No fire burns longer than the one a man hides in his own chest —
And no wound cuts deeper than the woman who knows it."
—Saying of the Old South
Silence settled over the chambers like dust left after a storm. But storms rarely end cleanly, and the air still trembled with the words that had just been spoken.
When the chamber had grown still again, Saphirra lay staring at the ceiling. The candlelight wavered, casting slow shadows that crawled along the walls.
"Mother should let me attend to my duties. I am no longer a child," Saphirra said, her voice low yet edged with pride.
Senoria turned from the table where she had been folding linen. "Her Grace only cares for you, my princess — as her daughter and her last living kin." She spoke gently, though her eyes were heavy with worry.
"She acts as she must because she loves you. You are still young, and the realm can wait for your service.You have many years ahead before you sit the throne and bear its weight."
Saphirra gave a faint, weary smile. "You think I shall be queen one day?"
"Of course, my princess," said Senoria, returning the smile.
Saphirra looked away, her gaze drifting toward the window where the afternoon light burned pale upon the stone. "I do not think that possible. My uncle is king, and he alone shall name his heir."
"His Grace refuses to take a wife or produce a son," Senoria said softly. "That leaves you as the rightful heir to the crown. You are the daughter of the late king, and his chosen successor."
Saphirra said nothing.
Senoria hesitated, then spoke more boldly, her voice trembling. "After all, it was your father who named you his heir before the tragedy of his death — and your uncle who… who usurped the throne."
"Shh." Saphirra silenced her sharply, her eyes flashing. "Do not ever speak of such again."
The room seemed to tighten around them.
"That is treason, Senoria," she whispered. "Your head could be taken for less."
Senoria bowed her head. "As you wish, my princess. But you know what I meant."
Saphirra's tone hardened, though her face softened with concern. "I shall be queen only if His Grace wills it. Till then, words such as those must never be spoken again."
"Understood," said Senoria, lowering her gaze.
"I would like some time alone," said Saphirra after a moment, her voice quiet once more.
"As you command, my princess." Senoria bowed deeply, then withdrew from the chamber.
When the door had closed, silence settled like dust. Saphirra leaned back upon her pillow, her thoughts heavy as stone. Through the window came a breath of wind, cold and thin, carrying the faint toll of the castle bells — distant and mournful.
———
"Your Grace, the queen seeks an audience," the King's guard announced.
"Bring her in,"King Daeryn said, his tone steady, almost indifferent.
Ser Stewford bowed. "Your Grace." He stepped back and withdrew from the chamber.
A moment later, Queen Naerya entered. The scent of rain clung to her cloak, dark silk trailing softly over the marble.
Daeryn regarded her from where he stood by the hearth, bare-chested, water still clinging to his skin from his bath. He reached for his robe as she approached.
"It has been some time since Her Grace visited the king in his own chambers," Daeryn said, half in jest, half in reproach.
"Leave us," he ordered his servants.
They bowed in unison. "Your Grace."
To the queen, again: "Your Grace."
Then quietly departed, the chamber falling into a soft hush.
Naerya's gaze lingered on a sculpture beside the hearth — the likeness of a kneeling angel, its face serene beneath a crown of thorns.
"Your Grace," she greeted him, her tone cool yet courteous.
"What calls for this visit, my queen?" Daeryn's voice came from beyond the silk curtain of his robing room, where he stood fastening his robe.
His back was to her, though she could see the faint shape of his movements through the curtain's glow.
"It concerns the princess," Naerya said, still studying the sculpture.
"Speak."
"The wellbeing of the princess is being questioned."
Daeryn paused mid-motion. "In what way — and by whom?" he asked, his tone shifting slightly, a hint of irritation under the calm.
Naerya caught that flicker in his voice. A knowing smirk ghosted her lips. "By the Chandels." she replied, turning toward his silhouette. "They fear for her strength, after the rituals."
From behind the curtains, his silhouette moved slowly. "To my most recent knowing," he replied, "the princess is healthy — and blessed with the strength of the gods."
"You are mostly inaccurate on that," Naerya said, her voice soft but edged.
She reached for a wine glass beside his bed, lifted it to her nose, and quickly recoiled at the sour stench.
"Even your wine has soured, Your Grace. Perhaps the gods are tired of granting blessings in this room."
Daeryn stepped out from the curtain, half-dressed — a robe drawn loosely over his chest, his hair damp and unkempt. "You should have said you wanted wine," he said, his tone light, almost mocking.
"That will not be necessary," she replied, though her restraint was thinning.
"What is it you truly wish to say, Naerya?" Daeryn asked, fastening his belt, his voice dipping with impatience.
"The rituals the Chandels make Saphirra endure…" she began, only for Daeryn to cut across her words.
"What about them?" he asked, reaching for a vial of perfume and dabbing it at his neck.
Naerya's voice hardened. "Those rituals are dangerous. They're harming her. I want you to stop them."
Daeryn smiled faintly — a calm, cold smile. He approached her, eyes fixed upon hers. "You, of all people, should know that the rite is not a whim, but a duty to the realm."
He passed her, moving to the balcony behind her. "You and I both know our house has been weakened since my brother's passing. We lost the Crest with him. Only Saphirra can awaken it, and even you know he meant it so."
"She will," Naerya said firmly. "But when she is queen — and of age to bear its burden."
Daeryn then walked up to her quickly, his jaw tightened until the muscle quivered beneath his skin. His teeth grounded against one another as if his rage were a beast clawing to be freed.
He seized her shoulder—his touch neither cruel nor gentle, but desperate, trembling with years of silence. Their foreheads met, breath to breath, the space between them thick with words unsaid. His voice broke through, low and raw, the sound of a heart torn between love and pride.
"When she becomes queen?" he rasped, "Then what about me? Am I not fit to be king?"
"To be your king?"
She did not move. Her eyes fixed on his, calm and unblinking. She understood him too well—the hunger that drove him, the void he mistook for destiny.
He released her slowly, as though reluctant to let go of something far deeper than her shoulder. The air between them cooled for a heartbeat as he stepped away, yet his eyes lingered on her with the faint curve of a smile—one too soft to be triumph, too pained to be peace.
Reaching for her hands, his touch was gentle, deliberate, a whisper of warmth that spoke where words failed.
"I would relieve the princess of her duties in unlocking the crest," he said quietly. Then, as he moved behind her, his voice sank into something lower, more intimate. His arms crossed over her front—not in possession, but in promise—and his breath traced the line of her neck, steady and warm.
She raised her head, eyes closed, as his breath traced the line of her neck—slow, steady, warm. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the sound of their breathing mingled in the hush. Then came his words, soft yet thunderous in their meaning.
"But you will have to be my queen," he whispered, "and give me an heir."
Her lashes fluttered open, the light in her eyes dimmed with a thousand thoughts, yet her body did not move. She stood there, caught between the past and the present, between love unspoken and duty unforgiving.
The words hung between them, not as a command but as a confession—half duty, half desire, each syllable trembling with the weight of what should never be spoken
The silence stretched—gentle, heavy, endless. Daeryn's gaze searched her stillness for an answer, but none came. The chamber seemed to breathe with them, each passing second carving deeper the space between what was said and what could never be.
Still she did not speak. The quiet was her shield, her sorrow, her final act of grace.
Daeryn took a few steps back, his gaze fixed on Naerya, a faint smirk twisting his lips. Her silence—unyielding and wordless—had pierced through him more deeply than any blade. Frustration burned in his chest until restraint gave way.
His fist shot forward—swift, trembling with fury—cutting through the air toward her face. For an instant, it seemed he had struck her, yet she did not move.
Naerya stood still, eyes unflinching, calm as stone. A shattering sound followed—the sharp break of ceramic behind her.
The sculpture she had admired earlier lay in pieces upon the marble floor.
She turned slightly, eyes widening not in fear, but in disbelief. She had always known Daeryn's heart was turbulent, but never imagined his anguish would carry him to this edge.
"You still love him, don't you?" Daeryn's voice broke the silence, rising with restrained fury. "My brother is long dead, yet he still lingers in your heart!"
He stepped closer, pain trembling through his tone. "All I want from you is to see me, Naerya. I'm right in front of you. I've always been—but you hid me in his shadow, even now, long after he's gone."
He turned away sharply, moving toward the balcony, his breathing heavy.
"I see you, Daeryn—I have always seen you," Naerya said quietly.
He froze, one hand on the wall beside the arch, his head tilting slightly as her words reached him.
"I have seen the envy and the disdain your eyes held for my husband—your brother—and the same wrath that still burns toward Saphirra, my daughter," she continued, her voice steady but heavy with sorrow.
"The hatred you nurse against your own blood is a burden I cannot share. Keep your dreams of an heir, Daeryn, but do not ever ask it of me again. Your cruel trials upon Saphirra end tonight. I will see to it."
The silence that followed was cold, stretched thin across the room.
The door burst open suddenly. "Is everything well, Your Grace?" the King's Guard asked, alarmed by the sound of shattering. His eyes swept the room—nothing seemed amiss, though the air hung thick with tension.
The Queen stood still, her back straight and unmoving, while the King remained at the balcony, head bowed.
Naerya's lips trembled, her eyes glistening as a single tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away with quiet resolve, stepped past the guard, and left the chamber before the door closed behind her.
Only silence remained—and the broken pieces of the sculpture between them.
The door closed with a soft thud, and the echo lingered like a heartbeat in the hollow room. Daeryn remained still, his palm pressed against the cold stone of the wall, head bowed beneath the dim light. The silence, once shared, now mocked him.
His breath came shallow. He turned, slowly, his eyes finding the shattered sculpture upon the floor—a white likeness of grace now marred and broken, its fragments scattered like the remnants of his restraint. He stared at it for long moments, then lowered himself to one knee beside it.