The Queen's Garden Wilts
Elira stood in the Royal Gardens, barefoot in the soft grass, fingers trailing over dew-laced roses. The garden was once her solace. The place where she and King Theron shared laughter, and where the citizens whispered blessings when they glimpsed her among the blossoms.
But that morning, there were no whispers.
Only silence.
The usual group of noblewomen who joined her walks had stopped coming. The gardeners avoided her eyes. Even the birds seemed to sing less.
It was as if her presence stained the air.
And yet—Elira stood tall.
Dressed in flowing lavender silks, her crown braided into her midnight hair, she smiled as though nothing had changed.
Because queens did not flinch.
Especially when wolves circled.
---
The King's Frustration
King Theron stormed into the war chamber that afternoon, robes rustling with each long stride. The High Lords rose at his entrance, but he didn't wait for formalities.
"What is this I hear about clergy requesting my queen's magical lineage be investigated?"
Lord Valric, old and sharp-eyed, cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, the people… they grow uneasy. They say she walks in dreams, that she sees through stone."
"She is my wife!" Theron bellowed. "They adored her just moons ago!"
"The adoration of the people is delicate," said Lord Rian. "It bends like wind… and breaks like glass."
"I trust her," Theron said. "She has never used magic here."
A dangerous silence settled over the chamber.
The Archbishop leaned forward. "Perhaps not openly. But what if her very charm is a spell? What if your love is... enchanted?"
That did it.
Theron slammed his fist against the carved obsidian table, cracking it at the edge.
"I am no man's puppet."
No one dared respond.
But behind their respectful nods, the doubt lingered.
Not in his love.
But in her nature.
---
In the Shadows of the Hall
Queen Malina watched the chaos from her tower.
"She is slipping," she murmured to herself, brushing a silver comb through her honey-blonde curls.
Her maid, Yessa, asked cautiously, "Are you not afraid of what will happen if the King finds out you're behind it?"
Malina smiled without humor.
"Elira is dangerous. But not because she is powerful… because she is beloved. That is far worse."
She stared into the mirror.
"Take away the love, and the crown unravels on its own."
---
The First Public Insult
It happened at the Feast of Sapphires.
The kingdom's nobles filled the grand dining hall in celebration of a bountiful harvest. Goblets overflowed. Laughter echoed.
Elira entered the room dressed in silver and pearl, the king at her side.
But when she sat, a space remained between her and the Queen Mothers.
No greetings.
No compliments.
No recognition.
And when Lord Halven offered a toast to the "wisest lady in the court," he raised his cup to Queen Sarith.
Not Elira.
Her heart dropped like a stone into water.
But still, she smiled.
Still, she held her goblet and toasted.
For that was what queens did.
Even when it bled.
---
A Conversation with Shadows
That night, as Elira lay in the royal chamber alone—Theron delayed by council duties—she lit a single candle and whispered ancient words in her mother's language.
The flame shimmered.
And a smoky figure took form.
Her grandmother's voice, echoing from the veil:
> "You knew this would happen, child. Power always comes with fear. Especially when it wears the face of a woman."
"I didn't ask for this," Elira whispered. "I didn't want their fear."
"You don't need their love," the ghost murmured, "only their need."
"But I don't want to be feared."
"Then be their savior. One day, they'll beg for the very magic they burn you for."
And the spirit faded, leaving Elira in silence once more.
---
Theron's Cracks
The king returned near dawn. His cloak smelled of rain and scrolls.
Elira stirred as he slipped beside her in bed.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.
"You're cold," he murmured.
"I waited," she whispered back.
"I'm sorry. They kept questioning. About your bloodline. The spells that run in your veins."
"Do you believe them?" she asked, her voice soft but sharp.
He didn't answer at first.
Then, "No. But I… worry."
She pulled away from him slowly, the space between them yawning like a chasm.
"If you trust me," she said, "then stop trying to protect me from whispers. Let me speak."
His voice cracked. "Elira—"
"Let me fight, Theron."
---
The King's Decision
By the week's end, the pressure from the court had mounted.
The Archbishops demanded an inquiry.
The High Lords proposed a hearing.
The commoners were beginning to protest, fearful of "the mindbound queen."
But Theron, torn between love and duty, stood on the steps of the palace and made his choice.
"My queen shall not stand trial. Her record is pure. Her heart is proven. She has harmed no soul."
The crowd roared—half in approval, half in fury.
A line had been drawn.
And all the kingdoms watching knew…
A storm was coming.
A Delicate Invitation
The parchment was scented with rosewater and embossed in the royal seal of Queen Sarith, the king's first wife.
Elira turned it over in her hands, unsurprised.
An invitation to a "private afternoon tea," hosted by both Queen Sarith and Queen Malina, in the Sun Dome. A "gesture of unity," they claimed.
Elira sat in her private solar, the note crinkling between her fingers.
Nalia, her lady-in-waiting, frowned. "It's a trap."
"Of course it is," Elira replied smoothly.
"Then why go?"
"Because queens don't cower. And besides… if they mean to corner me, I want to know what their poison tastes like."
---
The Sun Dome
The Sun Dome was a marvel of glass and golden marble, nestled beside the palace's eastern wing. It bathed its guests in warm natural light and surrounded them with blooming citrus trees and orchids.
Elira entered the Dome with the elegance of a thousand years.
Queen Sarith sat beneath a gilded arch, swathed in crimson and gold, her graying hair knotted into a regal bun.
Queen Malina, younger and sharper, sat beside her in soft jade green, every inch of her body language dripping with civility — and threat.
"Elira," Sarith said sweetly, "we're so honored you accepted our invitation."
"How could I not?" Elira answered. "Sisterly bonding is such a rare gift."
They smiled.
So did she.
Let the games begin.
---
Honeyed Words and Bitter Tea
Servants poured them herbal tea into delicate glass cups, the scent of mint and peach rising in the air.
Malina folded her hands and said, "There's concern, you know. About the… talents that run in your bloodline."
Elira took a slow sip. "My talents lie in diplomacy, grace, and not stabbing people with backhanded comments."
Sarith chuckled, the sound like brittle glass. "Come now, dear. We only want to protect the people. You must understand how alarming it is for the court to hear whispers of dreamwalking and mind-binding."
"Alarming," Elira repeated, "or threatening?"
Malina leaned forward. "Do you deny you come from the bloodline of Lysari the Mindbinder?"
Elira set her cup down.
"No," she said, with lethal calm. "I do not deny my lineage. But I have never used magic in this palace. I never needed to. If people adore me, it is because of who I am—not what I am."
"You call it 'adoration,'" Sarith replied, "but what if it's compulsion?"
The word was a blade.
The room fell silent.
Until Elira stood.
"I see," she said softly. "This tea was never about peace. It was about planting poison and hoping I'd sip it willingly."
Malina smirked. "Oh no, darling. The poison is already in the court."
Elira's eyes narrowed.
"And what you've sown," she said, "you will one day reap."
---
Whispers in the Wind
By sunset, the rumors were running wild.
"She bewitched the king."
"She planted dreams in the minds of the council."
"She cursed the wombs of the other queens."
"She sees the truth in your heart—run!"
Elira walked through the gardens that night to find every eye flicking away from her. Courtiers whispered behind fans. Guards stiffened in her presence.
Even a child—normally eager to greet her—hid behind his nursemaid.
Each cut bled invisibly.
But she didn't flinch.
She wouldn't give them that.
---
Theron's Dilemma
That night, in the king's study, Theron sat with his head in his hands.
Elira stood across from him, arms crossed, eyes blazing.
"They humiliated me. They painted me a witch, and you say nothing."
"I've defended you every day—"
"Then why do they still rise against me?"
"Because magic terrifies them, Elira!" he snapped. "Because no matter how kind or generous or noble you are, your blood carries ancient power they don't understand!"
Silence.
Then Elira stepped back.
"So that's what this is. You're not afraid of them. You're afraid of me."
He looked up, anguish in his eyes. "No. I'm afraid I won't be able to protect you from them."
She turned to leave, her voice barely a whisper.
"Then don't protect me. Stand beside me. Or don't stand at all."
---
A Secret in the Mirror
That night, Elira stared into her mirror long after midnight.
She unbound her hair, washed away the day's pain with rosewater, and whispered the words her mother once taught her.
A ripple in the glass.
And then her reflection blinked.
> "You cannot keep hiding your power, daughter," her mother's voice echoed from the depths.
"They will fear you, no matter how gentle you are."
"So what do I do?" Elira whispered.
"Let them. But when the time comes… let them see what they feared."
Elira touched her womb unconsciously.
The faintest warmth stirred in her lower belly — a flutter.
She froze.
A single, whispered thought echoed in her mind:
> You are not alone anymore.
The Council gathered in the Great Hall the next morning — an emergency session.
Elira stood tall at the king's right, dressed in silver and midnight blue. Her face was calm. Regal. Silent.
But every seat across from her held sharpened eyes, restless fingers, and minds clouded with suspicion.
Chancellor Rovan cleared his throat. "We have received troubling reports… whispers of Queen Elira's heritage. That she is a Mindborn."
Gasps. Murmurs. Hisses.
Sarith and Malina sat demurely behind the council, veiled and sweet-looking, like doves hiding razors.
The king frowned. "We've all known her lineage. It was no secret."
"Knowing is not the same as believing," Rovan said. "And belief is spreading. We've heard accounts—"
"Lies," Elira cut in, her voice slicing clean through the noise. "Spread by those who would rather see me burned than seated."
Queen Sarith rose slowly. "Then deny it."
Elira turned to her. "Deny that I come from a bloodline of psychic power? Why should I? I have never harmed a soul in this kingdom."
Malina added, "And yet power left unchecked is still a threat."
Elira's eyes burned. "As is jealousy."
The room exploded in tension.
---
The People's Uprising
By nightfall, the city streets filled with rumors. And rumors became chants.
> "Burn the Mind Witch!"
"No sorceress queen!"
"Protect the throne!"
Torches flared. Effigies burned in alleys.
Windows to Elira's quarters were shattered. Her maids were spat on in the streets. Her paintings were taken down from the hallways.
Nalia burst into her chambers breathless.
"They want your head, Elira. The Council is folding. Even the nobles are speaking against you."
Elira sat in silence, staring into the fire. She had not cried once.
But her hand hovered again over her womb.
She couldn't tell anyone yet. Not like this. Not when her child's existence would be seen as a threat instead of a miracle.
---
The King's Agony
King Theron paced in his war room, eyes red with sleeplessness.
"Why didn't she tell me?" he whispered. "Why didn't she trust me with her powers?"
"She knew the world would never trust her," came a quiet voice behind him.
It was High Priestess Vyra, the only one in the kingdom with spiritual authority above the crown.
"She is no witch," Vyra said. "But the fear in men's hearts is not always rational. You know this."
"She saved our kingdom's diplomatic ties, she helped us win peace. How can they forget so quickly?"
Vyra placed a hand on his shoulder. "Because fear is louder than memory."
---
The Ultimatum
Two nights later, the Council issued a decree: Queen Elira must stand trial. Or be exiled.
Sarith and Malina smiled in their chambers that night, pouring celebratory wine.
But in his study, King Theron signed a secret order.
He summoned two of his most loyal guards.
"You will take her," he said, voice shaking, "to my grandmother's cottage in the Eastern Forest. It's hidden. Protected. No one will find her."
The guards nodded solemnly.
"She must not know I ordered this," he added. "Tell her the Council voted her execution. That I… had no choice."
"But, Your Majesty—"
"Do it."
---
The Departure
They came for her in the black of night.
Elira didn't resist. She didn't ask questions.
She kissed Nalia goodbye and left without her crown, without her silks — only in a cloak of deep plum and a silver ring the king had once given her.
She didn't weep.
She didn't scream.
But as she was led to a waiting carriage, her voice echoed through the courtyard:
> "Truth always finds the light… even when buried in shadows."
From the tallest tower, Theron watched in silence.
His hands trembled.
His heart fractured.
And the kingdom mourned not the queen's exile…
…but the silence she left behind.