accusation against Aedric's coldness. Aedric's hand, resting on the table, clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. Her words were a stinging, accurate strike against the very essence of his kingdom, implying that his control came at the expense of humanity.
He knew she was referring to the casual cruelty of his summons, the relentless coldness of his castle, and the stark contrast to her vibrant homeland. He wanted to rage, to demand obedience, but her quiet, sorrowful dignity silenced the anger, leaving only a sharp, unwanted ache in the region of his heart he refused to acknowledge.
Maria curtsied low, her victory subtle, devastating, and entirely silent. When the meal ended, she stood to leave, but the King's voice stopped her.
"Maria."
She turned, her breath caught in her throat.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you will ride with me to the courtyard. There are things I'd have you see."
She bowed her head, hiding her expression. "As you wish, Your Majesty."
He watched her go, and though his face betrayed nothing, Varin, ever the observer saw how his hand tightened around the cup, the knuckles pale.