Ophelia's voice, warm and bright, rang out like a bell:
"Ah… Soren… Your Majesty!"
Soren's head turned, his gaze falling upon the circle of jeweled women. The corner of his mouth tilted upward, though whether in courtesy or amusement, none could tell.
The noblewives bowed their heads, hiding flushed cheeks.
Fans fluttered frantically as Emperor Soren approached, and before the noblewives could even rise to curtsy, his voice… smooth, steady, threaded with humor… cut through the tension.
"Please, ladies," he said, inclining his head with that poised grace only he possessed, "if you bow any lower, I fear the roses themselves will wilt in jealousy. Sit. Stay as you are. I am only intruding on your garden, not your court."
The women tittered like girls, eyes lowered yet peeking shamelessly from behind their painted fans.
Ophelia, ever composed, gestured to the empty chair beside her. "Your Majesty honors us. Will you join us for a moment?"
He sat without hesitation, folding into their circle as if he had always belonged.
"How do you find your chamber?" Ophelia asked sweetly. "And your stay so far?"
Soren's mouth curved into an easy smile. "More than comfortable. Almost too much so. I find myself wishing never to leave Solmire again. The warmth here is… persuasive."
Giggles rippled again around the table.
Ophelia's lashes lowered modestly, though her words came smoothly. "Our warmth is not always a blessing, Your Majesty. The heat can be unbearable at times."
"Better a burn than a freeze," Soren replied lightly. "Nevareth's cold shows no mercy. Ice can cut deeper than flame."
Ophelia tilted her head, intrigued. "And what brings you to this side of the palace, then? Curiosity?"
He chuckled, low and careless. "Since my friend is buried in the Pyrosanct council, I thought I'd give myself a little tour. Strange, is it not? No matter how often I return, I always forget the shape of this palace."
Laughter bubbled once more, delighted at his candor. Until he added, with perfect nonchalance:
"And of course, I was hoping to see the Queen... Eris."
The mirth drained from the table like spilled wine.
Ophelia was the first to recover, her smile strained but unshaken. "Her Majesty? Might I ask why?"
"Why not?" Soren's tone was steady, cool as snow. "We are both sovereigns of fire and ice are we not? It seems natural to wish for private counsel."
An awkward laugh fluttered among the wives, brittle and thin. Ophelia leaned forward, her voice gentle yet firm. "Whatever concerns our realms may hold, I'm sure Caelen is fully capable of addressing them with you."
"Of course," Soren agreed smoothly. "But not all matters are bound to statecraft. There are conversations best suited for one ruler to another."
That was when one of the bolder noblewomen snapped her fan shut and hissed, "If Your Majesty will pardon me, the Queen is no fit company. She is unpredictable, quick-tempered. I have heard she burns servants alive for stepping out of line."
Murmurs of agreement followed. Another added, "Indeed, her hand is ever on the flame. A Queen should nurture, not destroy. You would do well to keep your distance if I may say."
"And she laughs," another whispered, shuddering. "Even at death. A cursed woman, if ever there was one."
Soren listened in silence, but the faintest flicker of an annoyance he couldn't explain brushed his features. When he spoke, his words were measured, even courteous yet edged like a blade wrapped in linen.
"Is it not a queen's duty to inspire fear as well as loyalty? Better to command respect with flame than lose it with indulgence."
The women blinked, startled.
"And if she burns those who cross her," he continued mildly, "then perhaps it is because she has been crossed one too many times."
The noblewives shifted uncomfortably. Their fans stilled.
Ophelia caught the subtle shift, the way he had turned their venom into something perilously close to defense. A shadow of unease coiled in her chest, though her smile did not falter.
"My ladies," she said brightly, voice warm and lilting, drawing their eyes back to her, "let us not linger on such grim talk. We have festivals to prepare for, gowns to perfect, and I, for one, wish to hear about Lady Veness's embroidery for the Pyrosanct procession."
"Ah! Yes."
The women, grateful for the change, eagerly turned their chatter toward silks and colors.
Ophelia tuned to Soren next.
"Your Majesty must forgive us. We are silly creatures when left with tea and idle time."
"On the contrary," Soren replied smoothly, his gaze still fixed on her. "I find idle words reveal more truth than sworn oaths."
The wives exchanged uneasy glances again, suddenly fascinated by their cups. Ophelia held his stare, her hazel eyes glinting in that artful way that made her look untouched by the heat in his words. "Then may we hope you found only kindness in ours."
Soren's smile along with his eyes curved like a crescent blade. He did not answer at once, letting the silence stretch taut, before finally rising with fluid grace. He bowed slightly, not too much, not too formal, just enough to remind them all that he was an emperor in their garden, choosing to indulge them.
"Thank you, ladies, for your company," he said lightly, almost teasing. "And for your truths."
He turned, cloak whispering against the stone path, and walked away without looking back.
The noblewives exhaled in a rush, giggles and nervous whispers bubbling up as if they had been holding their breath all along.
Ophelia sat very still, her smile radiant, her posture perfect. But her fingers pressed hard into her cup until the porcelain creaked faintly.