Third Person's POV
The morning light crept gently across the royal bedchamber, turning silk and marble into gold. Queen Talia stirred, blinking away sleep, her hand reaching instinctively for the space beside her.
Cold sheets.
Her heart sank, though she'd expected it. For days now, the sun had risen without him beside her.
"His Majesty left before dawn," said Stella softly as she entered, balancing a tray of fruit and jasmine tea. "He said it was for the council at the barracks."
Talia nodded, forcing a calm smile. "Thank you, Stella."
But she knew Caelen hadn't mentioned any early meetings the night before. And lately, "council" seemed to be his word for everything he didn't wish to explain.
She sipped her tea in silence, gazing out the balcony doors where sunlight poured into her room. Below, the city of Solara shimmered awake — bright, alive, full of color. And yet, for the first time, its light felt distant.
The Grand Breakfast Hall was a masterpiece of Solaran design — open arches spilling sunlight across gleaming marble, golden drapes swaying lightly in the morning breeze. Musicians played softly in the far corner, their instruments echoing like a gentle heartbeat through the space.
Talia sat at the long ivory table, untouched fruit before her, golden tea cooling in its cup. She had been there for nearly fifteen minutes before she heard the doors open.
King Caelen entered flanked by two attendants, his stride brisk, his expression already somewhere else.
"Forgive my lateness," he said, voice smooth, practiced. "A message arrived from Gravemere. I had to respond before the seal cooled."
Talia offered a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "No need to apologize. I'm glad you could join me."
He took his seat across from her — not beside her, as he once used to — and gestured for the servants to pour his coffee. For a long while, there was only the sound of silverware against porcelain.
"How are preparations for the Dawn Ball?" he asked finally, his tone polite but detached.
"Coming along well," she replied, folding her hands neatly on the table. "The decorators from Solara's east quarter have begun designing the ballroom arches. I want the theme to reflect our history — the founding of our freedom."
Caelen hummed lowly. "Freedom," he echoed, tasting the word as if it amused him. "A fine sentiment. Though I wonder if a kingdom as prosperous as ours needs to cling to old victories."
Talia blinked, caught off guard. "The people look forward to it all year. It's not just a celebration of freedom — it's a symbol of unity. Of light after hardship."
He lifted his cup, eyes fixed on her over the rim. "Perhaps," he said. "But while you're busy with flowers and song, Gravemere marches closer to our borders. Our 'light' won't matter much if the kingdom burns."
His tone wasn't cruel, but it carried an edge that cut deeper than any raised voice could.
Talia straightened in her seat, chin lifting slightly. "You think I ignore our dangers? Every council session I attend begins and ends with the state of our borders. But our people need hope as much as they need soldiers, Caelen."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then his lips curved in that faint, distant smile she was beginning to despise.
"Of course," he murmured. "You always did have faith in the softer things."
Her breath caught. He hadn't said it sharply, but the condescension underneath was unmistakable. Once, that warmth in his voice had comforted her — now it sounded like pity.
"I'll ensure the ball reflects Solara's strength, not just its beauty," she said quietly.
Caelen set down his cup, pushing his chair back. "You always do, my queen."
He stood, his movements measured, graceful. "I'll be in the west wing again this evening. The advisors have much to discuss."
"Every night, it seems," she said before she could stop herself.
He paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder. "You know how duty is," he replied simply, and with that, he left.
The doors closed behind him with a soft echo, and the silence that followed felt heavier than stone.
Talia exhaled shakily, her hands tightening in her lap. Around her, sunlight streamed through the glass like golden ribbons, warm and brilliant — yet she had never felt colder.
After breakfast, the Queen of Solara sought refuge in her private gardens.
The Queen's Garden stretched across the southern terrace of the palace — a paradise of sun-dappled blooms and fountains that sang with birdsong. Golden hibiscus, marigolds, and lilies swayed in the warm breeze, their petals glinting like fragments of sunlight.
Talia walked the familiar path barefoot, her silken skirts brushing the grass. It had always been her sanctuary — a place where the noise of court and crown softened, and she could breathe again.
But this morning, even the garden felt heavier somehow.
She reached the heart of it, where a single sunblossom tree stood — its ivory petals glowing faintly under the morning light. Beneath its branches sat a marble bench carved with the royal crest of Solara. It was here she and Caelen had once shared their vows, years ago, surrounded by flowers and laughter and hope.
The memory came like sunlight through water — soft and distorted, but painfully beautiful.
⸻
"My heart is yours, Talia do Sol," Caelen had whispered, pressing his forehead to hers as golden petals rained around them. "From this day until the last light fades."
She had believed him. Every word.
They had been so young, so certain that love alone could keep the world from crumbling.
And for a time, it had.
Until that winter — the one that had stolen the child she'd carried. The palace had been silent for weeks afterward, the light in their chambers dimmed. She still remembered the look on his face when the healers delivered the news: grief, guilt, and something else she couldn't name.
Distance.
From that day on, the warmth between them had begun to fade like sunlight at dusk.
⸻
"Your Majesty?"
The gentle voice pulled her back to the present. Stella approached, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. "Forgive me, but you've been out here for some time. The sun is getting strong."
Talia smiled faintly, brushing her fingers along the sunblossom's petals. "It's all right, Stella. I was only remembering."
"His Majesty?"
"Yes," Talia said softly. "We were happy once. Before the weight of the crown—and everything that came after."
Stella hesitated, sympathy flickering in her eyes. "You still carry so much alone, my queen."
Talia shook her head. "A queen doesn't carry her pain. She hides it, so her people don't have to."
She rose, letting her gaze sweep across the garden — the bright blossoms, the fountains, the living beauty of her kingdom. All of it depending on her strength.
"Send word to the decorators," she said quietly. "Tell them I want the ballroom adorned with sunblossoms. Every arch, every table."
Stella smiled softly. "In honor of the Dawn of Solara?"
Talia nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "And for what was lost."
Evening descended upon the palace in a wash of molten gold. The halls glowed beneath lantern light, servants moving quietly to and fro as preparations for the Dawn Ball continued.
Queen Talia stood before her mirror, brushing out her long pink hair. Her attendants had long since retired, leaving her alone in the quiet hum of her chambers. She was halfway through pinning up her braids when the door creaked open.
"Caelen?" she said softly, turning.
The king stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. The shadows behind him stretched long across the floor.
"You're still awake," he said, stepping inside. His tone wasn't unkind, but it held that weary detachment that had become all too familiar.
"I wanted to speak with you."
He sighed faintly, closing the door behind him. "If this is about the council, we can—"
"It's not about the council," she interrupted, more sharply than intended. "It's about us."
Caelen's brows drew together. "Talia…"
"You've barely looked at me in weeks," she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady. "You leave before dawn. You return long after nightfall. I don't know where you go, or who you see, or why—"
"Because I have a kingdom to protect!" His voice rose, sudden and cutting. "Or have you forgotten that while you're busy planning dances and flower arrangements?"
The words struck like a slap.
Talia's breath caught, her chest tight. "You think I don't care for Solara's safety? That I'm blind to what happens beyond these walls?"
"I think," he said coldly, "that you're so desperate to be loved by your people, you've forgotten how to be their queen."
Silence filled the room — thick, electric, unbearable.
Talia took a slow breath, forcing her voice to stay soft. "I've given everything I have to this crown. To you. You asked for loyalty, I gave you love. You asked for peace, I gave you faith. What more could I possibly give?"
He looked away, jaw tight, shadows flickering across his face. For a brief, flickering moment, guilt flashed in his eyes — then vanished.
"I didn't come here to fight," he muttered.
"Then why did you?" she asked quietly. "Because you felt guilty walking past my door again?"
That hit. He turned toward her, anger flaring in his gaze — but beneath it was something else. Pain.
"You think this is easy for me?" he said through clenched teeth. "You think I wanted distance between us? Gods, Talia, everything I do — I do for this kingdom. For us."
"Then say it like you mean it!" she cried, her voice breaking for the first time. "Say you still love me!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Caelen opened his mouth, but no words came. Only the faint crackle of the lantern between them filled the space.
At last, he said quietly, "You're tired. Rest. We'll speak tomorrow."
And just like that, he turned away — walking toward the door with the same calm, detached grace that had once made her feel safe.
But now, it only left her feeling hollow.
The door closed behind Caelen, leaving silence so complete that even the faint hum of the lanterns seemed to fade.
Talia stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he'd stood. The air still carried the scent of cedar and smoke — once comforting, now cold and hollow.
Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye.
The Queen of Solara stared back: flawless skin, jeweled gown, golden crown resting lightly on pink waves of hair.
And yet… she had never looked more fragile.
Her lips parted in a trembling breath.
"Is this what I've become?" she whispered to her reflection. "A crown with no heart beneath it?"
The tears came then — soft, silent, unstoppable. They slid down her cheeks, catching the light like shards of glass. For a few minutes, she allowed herself to feel it — the ache, the loneliness, the quiet death of a love that once lit her world.
Then she straightened her spine.
Wiped her tears.
And whispered to herself, "Enough."
There was work to be done.
⸻
The days that followed blurred together in a whirl of gold and light.
Talia buried herself in duty.
At dawn she met with decorators in the ballroom, walking among scaffolds and silk banners while sunlight poured through high windows. She directed servants with soft precision, her voice steady even when her body trembled from lack of sleep.
By afternoon she reviewed guest lists and drafted personal invitations by hand — her delicate script curling elegantly across every parchment. She spoke with ambassadors, artisans, musicians, and chefs, never missing a single detail.
She insisted on tasting the menus herself — fruits and pastries, teas and sauces — though half the time she could hardly swallow a bite.
Every smile she gave the staff was genuine in appearance, but her heart felt heavy and slow. Her body ached from constant motion, her mind clouded from nights without rest.
Still, she pressed on.
When asked where the king was, she would simply smile and say, "Busy with the council."
When asked how she was, she'd answer, "Grateful. Blessed."
No one questioned her. No one saw through the cracks.
⸻
By the fifth day, exhaustion settled into her bones like ice.
She hadn't eaten more than a few bites in two days. Her hands shook when she wrote. But when Stella pleaded for her to rest, she only smiled faintly and said, "The kingdom doesn't pause for a weary heart."
That evening, as the servants hung garlands of golden lilies along the ballroom archways, Talia moved from one end of the room to the other, inspecting every detail. The warm glow of lanterns shimmered against her golden gown.
But when she turned to speak — the world tilted.
The edges of her vision dimmed, the sound of voices muffling beneath a high, distant ringing.
"Your Majesty?" someone called.
Talia blinked. The garlands swayed like waves of sunlight. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came.
Her knees gave out.
Stella's voice echoed faintly as she fell — hands catching silk too late to stop the collapse.
⸻
When Talia awoke hours later, her chambers were dark save for a single candle burning low. The room smelled of lavender and herbs. Stella sat by her bedside, eyes rimmed with worry.
"My queen," she whispered, relief softening her voice, "you frightened us all. The healers said it was exhaustion."
Talia's head throbbed. Her lips were dry. "How long was I asleep?"
"Nearly a full day."
A weak smile touched Talia's lips. "Then perhaps I finally listened to the gods."
Stella looked down, twisting her hands nervously. "His Majesty was informed of your fainting. He… sent word to the healers but did not come himself."
Talia's heart clenched, but she only nodded, her face unreadable. "I see."
She turned her gaze toward the balcony, where dawn's first light crept through the curtains.
"Please bring me the event plans," she murmured.
"My queen—"
"I said bring them," she repeated gently but firmly. "The Dawn of Solara draws near, and I will not let the kingdom see its queen falter."
Stella hesitated, then bowed her head. "As you wish."
When she was alone again, Talia reached weakly for the edge of her coverlet, tracing the embroidered sunburst with trembling fingers.
She whispered, "You will not break me," as sunlight spilled once more across her bed — soft and golden, like the warmth she could no longer feel.