The palace gates loomed high with gold-tipped spears lining either side, glistening under the afternoon sun. Beyond them stretched the long marbled corridor that led to the heart of imperial authority, the throne room. Its double doors of lacquered ebony, inlaid with jade and gold, swung open under the command of heralds.
Sophia and Alexander entered as protocol dictated.
He in his black ceremonial tunic with silver embroidery curling along the sleeves like frost; she in a gown of soft hue of ivory silk that shimmered with undertones of pale lavender, embroidered at the hem with silver vines. A diadem of slender pearls rested against her coiffed hair. Her noble bearing was evident in every step she took beside Alexander's wheeled seat. No one here could mistake her for anything less than a lady of stature, her training and composure rooted in her noble birth.
The hall was vast and cold, its vaulted ceiling painted with celestial scenes. Tall banners in crimson and gold draped the marble walls, each bearing the sigil of the royal house. The nobles of the realm stood aligned in neat rows along either side, shimmering in velvets and brocades, gems stitched into collars and cuffs. The air was rich with perfume and polished wood, though beneath it hung the faint weight of incense masking the sharp tang of unease.
They were guided to the front, just below the dais of the throne, their seats fixed by hierarchy. Alexander's chair rolled silently across the polished floor as Damien maneuvered it into place. Sophia settled beside him with fluid grace, head lowered just enough to convey deference without a trace of meekness.
The murmur of whispers rustled through the court, quickly silenced as the herald struck his staff.
"His Majesty, the King!"
The massive doors at the far end opened once again.
The king entered first, a towering figure draped in imperial crimson, the collar stiff with golden embroidery, the crown of authority resting heavy upon his brow. Time had carved lines into his face, but his stride remained powerful, his gaze cutting as he ascended to the throne. Behind him came the queen consort, she was poised, regal, clad in a gown of sapphire silk heavy with diamonds. A mask of serenity played on her face, yet her eyes flickered, sharp as knives.
Following her were the royal concubines, jeweled and painted in colors meant to outshine each other, emerald, scarlet, violet, each step a parade of ambition. Trailing behind them, like jewels meant for display, were their children: the other princes and princesses, polished in their finery, their gazes sharp as hawks though they feigned indifference.
Protocol was flawless. Every subject bent the knee, every noble inclined the head. Yet behind the veil of rituals, a different current swirled.
The royal family did not spare Alexander and his wife a single word of acknowledgment. Their eyes slid past them as if they were invisible, as though the disabled prince and his consort were of no consequence.
But in truth, every glance that seemed to drift idly across the chamber lingered in subtle scrutiny. Every pulse of silence was filled with unspoken calculations.
The Queen Consort's smile was warm, but her heart hummed with satisfaction.
How fortunate it was that I persuaded His Majesty to place that spoiled, troublesome girl in Alexander's path. Had she wed my own son, she would have dragged him into ruin with her reckless pride and temper. Better she become Alexander's burden, hidden away in the East Wing. I spared my child misfortune… and cemented my hold upon the throne.
Her eyes glided to Sophia, narrowed just slightly. Yet what unsettled her was the composure Sophia bore, far removed from the tantrums and wastefulness of her past reputation. The woman before her was not the liability she had expected.
Did misfortune mellow her, or did the East Wing tame her?
Seated below the queen, the concubines whispered their contempt silently behind painted smiles.
Pretty, yes—but what of it? Her husband cannot stand, cannot even dance. What future lies in that pairing?
The girl thinks her noble birth gives her dignity, but she only polishes a broken crown.
The king and queen may ignore them today but let us see how long she keeps that calm when the weight of futility settles on her shoulders.
Their children, sitting with stiff courtesy, darted sidelong glances at Sophia. Some with disdain, some with mild curiosity, but all with the same silent thought,
she was not to be underestimated, for she carried herself with a grace that made mockery of the whispers surrounding her.
Alexander's posture was rigid, his face expressionless. To all, he seemed the picture of stoicism, a prince long accustomed to disdain.
Yet inside, the ache throbbed.
Once, he had walked these halls beside his mother, the true queen—the woman whose gentle smile had been the balm to his childhood. After her passing, everything changed. His father remarried, the throne beside him claimed by another woman whose calculated grace only deepened the wound. The balls, the gatherings, the endless court displays had become unbearable reminders of what had been torn away.
So he distanced himself.
And the court distanced itself from him. What began as grief hardened into disdain. And then misfortune made him sit in wheelchair.
Yet now, as he sat in silence while the nobles whispered and the royal family pretended, he was unseen, he felt the sting sharper than ever. Their ignorance was not born of forgetfulness, but it was deliberate, meant to carve his dignity away piece by piece.
He would have felt himself unraveling had it not been for the woman beside him.
Sophia's back was straight, her eyes lowered in courtesy, but there was no tremor in her. Not even when the queen's gaze lingered, nor when the concubines measured her with veiled malice. Her calm steadied him like a hand upon his heart.
Strange, he thought, the corner of his mouth tightening almost imperceptibly. Even here, in this pit of wolves, she does not falter. And somehow… her stillness holds me together.
He drew a slow breath and held it, anchoring himself in that truth.
The court applauded as speeches and blessings began; the air filled with music and the measured rhythm of ritual. Yet beneath the glitter of tradition, the real spectacle was unspoken: the watching, the weighing, the silent judgment cast upon the forgotten prince and the woman who now sat at his side.
Neither faltered.
And in that small defiance of poise, Alexander felt the faintest shift within himself, like the first ripple upon still water.