The people of Aeloria did not expect to fall in love with their new queen.
But by the end of her first week, they were completely enchanted.
Not just the nobles in the court who watched her navigate meetings with poise or the scholars who marveled at her command of three dialects. No—it was the bakers who admired how she complimented their nutmeg tarts by name. The little girls who saw her walk the gardens and said she looked like a goddess from the old myths. The elderly who remembered her helping refugees during the winter famine years ago.
Elira didn't act like a queen who'd clawed her way to the top.
She acted like a woman who belonged there all along.
---
Her mornings began early—long before the other queens stirred.
She walked the rose-marble halls with her steward, asking questions not about royal appointments or foreign alliances, but about the people.
"What's the average pay of a palace maid?"
"How are the farmers in the southern provinces recovering after last year's drought?"
"Have the border orphans from Durrow received proper shelter?"
The steward, a tall man named Alric, had served under three rulers. He'd never seen a queen take such interest in the forgotten.
By midweek, word of her curiosity had reached the markets.
By the weekend, she'd become a symbol of hope.
---
That afternoon, Elira stood at the eastern balcony of the palace library. Below, the courtyard swelled with sound—hundreds of people had gathered after hearing she might appear.
She glanced toward the king beside her. "They want to see me?"
"They love you already," Thalion murmured, his arm behind her waist.
Elira blinked slowly. "And your other queens? Did they get such... parades?"
Thalion's lips twitched. "Sarith hosted feasts. Malina gives lectures on ancient strategy. But none have ever drawn a crowd just to see their face."
Elira shook her head in amusement. "What have you dragged me into, Thalion?"
He leaned close, his voice brushing her ear like a secret.
"Something only you can handle."
---
That night, their chambers glowed with low firelight and jasmine oil. The air was hushed, the way it always became after long conversations and gentle touches.
Elira sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair while Thalion poured wine. He studied her in the mirror—the way she moved like a ripple through water, her eyes far away.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
She paused. "The people. The power of being... seen. I'm not sure I'm ready for how much they already believe in me."
He walked behind her, setting the wine aside, resting his hands on her shoulders. "They believe in what I already knew."
"And what is that?"
"That you are the future of this kingdom. And I would burn it all to the ground if it ever turns on you."
His voice wasn't poetic. It was a promise.
Elira met his gaze in the mirror, and for a heartbeat, she almost told him.
About her magic.
About her lineage.
About the way she shields herself every night from stray thoughts.
But she didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, she turned and pulled him to her lips.
---
At the far end of the palace, Queen Sarith watched the balcony lights flicker from her tower window.
She held a goblet of untouched wine.
"Fool," she muttered under her breath. "He's letting her rewrite the throne with her mouth and her hips."
Behind her, Queen Malina stepped into the chamber, uninvited but expected.
"She's more dangerous than we thought," Malina said simply.
"She's clever," Sarith snapped. "And charming. But she bleeds like the rest of us. We just need to cut deep enough."
"Perhaps we should find out exactly what flows through her veins."
Sarith's eyes narrowed.
"I already have someone digging."
The royal dining chamber was lit by crystal lanterns suspended from golden vines etched into the ceiling. Every surface gleamed—wine glasses rimmed in silver, obsidian plates warmed beneath enchanted steam, roses that never wilted adorning the center table.
It was supposed to be an informal meal.
A friendly evening.
But Elira felt tension creeping in like smoke through stone.
Seated across from her was Lord Vexen of the Northern Highlands—a bear of a man with silver streaking his beard and eyes the color of molten iron. He was clever. Careful. His words wrapped in silk, his intentions barbed with steel.
"…and I must say," he was saying, slicing into his meat, "we in the Highlands admire your queen greatly. A woman of the people, yes? With… interesting roots."
King Thalion looked up from his plate.
Elira smiled, slow and even. "I take that as a compliment."
"Oh, it is," Vexen said easily. "But I find myself curious. A merchant's daughter marrying into royalty… some might call it destiny. Others might call it manipulation."
Thalion's expression darkened.
But Elira tilted her head. "And what would you call it, Lord Vexen?"
"A gamble," he said, raising his goblet. "But one the king seems pleased with."
Elira's magic stirred in her veins. Quiet. Waiting.
Don't, she told herself.
But her fingers itched.
Just a whisper. Just enough to peel back the mask.
She leaned forward, eyes meeting Vexen's.
Reveal.
The spell was subtle—woven from threads of thought and pulse.
A flicker of his mind opened to her like a cracked door.
And there it was.
> "She hides something. She's too composed. The rumor about her grandmother in Valdara… If it's true, she's dangerous. She must be watched."
Elira blinked once. Broke the link.
And smiled.
"I find the best gambles," she said, "are the ones people underestimate."
Thalion's hand found hers beneath the table.
Lord Vexen raised a brow.
But said nothing more.
---
That night, Elira couldn't sleep.
The wind rattled the high glass windows. Somewhere in the distance, a gate creaked. She stood barefoot in her chamber, draped in her midnight robe, her palm pressed to her belly. It was still too soon to feel movement.
But she could feel presence.
She stepped to the mirror and lit a small crystal.
Its soft glow pulsed.
Then she closed her eyes and whispered.
"Let the veil fall."
At once, the protective barrier around her mind—the one she instinctively cast every night—dissolved. Her senses opened like floodgates.
Thoughts. Emotions. Echoes.
They flowed around her like storm tide.
— "She's charming, yes, but she must be watched…"
— "The king cannot see clearly. She's bewitching him…"
— "Did you know her grandmother disappeared during the Psychic Purge?"
— "Sarith's planning something. She met with the old alchemist again…"
Elira gasped softly.
The air shimmered.
Too many minds.
Too many lies.
She took a step back and let the barrier rise again, locking her gifts away in silver-threaded silence.
But one thought haunted her still—echoing louder than the rest.
> "She must be watched."
---
Meanwhile, beneath the palace…
In a forgotten hallway lined with ancestral relics, Queen Malina stepped into a stone chamber filled with scrolls and dust.
A lone figure waited for her.
Old. Thin. Robed in brown.
"You served her grandmother," Malina said.
The man nodded. "I did."
"And is it true what they say?"
His eyes gleamed. "It is. She was a Dreamwalker. The last of her line. Until the girl."
Malina folded her arms.
"And what can you tell me about her bloodline?"
The man grinned, yellowed teeth sharp in the dark.
"Only that it runs thick with prophecy."
The next morning, Elira visited the children's garden.
It was a part of the palace not many nobles visited, tucked behind the apothecary wing and filled with herbs, child-sized benches, and chalk-drawn games still lingering from the day before. The caretaker, Mistress Dalia, greeted Elira with a deep bow.
"Your Grace," she said, flushed with surprise. "We weren't expecting you."
"I like surprises," Elira replied. "And I needed some air."
Dalia nodded and opened the gate.
Inside, a dozen children played under the shade of weeping moon-willows. Some were wards of noble houses, others the offspring of trusted palace workers. Elira walked among them, listening, smiling, and kneeling to tie a small boy's sandal when it slipped loose.
"You're the nice queen," one little girl whispered, tugging on Elira's sleeve.
Elira smiled. "And who are you?"
"Maelie," the girl said. Her eyes were pale violet—unusual for the region. "I saw you in my dream."
Elira blinked.
"In your dream?" she asked gently.
Maelie nodded. "You were glowing. And you told me to run when the tower fell. I did. And then I woke up."
The words struck Elira cold.
She had not dreamwalked in years.
But it was in her blood. She could enter dreams—accidentally or deliberately—if her mind wasn't shielded.
Last night, she had lowered her barrier.
And Maelie… Maelie had seen her.
Elira placed a hand on the girl's cheek, her voice soft. "That was just a dream, little one. But it's good you listened. You're very brave."
Maelie beamed and ran off to join her friends.
Elira straightened, mind reeling.
She would have to be more careful. She wasn't just being watched now—she was starting to leak.
---
Later that evening, Queen Sarith made her first open move.
During the court council, seated among ministers and observers, she rose slowly from her side gallery seat—draped in red and gold, head high, lips curled into polite venom.
"Your Majesty," she said, directing her words to the king, "might I raise a concern?"
Thalion, seated beside Elira, glanced toward her. "You may speak."
"There are whispers, my king," Sarith said, casting a casual glance toward the nobles. "That foreign ambassadors are… uneasy with Queen Elira's presence at our political summits."
A few murmurs stirred the chamber.
Sarith continued, "They say she is untested. That the crown's image grows uncertain when favored consorts begin to speak with royal authority."
Thalion's jaw tightened.
Elira remained silent.
"The people love her," Sarith said, with a sigh. "But foreign rulers… are not so sentimental."
That was it.
A sharp, public slice disguised as a gentle suggestion.
Thalion didn't answer immediately. But Elira caught the subtle curl of his fingers against the armrest—a gesture she was learning meant containment.
"We'll discuss this in private," he said simply.
And just like that, Sarith sat.
But not before she cast a sideways look at Elira that said:
This is only the beginning.
---
That night, Elira sat alone in the royal bath—immersed in warm, milky water scented with starflower oil. The room was candlelit, quiet, and filled with faint echoes of music drifting from the lower halls.
She stared at the water's surface.
Her body ached in unfamiliar ways—her stomach fluttered, her chest tight. Her appetite had changed. The scent of spice suddenly made her nauseous, while sweet cream made her dizzy with want.
She knew the signs.
She had learned them long ago from her mother.
And now, they were happening to her.
A child was growing inside her.
A royal heir.
A mindbound heir.
She pressed a hand to her lower abdomen, breath catching.
No one could know.
Not yet.
---
In a shadowed corridor below the royal tower, Queen Malina met with a cloaked figure once again.
"He confirmed it," she whispered. "Elira's grandmother was a Dreamwalker. Banished during the psychic trials in Valdara. Her bloodline vanished. Until now."
Sarith stepped out of the shadows.
"Then we have everything we need," she said. "We turn the people. Then we turn the court. And when they ask for justice…"
Malina smiled, cold and calm.
"We give them a queen to burn."