Third Person's POV
A week before the Dawn of Solara Ball, the palace of gold began to feel colder.
At first, it was only whispers — soft and uncertain, carried through the marbled corridors like drafts of wind. Talia heard them not in words, but in pauses. In glances exchanged when she entered a room. In servants who bowed a little too quickly and maids who went suddenly silent when she passed.
She told herself it was only the stress of the preparations — the entire kingdom buzzed with anticipation for Solara's grand celebration of independence. But soon, the murmurs found shape, threading themselves together into something that could no longer be ignored.
A woman.
A new face in the palace.
They said she was young, with pale blonde hair and hazel eyes, her nose dusted with freckles like specks of sunlight. A commoner, brought into the palace for reasons no one could quite explain — some said she had been helping in the stables, others that she was assisting one of the lower scribes.
And yet somehow, she now lingered near the king's private wing.
Her name slipped into Talia's hearing one morning while she walked past the servants' quarters — hushed, nervous voices floating from an open doorway.
"He's seen with her often after sunset… calls her to his study sometimes…"
"Careful — the queen might hear you."
"Maris, I think her name was. Pretty little thing — bold, too. Doesn't even bow right."
Maris.
The name stuck in Talia's mind like a thorn.
That evening, she sat alone at her desk, the last light of the sun bleeding over her papers. Her quill trembled slightly in her fingers as she tried to review the final banquet lists.
Maris. A commoner in the king's wing.
She let the thought circle her mind like a vulture.
No, she told herself. Caelen wouldn't. Not with all the eyes upon them, not with their marriage still—
She stopped herself there. "Still what?" she whispered. Still strong? Still loving? Still real?
Her chest tightened.
⸻
The next day, the palace buzzed with activity — musicians rehearsing, decorators stringing ribbons of sunlight silk from the ceiling beams. Talia smiled when addressed, gave calm orders, praised the work of her staff.
But inside, the noise was unbearable. Every sound felt sharper, every laugh somehow directed at her.
When she passed Caelen in the corridor that afternoon, she caught the faint scent of unfamiliar perfume — sweet and floral, not her own. He offered her a brief nod, a polite smile, and kept walking.
She stood frozen for a heartbeat, her throat tightening as the sound of his footsteps faded.
Stella appeared beside her, quietly concerned. "My queen?"
Talia forced her expression into serenity. "Nothing," she murmured. "Just a passing thought."
But even as she said it, she could hear the whispers again — faint, persistent, everywhere.
Maris.
The name pulsed in her mind like a bruise.
⸻
That night, unable to sleep, Talia stood on her balcony overlooking Solara. The moonlight washed over the city, painting the rooftops in silver. Somewhere, far below, laughter echoed from the servants' quarters.
She wondered, for the first time, whose laughter it was.
And as the cool air brushed her face, she whispered softly into the dark:
"If there are shadows in my light, may the sun burn them away."
But even as she said it, a small part of her feared that some shadows could not be burned — only endured.
…..
The next morning, sunlight poured through the palace corridors like liquid gold — warm, bright, and utterly indifferent to the unease that pulsed beneath its glow.
Queen Talia moved gracefully through the halls, her gown trailing behind her like a sunrise come to life. Every servant she passed bowed deeply, but their eyes darted away too quickly.
The whispers had grown bolder overnight.
As she passed the outer garden, two handmaidens tending to vases of lilies froze mid-conversation when they noticed her approach. One of them curtsied clumsily, nearly knocking over a vase.
Talia's voice was soft but steady. "Continue. I would hate to interrupt your work."
The younger of the two paled. "Your Majesty— we were only speaking of the decorations—"
The other girl blurted out before she could stop herself, "They said Lady Maris was escorted to His Majesty's chambers last night."
The words hung in the air like a blade.
The younger maid gasped, clutching her friend's arm, but it was too late. Talia stood perfectly still, her face unreadable, golden eyes calm — too calm.
"I see," she said quietly. "You may return to your duties."
The maids bowed low, trembling, and hurried away.
Talia remained there for a moment, her pulse slow but heavy in her throat. The world around her seemed to dim — the flowers, the sunlight, the hum of bees — all fading beneath the roar of a thought she refused to finish.
She turned and began walking toward the royal wing.
⸻
Caelen was in his study when she found him, standing near the tall windows that overlooked the palace gardens. The light bathed him in gold, making his bronze hair glint like metal. Papers littered his desk — maps, letters, council documents — but his expression was unreadable when he turned toward her.
"Talia," he said, with a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. "You should be resting. You've been working yourself ragged for this ball."
"I rest when the kingdom rests," she replied gently. "And it seems the kingdom is quite restless these days."
Caelen chuckled softly. "You sound like the council."
She stepped further into the room, her gown whispering against the marble. "I've heard… curious things."
He arched a brow. "Oh?"
"About a woman named Maris." She said the name with quiet precision — not accusing, not trembling, but sharp enough to cut through the space between them. "A commoner. Pale hair. Hazel eyes. It's been said she's been seen near your chambers."
Something flickered in his eyes — surprise, then irritation, quickly masked. "You shouldn't lend ear to gossip, my queen," he said coolly. "You know how servants talk when excitement fills the palace. They weave stories from shadows."
Talia's lips curved in a soft, almost sad smile. "Perhaps. But shadows don't appear without something to cast them."
He sighed, crossing the room to pour himself a cup of wine. "You're tired, Talia. The preparations, the sleepless nights — they've worn you thin. You need rest, not rumors."
Her gaze didn't waver. "You didn't answer the question."
He turned to face her, glass in hand, his tone smooth but firm. "There is no question to answer."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The sound of the wind outside filled the silence — gentle, almost mocking.
Then Talia inclined her head, her voice quiet. "Of course, my king. Forgive me."
Caelen nodded once, already turning back to his desk. "You have nothing to forgive. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to with the council."
She stood there for a long moment, watching him. The man she once knew — once loved — seemed further away than ever, his silhouette swallowed by sunlight.
When she finally turned to leave, her steps were soundless, but her heart thundered in her chest.
And though she would tell herself she believed him, deep down, a small, stubborn truth began to bloom in the dark:
The king was lying.
Talia's steps were light as she left the king's study — too light. The kind of calm that wasn't calm at all, but the stillness before something inside her finally shattered.
The corridors of the royal wing stretched long and silent. Each footstep echoed, and every echo felt like a reminder that she was walking alone.
When she reached the main hall, she paused beside one of the tall windows, her reflection faint in the glass. Her face was perfectly composed — the serene mask of Solara's beloved queen — but her hands trembled where they clutched her skirts.
She had believed his words before. Always.
But this time, something in his tone had been too smooth, too practiced.
He was lying.
The thought repeated itself with every heartbeat until it was no longer a thought, but a truth she could feel in her bones.
⸻
By the time she reached her chambers, her composure was thinning. Stella was waiting by the door, hands folded, worry etched into her gentle face.
"Your Majesty, I was told you went to see the king. Are you—"
"I'm fine," Talia interrupted softly, her voice distant. She crossed the room and sat at the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the floor.
Stella hesitated, then approached. "You're pale again. You haven't eaten since morning."
"I'm not hungry."
"Then at least rest—"
"I can't," Talia said, her tone sharp before she could stop herself. She closed her eyes and took a slow breath. "Forgive me, Stella. I didn't mean…"
Stella knelt beside her, concern softening her features. "You don't have to apologize, my queen. I know you're hurting."
Talia gave a brittle laugh. "Hurting? I'm simply tired. Tired of pretending not to hear whispers. Tired of wondering what they mean."
She lifted a trembling hand to her chest, as if she could steady the ache there. "Do you know what's cruel, Stella? Not knowing. It's easier to face a sword than a secret."
Stella reached up and covered her hand with her own. "Then let me bear some of that weight, even if just a little."
Talia looked at her, eyes glistening — sunlight breaking through cracks in glass. "You already do. Every day."
For a moment, they stayed like that — the queen and her most loyal attendant, bound by quiet grief.
Then Talia straightened, smoothing her gown, her regal mask sliding gently back into place.
"Send word to the decorators," she said softly. "The ballroom floors must be polished before the musicians arrive. And see that the golden lilies are replaced — the others wilted faster than expected."
Stella blinked, hesitant. "Tonight? You should rest—"
"I must work," Talia insisted, her tone calm but final. "If I stop now, I will think. And if I think…"
She trailed off, shaking her head. "No. The Dawn of Solara will not wait for a weary queen."
Stella bowed her head. "As you wish, Your Majesty."
⸻
When she was alone again, Talia moved to the balcony. The evening sun had begun to set, spilling long rays of amber light across the horizon.
From this high place, the kingdom still looked beautiful — radiant and peaceful, as though nothing in the world could touch it.
She rested her hand on the marble railing and whispered to the fading light,
"You'll still shine for them, won't you? Even if your queen can't."
The wind stirred her gown, soft and warm against her skin. Somewhere far behind her, in the depths of the palace, laughter echoed faintly — low and intimate.
She closed her eyes.
And though the sun dipped beneath the horizon, Queen Talia do Sol stood still, wrapped in shadow — her light dimming, but not yet gone.