The city of Southdale had always taken the Festival of Remembrance seriously, but this year, there was something heavier in the air — as if the rituals themselves understood they were being watched.
The sacred river ran clearer than it had in seasons past. Banners embroidered with ancestral sigils fluttered from each rooftop, and chants from the temple acolytes echoed through the hills like soft thunder. Smoke curled from clay censers at every gate, mingling with the scent of jasmine, river herbs, and incense — a city purifying itself in slow, deliberate breath.
You stood at the high balcony of the Temple of Ancestral Fire, watching the people line up at the eastern banks. They wore white linen and carried offerings in baskets of woven reed: citrus fruits, pomegranates, fig leaves folded with prayers inside. Even the guards bore no weapons, only ceremonial staffs adorned with river stones.
The rites demanded purity — not just of body, but of soul.
And so the city had quieted.
Flesh was to be cleansed in cold water.
Speech was to be measured.
Meals reduced to broth and fruit.
Visitors were turned away at the gates. No foreign boots were to soil the riverbanks until the festival's end.
Your steward, Lord Henric, stood beside you, hands clasped behind his back. The wind stirred his silvered hair.
"They've followed every instruction," he murmured. "But they are watching you, my lady. They wonder why the King has not come."
You didn't answer at first.
Below, a child laughed as he splashed into the river, only to be gently scolded by a priestess.
Then softly, you said, "Let them wonder. I am still here."
He looked at you sidelong. "Some fear you may not be for long."
You turned.
"The Queen," he continued delicately, "has returned to her childhood estate. But the King remains at court. Whispers spread quickly. They think you've abandoned him."
You drew a breath and stepped away from the rail. "They don't know the truth."
"No. But truth rarely outruns rumor."
You walked back toward the temple doors, Henric matching your stride.
"I came here to fulfill a sacred duty. This festival is older than my marriage, older than my title. It is the remembrance of those who came before. I will not abandon it to calm the nerves of courtiers."
He nodded, slowly. But the lines around his mouth stayed tight.
Later that day, as twilight deepened the edges of the courtyards, you noticed more guards posted along the outer walls.
Not in full armor — that would be a breach of festival rites — but in the plain livery of temple watchmen, their hands resting near hilts that were ceremonial in name only.
At the gates, two more patrols had been stationed. On the rooftops, falconers replaced lamp lighters. And by the banks, where children now bathed under the priests' chants, a trio of riders loitered — eyes scanning, bodies still.
You found Henric that evening in the archives chamber, bent over correspondence from the southern villages.
"You've tightened security," you said.
He didn't look up. "The King's court stirs. The wrong word in the wrong ear and a fool might ride here believing you're alone. You're not."
You watched him for a moment. The flicker of the flame lantern caught the edge of a scar behind his ear — old, jagged. From the uprising.
"I don't want panic," you said. "Not among the people."
"Then they won't know," Henric replied. "But we will be ready."
That afternoon, a sealed letter arrived in your hand — the wax still warm, the sigil unmistakably from the capital.
The King had sent an emissary.
Not a message borne by his own hand. Not a note written in haste, or sealed with urgency.
Just a courier's bow and a folded missive. Formal. Controlled.
You did not open it immediately.
You carried it with you — past the echoing corridors of the east wing, past the shrine alcoves and quiet fountains — until you reached your solar. Only then did you bolt the door behind you, the soft click sharp in the stillness.
Your hands were steady. Your breath measured.
You unfolded the parchment slowly, not out of hesitation, but caution. Ritual.
It was not from Casian himself.
No ink pressed by his hand. No signature that bore the weight of remorse.
Only the seal of his court. And a message composed by someone else — deferential in phrasing, vague in intent. A formal request for audience. Cloaked courtesy, veiled expectation.
Behind every carefully chosen word, you read what was not written.
It was not a summons.
It was not an apology.
It was a test.
You let the parchment fall gently onto your writing desk. For a moment, you stared out the tall arched window, where smoke from the temple fires drifted against the pale blue sky. Distant chants echoed through the air like forgotten prayers.
You turned to Mira.
She stood silently by the doorway, awaiting instruction, the tension in her shoulders betraying what her mouth would not ask.
"Send a reply," you said, voice even. "Thank them for the message. Inform the emissary that I am well — and that I will oversee the Festival in full."
Mira shifted. "And the King?"
You met her gaze. Calm. Composed.
"If he wishes to speak," you said quietly, "he may ride here himself."
She gave a small nod and left.
The door closed behind her with a whisper of finality.
And still, you stood there — alone in your solar, surrounded by ancestral scrolls and incense smoke, trying to feel certain of the choice you had made.
But doubt had a way of slipping past even the strongest walls.
What if you were wrong?
What if you had misunderstood — if he had meant to return, if his silence had not been abandonment but fear?
What if this path, this distance, would cost you more than your pride?
Your fingers closed slowly around the window sill.
Perhaps you were a fool. Perhaps the court would devour you in whispers, and the capital would brand you a willful wife who fled her crown.
But if you were to fall — let it be by your own hand, not from fading quietly in someone else's shadow.
You would write your own story now.
....
Meanwhile, in the capital, the Queen Dowager struggled to keep the court from stirring.
In the afternoon, the Queen Dowager entertained visitors in the southern salon — an airy chamber flanked by lemon trees and latticed windows. Sunlight filtered softly across patterned tiles, and the scent of summer fruit lingered in the air.
Among the guests was Lady Katerina of The West Valley — young, delicate, and eager.
She was everything a court adored: a voice like a lark, fingers graceful on the lute, and laughter that arrived easily, often too easily. She leaned in when she spoke, eyes wide, lips tinted like rosewater. A girl raised to please. To entertain.
And she tried — with practiced sweetness — to please the Queen Dowager.
"You must allow me to play for you again," Katerina said, plucking absently at a stringed lyra as if the melody had never left her fingers. "His Majesty always says your court has the finest taste in song."
The Queen Dowager offered her a restrained smile, her expression unreadable.
"I'm sure he does."
Katerina tilted her head, attempting charm. "He's said many kind things about you, Your Grace. He speaks of you often."
The Dowager sipped her tea without reply.
Katerina pressed on. "I've always admired the Queen, of course. She is so poised. So…" Her voice trailed, unsure how to finish.
"So absent?" the Dowager offered mildly, one brow arched.
Katerina flushed.
"Forgive me. I didn't mean—"
But before the girl could recover her footing, a footman approached, bending low to whisper something into the Dowager's ear.
Her expression did not change. But she set her cup down with more purpose than grace.
"Excuse me, my lady," she said smoothly. "A matter of state requires my attention."
"Of course," Katerina murmured, rising with her lute clasped delicately in both hands. "I do hope we can speak again soon."
The Queen Dowager gave her a single nod — polite, cool, and absolute.
She left the salon through a private hall, her attendants falling into step behind her. Once in her receiving room, she took the message herself. Broke the seal.
Read the words once.
Twice.
A beat passed.
"Where is my son?" she asked quietly.
An attendant stepped forward. "His Majesty has broken camp. He rides south."
"Toward the capital?"
"No, Your Grace. Toward the Queen's province."
The Dowager turned slightly, eyes lingering on the horizon beyond the window.
Not too late, then.
But not early enough.
She breathed in — deep, steady — and folded the letter closed.
"Let them think what they will," she murmured, almost to herself. "Let the court sharpen its teeth. They will find no easy meat."
The candlelight flared faintly in her gaze.
"She left with dignity," she said. "If he wants her back… he will have to earn her."