The queen was wearing full battle armor, dark steel and silver, fitted to her body with the precision of a suit that had been made for her and worn before. A sword hung at her hip. Her dark hair was braided tight against her skull in the style of a woman who had dressed for combat and not for court.
She had not been woken. She had been listening. And she had been putting on armor while her husband was putting on a robe.
Serena stared at her. The staring was brief, involuntary, the half-second reaction of a woman who had prepared herself for every possible outcome of this conversation and had not prepared for this one.
The queen crossed the throne room floor. Her stride was military. Her eyes were cold and clear and carrying the exact same cutting assessment they had carried the first time she circled Serena in this room.
She stopped in front of Serena. Held her gaze for three full seconds.
