The midday council had barely dispersed when Aedric dismissed his ministers with a curt nod. Only Lord Varin remained, his narrow face half lost in the firelight, his ink stained fingers resting on the edge of the desk like talons.
A runner entered, pale and sweating from the climb up the tower steps. "A raven, Your Majesty," he said, bowing low. "From Sareen. Addressed to the Queen."
Aedric's hand moved before the runner had even finished. The seal: a rising sun over a silver leaf gleamed faintly in the fire's glow. A symbol of the southern sands. A symbol of her home.
He broke it open. The parchment unfolded with the soft hiss of betrayal.
My dearest Princess Maria, my Sunfire,
The days in Sareen are not as golden without your laughter. The tide withdraws sooner, the winds sleep longer, as if the world mourns your absence.
I pray the iron air of the North has not dimmed your fire. The chill there can silence even the boldest hearts, but not yours. You were born of flame. remember that.
I dream often of the Sunken Gardens. I still see you there, beneath the silver fig tree, your hair catching the dawn. The people speak of you as a spirit of Sareen now, a blessing taken by the wind.
When the seas thaw and the ravens grow restless, I will send word again. Until then, carry the warmth of home close to your heart. You are never forgotten.
Ever your faithful kinsman,
Kael of Sareen
Aedric read the letter twice. The words struck him like ice, not in their surface politeness, but in their tone. It was not how a cousin wrote to a queen. It was how a man wrote to a woman he remembered too closely.
He laid the parchment down. His jaw flexed once, the muscle sharp against the cold lamplight.
"Varin," he said quietly.
The older man leaned in. "Your Majesty?"
"He calls her my Sunfire." Aedric's voice was calm, too calm. He tapped a finger on the line that said Princess Maria
Varin squinted, lips curling faintly. "Southern poetry, Sire. Their people do love to sound clever. Though if this Kael means to flatter your queen, it borders on insolence. Perhaps the boy needs a reminder of who holds the crown now."
Aedric gave a thin smile that never reached his eyes. "Perhaps."
He folded the letter with slow precision, each crease perfect, as if neatness might tame the storm in his chest. Then he sealed it again, not with silver or gold, but with plain grey wax, colourless and forgettable.
"Have it sent to her chamber," he ordered. "Let her believe it untouched."
Varin rose, tucking his hands behind his back. "Shall I remain nearby during supper?"
Aedric looked up from the dying fire. "No, Lord Varin. I think I can stomach dinner without your counsel for one evening."
Varin bowed with a smirk. "As you wish, Your Majesty."
That evening.
The private dining hall glowed with candlelight and quiet deceit. The long table was set for two. Outside, snow whispered against the windows like soft applause for an unseen play.
Maria entered in a gown of pale blue, her hair unbound save for a single silver clasp. She moved with the practised grace of a woman who had learnt to walk through fire without letting it show.
Aedric stood as she entered. His smile was polite and measured; the same one he offered diplomats and enemies.
"Your Grace," she said, before preparing to sit.
The first course came and went. He said little, merely watched her with the careful detachment of a man counting breaths. She spoke softly about the morning frost, the quiet of the gardens, and the strange hush of northern winter.
It wasn't until the servants cleared the last of the soup that Aedric set down his cup and said, almost idly, "A raven arrived from Sareen today."
Maria froze for half a heartbeat. "It did," she said lightly, though her hands had gone still on the linen.
"I saw the seal, the sun and the leaf of your house. I trust the news was... pleasant?"
She forced a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "It was. My cousin Kael sends his regards. He worries I might find the Northern air too harsh."
Aedric nodded, watching her over the rim of his glass. "He seems... attentive."
"He is family," she replied, her tone perfectly calm.
"Of course."
The silence that followed was not empty. it was tight, thrumming, alive. Somewhere in that silence, the fire popped, and Maria flinched almost imperceptibly.
Aedric smiled again, too slow. "I envy the warmth of the South. Their letters seem to burn brighter than ours."
She lowered her gaze. "The South is made of flame, Majesty. It burns quickly."
"And dangerously," he murmured.
Her eyes lifted to his, pale and unreadable. "Only when provoked."
The king said nothing after that. But as the servants poured wine and cleared the plates, the air between them thickened not with anger, but something quieter and far more dangerous.That night, when the halls had gone still and the only sound was the hush of snow against the window, Maria sat at her desk, her quill hovering over parchment. The candlelight trembled, throwing gold against her face as if uncertain whether to stay or fade.
She began softly, as though writing to a ghost.
To my dearest Kael,
If this letter ever reaches you before winter eats my ink, then the gods have not forgotten Sareen after all. You cannot imagine how dull the air is here, cousin. The snow is beautiful, yes, but it's too quiet. It listens to itself. Do you remember how Sareen sounded in the mornings? The vendors shouting before sunrise, the smell of bread and orange peel, you stealing figs and blaming the servants?
I dreamt of it last night. I was back in the rose courtyard, barefoot, and Father was scolding me because I had climbed his horse again. You were laughing so hard you fell into the fountain. I woke up laughing too. Then I remembered where I was.
It's strange, Kael. People here speak softly, as if afraid their words will freeze before they reach the other person. The King well, he's not cruel. Just... made of stone and storms. He looks at me like I'm another treaty he needs to manage. But don't tell anyone I said that or I'll be hanged for treason before spring.
Tell me, does Father still walk by the river at dawn? though tell him I read the charts he sent. The old numbers are useful. And did Aunt Nira ever marry that merchant from Irdan, the one who thought poetry was a profession? Gods, I hope not. Is the grey mare well? Has Lord Al-Jabar finally married his tenth daughter off? I need some real news.
I miss our shores, Kael. This cold demands that the fire burn low, indeed. Nothing here could ever replace the warmth and light of our home. I am Queen of this place, but I still miss being the Princess of Sareen where people understood a simple laugh.
Do not worry for my protection. I am, unfortunately, very well watched
Sometimes I think of sneaking back just to hear the market again. Just for a day. To be me again not a queen, not a pawn. Just Maria of Sareen.
Yours always,
Princess Mari of Sareen
When she signed her old name, her hand trembled just slightly, but she smiled. It was a private smile, the kind that belonged to a life no one in this cold castle knew.
She sanded the ink, sealed the parchment with wax, and slipped it into the courier's pouch before dawn; unaware that her every word would be read long before it crossed the border.
By midday, the letter lay open on Aedric's desk. The wax seal, broken cleanly, sat beside it. He didn't move for a long time. His eyes traced the loops of her handwriting, pausing where she'd written Kael. The name appeared too easily on her tongue, too fondly.
"Princess Mari of Sareen," he murmured, testing the name as though it carried heat.
He read the line again. He's not cruel. Just made of stone and storms. Something in him tightened. He wasn't sure if it was anger or something far more dangerous.
"He misses our shores," Aedric read aloud, his voice dangerously even. "And she misses being a mere princess."
The jealousy was like a cold, physical ache in his chest. It wasn't simple suspicion of treason; it was the realisation that this fragile, powerful woman he had claimed was entirely unreachable. Kael held her affection, her past, and her secrets, while Aedric held only her title and her body, which he had not even claimed.
He was the king, the conqueror, yet he felt profoundly excluded from the one person whose soul he was supposed to bind to his. This cousin, this desert boy, still held her loyalty.
Aedric crumbled the letter in his fist, crushing the final line: "I am, unfortunately, very well watched."
"She thinks I am a fool," he muttered. When he finally folded the letter, his hands were steady, but his jaw was not.
He would not admit the depth of his pique, not even to Varin. He was the King; his emotions were strategic. But the memory of Maria's faint, controlled smile when she lied to him at dinner, combined with the intimate ease she shared with her kinsman, fuelled a cold resolve.
But later, when she entered the hall in silence, he looked at her differently, as if she'd said something without meaning to, and he'd heard every word.
Dinner that evening was quieter than usual, though the room was full. Silver plates gleamed, servants moved like ghosts, and the fire crackled as if trying to fill the silence. Maria sat across from the King, her hands folded neatly in her lap, trying not to yawn through another endless course of roasted duck and delicate conversation about trade routes.
Yet something felt off.
When she looked up, Aedric was already watching.
It wasn't the commanding, kingly sort of stare she'd grown used to. There was something uncertain in it. Almost human. The moment their eyes met, he looked away, clearing his throat and pretending sudden interest in the wine list beside him. His reaction was too immediate, too guilt ridden for a king.
She blinked, her stomach tightening strangely. Maybe she was imagining it. But then it happened again. And again. Each time she met his gaze, he turned away as if caught doing something forbidden. Maria was confused by his distraction, wondering if he was ill or if her political leverage was finally gaining his attention.
Her cheeks began to warm, and she cursed herself silently. Why was she blushing? It was the surprise of his behaviour, the sheer oddity of his stolen glances, that unnerved her. She took a sip of wine, hoping the movement would hide the colour in her face, but it only made her more aware of his glances. The silence between them started to feel too heavy, too full of something unspoken.
Across the table, Lord Varin watched with the amusement of a man who'd seen far too much. He cut his meat slowly, eyes darting between the two of them like a cat studying a pair of nervous birds.
Varin smiled faintly, leaning back. "It appears the highness is a little more hungry than the other days"
Aedric shot him a look sharp enough to wound, but Varin only raised his glass in silent toast.
Maria lowered her eyes to her plate, feeling her pulse race. She tried to focus on the candlelight flickering across the silver, but her skin tingled as though the king's attention still rested on her. When she dared another glance, she found him watching once more. His expression was unreadable, his gaze dropping the instant hers met it.
Her cheeks burned brighter. The room suddenly felt far too warm.
Varin coughed softly, just loud enough to be heard. "Careful, Majesty. If you keep staring at the fire, you might burn the roast."
Aedric exhaled slowly, as if restraining a smile he'd never admit to. Maria pressed her napkin to her lips to hide her own surge of surprised heat and confusion.Aedric finished his stew with the methodical precision of a man who treated eating like a military exercise. He pushed his plate away, then leaned back in his high backed chair. He did not look at Varin or the candelabra, directing his gaze instead towards Maria.
"Maria," he said, his voice flat, but without its usual demanding edge.
Maria looked up, her expression guarded.
"The weather is clear tomorrow, for a change," Aedric continued, surprising her with the mundane topic. "I ride out before noon to inspect the new stables and the training grounds just outside the main city gates."
Maria waited, unsure if this was information or a new command.
"You have spent months confined within these walls," he observed, his cold eyes assessing her pale complexion and rigid posture. "You have read every ledger and walked every inch of the inner gardens. Even a queen of stone might grow weary of the sight of the same four walls."
He paused, and the uncharacteristic quietness of his tone held a flicker of something she had never heard from him before: a hesitant acknowledgment of her confinement.
"Mara mentioned you have been eager to see the city," Aedric said. "You may join my ride, if you wish. It is a necessary trip, not a social outing, but the horses need the exercise, and you may find the change of air... suitable."
The invitation was brusque, phrased as an almost logistical necessity, yet it was an olive branch. He was offering her a glimpse of the outside world, an act of unexpected inclusion.
Maria stared at him. It was a gesture of sympathy, however cold and pragmatic, for the loneliness of her gilded cage.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Maria managed, her voice soft with surprise. "I would welcome the opportunity."
Aedric gave a single, sharp nod, his face immediately retreating back into its mask of cold duty. "Be ready by eleven. No elaborate Southern silks. Wear warm wool and follow my lead."
He stood abruptly, ending the dinner. His eyes finally met hers, one last time, an assessment that held both suspicion and the inexplicable flicker of concern, before he turned and left the room without a backward glance.
Maria remained seated, a wave of profound relief washing over her. He had seen her isolation and offered a brief respite.
Across the table, Varin finally chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Thoughtful, indeed. The King fears nothing on this earth, Your Majesty, but he does seem to fear a bored queen."
Maria looked at Varin, then back at the empty space where Aedric had been. He had offered kindness, not companionship, but in this court, that was more than she could have hoped for.