The palace was quiet.
Too quiet.
Elara—Queen Lyria now—walked through the gilded corridors like a ghost wrapped in silk. Her honeymoon, if it could be called that, was a solitary affair. No carriage rides through the countryside. No whispered laughter over shared meals. No stolen kisses beneath moonlight.
Kael had left before dawn.
No note.
No farewell.
Just duty. She couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness , yes she knew that being in love with a fictional character was wrong cause she could never have him, but now that she was now a fictional character a part of her had hope to try and make their marriage work, but she knew that Kael would never want to make it work.
Valeria trailed behind her like a shadow, always present, never warm. The attendants bowed, curtsied, and offered polite smiles, but none dared speak unless spoken to. Elara had become a symbol, not a person. A crown with a heartbeat. Oh to be Seraphina she thought to herself, to be loved by all.
On the third day, she wandered into the palace library.
It was a vast, echoing cathedral of books—shelves stretching to the ceiling, ladders on rails, and chandeliers shaped like blooming roses. The scent of parchment and ink was comforting, familiar. Here, at least, she could pretend to be herself.
She ran her fingers along the spines of ancient tomes, pausing at titles she remembered writing. The History of the Thorne Dynasty. The Treaty of the Five Kingdoms. Seraphina's Song.
Her breath caught.
She pulled the last book from the shelf and opened it. Inside was a poem—one she had written in her old life, late at night, imagining Seraphina's heartbreak.
> He was fire, and I was frost.
> He burned, and I broke.
> But I loved him still.
Elara closed the book gently, her hands trembling.
She had written this world.
But she hadn't written this pain.
The pain that grow with every single second alone.
Days passed in a blur of ceremonial duties.
She attended a charity gala for orphaned children, where nobles praised her grace and poise. She sat through a performance at the royal theatre, her face a mask of regal serenity. She hosted a luncheon for visiting dignitaries, smiling through every bite.
But at night, the silence returned.
The bed remained cold.
The ache in her chest deepened.
She began journaling again, scribbling thoughts into a leather-bound notebook she found in the library. Her words were raw, unfiltered.
> I am a queen in name, a prisoner in truth.
> He does not see me.
> I do not know if I see myself anymore.
On the seventh morning, Valeria entered her solar with a silver tray.
"A letter, Your Majesty," she said, placing it before her.
Elara blinked. "From whom?"
Valeria's lips twitched. "From the House of Vale. Your family."
Elara's hands trembled as she picked up the envelope. The seal was familiar—an embossed phoenix rising from flame. She broke it open and unfolded the parchment.
> Dearest Lyria,
> We watched the announcement with pride and tears. Our little star, now Queen of Thorne. We wish you joy, strength, and love in your new life. May your marriage be filled with laughter and light. May your crown never weigh heavier than your heart can bear.
> Your father sends his blessings. Your mother wept with joy. Your brothers are already planning a visit. And I—your sister—am counting the days until I can see you again.
> You are not alone. You are loved. Always.
> —Aurelia
Elara pressed the letter to her chest, tears spilling freely.
She had forgotten what love felt like.
Forgotten what warmth was.
In this cold palace, surrounded by duty and silence, the words were a balm. A reminder. A lifeline.
---
That night, she sat by the window, the letter beside her, the stars above.
She remembered her old life.
The laughter around the dinner table.
The way her father would lift her into the air and call her his "little angel."
The way Bella her sister would braid her hair and whisper secrets about boys and books.
She remembered writing the story.
She remembered believing that fiction could be safer than reality.
But fiction had teeth.
And it had bitten her deep, so deep she was bleeding all alone.
---
Elara stood.
She walked to the mirror and stared at her reflection.
Not Lyria Vale.
Not Queen Consort.
Just Elara.
She whispered to herself:
> "If I wrote this world, I can rewrite my place in it."
She would not be a passive ornament.
She would not be a forgotten name in a gilded ledger.
She would be seen.
She would be heard.
She would be more than the crown.
---