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i am curiouse is this writing style somethiing you likethis is a side story about feya not a must read
Arthur visited two weeks ago. Maybe three. He sat in the chair by the window. Stared at the wall. She asked about their sons."They're well.""And the council?""It's done."His hand rested on the armrest. She reached over, touched his fingers. They didn't move. Just sat there under hers, warm but still. She waited. He didn't turn his head.Ten minutes. Then he stood and left.Her hands shake when she tries to lift the cup. The servant girl—the one with brown hair, or maybe blonde, she can't remember anymore—holds it to her lips instead. The water tastes like iron.Hair on the pillow again. White strands against the fabric. More every morning. Last week there was a tooth. She'd stared at it for a long time before she called for the servants.The tapestry across the room shows dogs pulling down a deer. Blood on their muzzles. She'd asked Arthur to take it down once. He'd said his father hung it. Or his grandfather. It had always been there.Lady Maren's household. Sixteen years old. Freya at the corner table with the other girls, thread and needle, making small careful stitches on someone else's hem. The Duke of Talyaws visiting. His third visit in as many weeks. Some treaty about grain levies.He looked at her during the dinner. Smiled.She kept her eyes on her plate.Maren noticed. Pulled her aside after. "Do not encourage his attention.""I have done nothing, my lady.""Exactly. See that you continue to do nothing."He came back the following month. And the one after.It went on for six years.The wedding. Small. Quiet. The court did not attend. The Chancellor came because his office required it. Stood in the back. Face blank. Carnation brought flowers out of obligation. Set them on the table without meeting Freya's eyes.Arthur's hand in hers. The priest saying the words. She said yes and the Chancellor wrote something in his ledger.The whispering started that night.Agate was born a year later. Loud, red-faced, screaming. Arthur held him carefully, as though the child might shatter. Said nothing. Just looked at his son's face for a long time.Jasper three years after. Curious from the start. Grabbed at everything. Asked why before he could walk.Garnel four years later. Quiet as a babe. Watched everything. Barely cried.Perla last. Small. Would not sleep unless someone held her.The court never stopped whispering.The portrait sitting. Three years past. Summer.Perla squirming in Freya's lap. "It's too warm, mother.""I know, sweet. Nearly finished."Jasper from his chair: "How do you make that color? The red? Is it blood?"The painter: "Crushed insects.""May I see them?""Jasper. Be still."Agate beside them, spine rigid, attempting dignity. Garnel on the other side, perfectly still, watching the painter's hands move.Arthur's hand on her shoulder. Warm. Present. Real.The painter worked two more hours. None moved save Perla. When finished, the portrait showed a family whole and proper.That was before.Arthur came from the treasury one afternoon. A year past. Holding something."Look what I've found."A ring. Old. Gold. Heavy. Symbols carved into the band."Imperial regalia. From the Alus Pensale line. The steward's ring."He turned it in the light. The symbols caught the sun strangely. She looked at it and cold settled in her stomach."It troubles me.""This is history. Legitimacy. The court will be forced to—""Arthur, it troubles me."He slipped it on regardless. Right hand. It fit perfectly."It is only a ring, Freya."Two weeks later he forgot Perla's name. Called her "the girl." Corrected himself quickly. Laughed as though it were nothing.A month after he sat through dinner without speaking. Stared at his plate. Freya asked if he was well. He said yes. Did not look up.Six weeks passed. He stopped coming to their chambers at night. Said he had matters to attend. She would find him in his study, sitting in darkness, staring at nothing.The ring remained on his finger.Her hair began falling around then. Strands in her brush. Then clumps. The physicians came. Examined her. Took notes. Whispered.One of them—the old one with the gray beard—leaned close. "Have you been near anyone practicing... unusual arts?"She thought of the ring. "No."He looked at her hands. At her face. "There are marks. Very faint. As though something is draining—"Arthur appeared in the doorway. "That is enough."The physician went pale. Left quickly. Never returned.The others would not say what they thought. Prescribed medicines that did nothing. Avoided her eyes.Now the servant is touching her shoulder again. Saying something. Freya's tongue won't work. The words won't come.Light through the curtains. Wrong color. Wrong angle.Arthur is gone. The thing wearing his face isn't him.She's dying. The ring is doing it.Nobody will listen.The fever pulls her down again. She doesn't fight it.