It began with quiet meetings behind closed doors. A few noblemen. A whisper of tradition. A scroll unrolled from the archives, yellow with age:
"In the absence of a male heir, the king may take a second queen to secure the royal line."
Lord Carven held the scroll before the council with smug pride. "The law is clear. The queen has failed to produce a male heir. The city must come first."
Lady Ilaira folded her arms. "The queen has not failed. She gave Elyria a daughter—a strong one."
"But not a son."
And at the edge of the chamber, cloaked in blue silk, Lady Miranna watched with gleaming eyes. She didn't need to raise her voice. Others did it for her now.
King Darian sat in silence, staring at the fire in his private study.
He had grown colder since Lyra's birth, more distant. The queen's strength unsettled him. Her control of the court, the guards, even the hearts of some nobles—it made him feel less like a king, more like a guest in his own palace.
"She makes me look weak," he once told Lord Carven.
"No, Your Majesty," Carven had said. "She makes herself look stronger. The city notices."
And that was enough.
The idea of a second queen began to take shape. Not as a betrayal—but as tradition. As duty. As necessity.
But Selene already knew.
Before the council made it official, before the king signed anything, she had already intercepted three letters between nobles. She already knew the names of the women being considered.
And she already had a plan.
In her chambers, she met with her most trusted allies—Captain Lirael of the Guard, the High Archivist, and her old tutor.
"They want a queen with a womb, not a will," Selene said, placing a map of the palace on the table. "Let them try. But every stone of this castle will answer to me before it answers to another wife."
She set in motion three things:
She ordered new training for the palace guards—under her authority.
She began funding schools for girls, secretly—using her own treasury.
And she sent a letter to her father's old ally in the southern mountains.
"They wish to remove the mother of Elyria's only living heir. I may need support—not war, but strength."
Meanwhile, Princess Lyra—now three years old—ran barefoot through the palace halls, wooden sword in hand. She chased guards and laughed when they fled.
"She's too much like her mother," some said.
But others smiled when they saw her.
"Maybe the crown doesn't need a boy after all."
At the end of the week, the council stood before King Darian and presented the final scroll: a vote to allow him to take a second wife.
He looked up from his throne, cold and tired.
And then Queen Selene entered the chamber.
She wore no crown, no jewels—only her battle-gray cloak, the edge of a dagger glinting at her waist.
"Do you really believe," she said calmly, "that replacing me will solve your fear?"
The room fell silent.
"I am not your obstacle. I am the wall that holds this city together."
She placed a sealed letter on the council table.
"A formal petition. Signed by every southern house, by three merchant guilds, and half your own palace guard. If you remove me, you remove them."
Then she turned to her husband.
"You don't have to love me, Darian. But understand this—I don't serve you. I serve Elyria. And I will not let her fall into weaker hands."
And with that, she walked away.