After the dramatic expulsion of the Duke de Vignière and the exhausting Council session, Beatrice returned to her chambers without any sense of triumph. The palace corridors echoed with whispers, and every glance held a mix of caution, respect, and mistrust. But the moment she opened the door to her bedroom, Lyaer stirred in his sleep. She immediately went to him, carefully lifting her son in her arms and, burying her nose in his hair, realized: only when he was close did she feel truly alive.
Lyaer was softly breathing beside her, and in her hands was a report or a journal—nothing important, just routine. Suddenly, it became painfully clear: there was no one to share this with. Around her were ladies-in-waiting, guards, servants—but no real support. All that remained after all these victories and intrigues was her little son, and a bitter sense of loneliness.
She recalled how Theo had supported her at the Council for the first time. How his hand trembled after slamming the table, how he nodded—short, but resolute. He still kept his distance… but then, she too hadn't dared to take a step forward.
"I've already set out on this path. These were my first steps. Now—one more. At least one day, just to live… Not as a queen, but as a mother. And maybe… as a woman who has both a past and a future."
When the servants dispersed to their tasks, Beatrice lingered by the window, staring for a long time at the garden falling asleep outside. At this moment, neither power, nor victory, nor fear mattered—only that familiar warmth in her chest. Suddenly, she understood: she could no longer separate herself and her son, nor her son from his father. All that existed now was this little world, where she could be herself, even if the rest of the palace believed not a word she said.
Later, when the chambers were filled with a cozy dusk, Beatrice settled on the bed with Lyaer, humming quietly to the child. Suddenly, muffled whispering came from outside—the ladies-in-waiting, as always, stood guard by the door, clearly not daring to enter. One of them whispered particularly earnestly:
– Maybe we should go in and ask if Her Majesty needs anything?
– Then you go, if you're not afraid, — another replied instantly.
Beatrice smirked, imagining the girls drawing straws to see who would risk disturbing the queen's peace after such a Council. She deliberately sighed a bit louder:
– If someone has snuck in pastries, now's the perfect moment to show your courage, — she tossed toward the door without turning around.
An awkward pause followed. After a few seconds, the door opened a crack, and a hand appeared holding a plate:
– Please don't be angry, Your Majesty… These are lemon, your favorite.
– That's wonderful. Courage deserves a reward, — Beatrice laughed. — You may come in, I won't eat anyone. Today.
The ladies-in-waiting entered shyly, and Lyaer, catching the scent of pastries, smiled in his sleep. "There's the real winner," thought the queen, and for the first time in a long while, she felt that there really was something like home in this palace.
The day was cold.
The December sun gave no warmth, only slid chillily over the stone of the palace walls. The corridors smelled of snow and pine resin: servants were decorating the halls for the holidays, hanging spruce branches and sharp holly wreaths.
Beatrice paused before the door to Theodore's study. She hesitated for a moment, as if deciding whether it was worth disturbing the king amid yet another paper battle. She knew, behind that door, work was in full swing: reports, letters, plans for fortifying the borders.
On ordinary days, she would never have dared intrude on his solitude unless absolutely necessary. But today… today was Lyaer's day. And no maps, no armies, could be more important than her son.
Beatrice raised her hand and knocked twice.
— Come in, — came the familiar voice.
She pulled herself together and entered.
Theodore sat at his wide oak desk, bent over maps and scrolls. His doublet was unbuttoned at the throat, ink stained his fingers, and a stray lock of fair hair had fallen over his temple. He hadn't even noticed, so absorbed was he in his work.
Beatrice froze on the threshold, arms crossed behind her back, not wanting to immediately intrude into his space. Theodore didn't look up right away. Only after a few seconds did he, absentmindedly putting aside his pen, turn around. His eyes narrowed with fatigue, then widened.
— Your Majesty, — Beatrice said evenly, with the faintest hint of a smile. — You have an important appointment.
Theodore frowned, clearly trying to remember what he might have forgotten in his schedule.
— An appointment? — he repeated, standing up.
— Yes, — she replied calmly. — In the winter conservatory. With His Highness, the Prince.
Not a muscle moved on her face, but a subtle warmth glimmered in her eyes. For a moment, Theodore froze, then a rare, genuine smile—one that always slightly embarrassed him—slowly spread across his face.
— An official visit, then, — he said, moving closer.
Beatrice tilted her head just so, maintaining her regal tone:
— The prince awaits his father. And I must warn you, His Highness is very sensitive to lateness.
Theodore laughed softly, a sound that escaped on its own, not out of politeness. He was at her side faster than he meant to be. For a moment, they stood nearly touching. Only air between them. Only the warm, paper-and-pine-scented December day.
Beatrice caught his gaze, direct and open, too honest for a court where every glance is a weapon or a shield.
— We'd better hurry, Your Majesty. Otherwise, His Highness may be offended.
Theodore lowered his eyes slightly, as if remembering what they were supposed to be to each other: King and Queen, not man and woman. He slowly held out his hand, a gesture inviting her to go ahead of him.
— Then… — his voice was rough with fatigue — let's not keep His Highness waiting.
The conservatory was sheltered by glass and heavy drapes from the winter cold. Inside, the air was warm and rich with the scent of mandarins, pine, and the flowers stubbornly blooming even in the December frost.
In the center, a low table was set, covered with a snow-white tablecloth embroidered with silver. On the table, berry pies steamed, golden buns, hot apple cider in painted cups. Small plates with nuts, candied fruit, honey, almonds.
Lyaer, wrapped in a soft little coat with silver buttons, was utterly happy. He squirmed on a warm blanket, reached for the bright toys scattered around, and generously tossed petal-showers from the pots of flowers standing nearby.
When Theodore, obediently answering his son's call, knelt down beside him, Lyaer quickly found a new amusement. With a delighted squeal, he grabbed the loose lock at Theodore's temple and pulled.
— Oh… — Theodore winced, but didn't pull away.
Lyaer squealed with delight, tugging the strand with superhuman determination.
Beatrice covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh.
— It seems, Your Majesty, you're not quite so steadfast in the battles for power, — she teased lightly, gently freeing Theodore's hair from Lyaer's grip.
Theodore threw her a mock-suffering look, holding his son to keep him from rolling over.
— I suppose there's already been a change of ruler in this kingdom, — he said quietly.
— And a very demanding one, — Beatrice couldn't help herself, leaning back to enjoy the sight: the king, always composed and unyielding at Council, now caught in the grasp of tiny fingers and loud laughter.
Lyaer, pleased with himself, kept exploring his "subject," grabbing at his doublet, his hand, his buttons. They both laughed quietly—for the first time in ages—lightly, freely, without the burden of the crown.
Beatrice, adjusting the warm blanket on Lyaer's lap. Linetta and Miren stood modestly aside, trying not to attract attention. As if making a small private decision, Beatrice turned and calmly called:
— Linetta.
She flinched and hurried over, expecting an order or new task.
— Your Majesty? — she said quickly, bowing.
Without getting up, Beatrice pointed to a second blanket, neatly spread out a bit further away among the flowering shrubs.
— Sit down. You and Miren.
Linetta froze, as if struck by something invisible. Her face flickered with confusion, then deep doubt. She looked at Beatrice, then at the blanket, as if suspecting a trick. Beatrice narrowed her eyes slightly, holding back a smile, and seeing the hesitation, laughed softly:
— This is not a test. — Her voice was gentle, without command. — Today we are all… just resting.
Linetta looked uncertainly at the maid, who, catching her cue, hurried over as well. Both gingerly sat on the edge of the second blanket, not too close to the queen, keeping a respectful distance, but still within that cozy circle.
Beatrice slid a plate of warm pies over to them and placed a jug of apple cider nearby.
— Eat. While the pies are hot.
The ladies-in-waiting exchanged glances, barely able to believe their luck. Only when the first drop of honey rolled off the broken pie, and the warmth of the drink spread through their fingers, did their shyness begin to melt away. For the first time in a long while, their faces lit up. Gratitude flickered in their eyes—warm, quiet, genuine.
The soft, warm cider flowed pleasantly through their veins, as if warming from the inside. The scent of flowers in the conservatory blended with a hint of pine and the sunlit warmth of little Lyaer, who now slept sweetly, his nose nestled against Beatrice's neck. Beatrice sat holding her son, pressing her cheek to his soft hair.
Her eyelids grew heavy. The world blurred, like a painting left out in the rain. She didn't resist sleep. She let herself relax. Let herself drift away. And under that thin layer of forgetting came peace.
When Theodore noticed that Beatrice had dozed off, the child in her arms, he rose quietly. There was not a hint of irritation on his face. Only a strange, deep tenderness he didn't yet fully understand. He gestured to Linetta.
— Prepare the rooms for rest. For His Highness as well.
Linetta, sitting near the edge, quickly rose, bowing deeply. Miren hurried to help.
When they had quietly left the conservatory, Theodore was left alone with them. With Beatrice and Lyaer.
He came closer.
Beatrice sat on the blanket, leaning over her son, her hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the light of the last golden rays. A faint flush from the cider warmed her cheeks. And in this half-sleep her beauty became especially clear: not cold or calculated as at court, but living, fragile as a child's breath.
Theodore bent down, slowly, barely breathing. His hand lifted on its own. His fingers lightly touched her cheek—warm, soft, with a fine tremor beneath the skin.
The touch was so gentle, it might have gone unnoticed.
But not by her.
Beatrice flinched.
In her sleep, reality and nightmare intertwined. And this touch, kind, gentle, suddenly turned into that foreign, cold hand that had once reached for her to kill. Again and again.
She cried out, breaking into a sleepy whisper, and jerked his hand away as if pushing aside the blade of a knife.
Theodore recoiled, stunned.
Beatrice was breathing fast, gulping air in quick, shallow breaths, clutching Lyaer to her chest as if protecting him from an invisible enemy. Her eyes were half-open, clouded by sleep and fear. Rare tears slid down her cheeks. Her gaze was full of panic, terror, pain. As if she stood at the border of life and death.
Theodore slowly knelt beside her, careful not to make any sudden movements.
— Tris… — he called softly, his voice full of caution.
She didn't hear him at first. Only after long, agonizing seconds did her breathing begin to slow. Beatrice blinked, as if coming to herself. She looked around, all her bitterness and fear slowly draining away, leaving behind only emptiness.
Theodore didn't say another word. He simply, silently, held out his hand to her, palm up—a sign that he was there. That he was not an enemy. Beatrice didn't take it.
But she didn't turn away, either.
She only carefully stood up, pressing Lyaer close, and, without looking back, slowly walked toward Linetta, who, concerned by the commotion, was already waiting by the door. And Theodore was left standing alone in the conservatory, with the feeling that he had just touched not flesh, but something far more fragile.