The luxurious carriage rolled into the high-end shopping district of the capital, its lacquered body glinting beneath the mid-afternoon sun. Though it bore no sigil or family crest, its elegance was unmistakable—its sleek design, pristine condition, and silver-embroidered curtains whispered of old money and quiet influence. The sight behind the glass panes were concealed behind delicate black lace, obscuring the occupant's identity, but leaving no doubt as to their status.
Behind those sheer curtains, Gabriella lancaster gazed out through a narrow slit. Her expression was unreadable, the faintest crease marring her brow as the familiar streets of the capital unfurled before her. It had been over fifteen years since she had last set foot here. Fifteen years since she had voluntarily exiled herself.
But first, she wasn't headed to the palace.
The carriage took a deliberate turn away from the Imperial District and instead ventured toward the fashionable heart of high society: the bustling shopping district. Cobblestone streets gleamed from a recent wash, lined with artisan storefronts, perfume boutiques, and parasol-dotted cafés, all humming with the soft rustle of silk skirts and the clink of porcelain teacups.
The carriage came to a gentle stop outside a gilded parlor—one of the most sought-after gathering spots among the younger noblewomen. It was known for its sweet confections, golden chandeliers, and the whispers that fluttered through its velvet-draped walls like perfume on a breeze. The building stood like a jewel box, its windows glowing with warm amber light, its entrance guarded by twin marble cherubs.
The coachman stepped down to open the door, and the woman emerged.
She was elegant, yet understated. Her dark red hair was pinned into a simple bun, a modest black veil draped over the half of her face. Her gown, though lacking frills or ostentation, was clearly of fine make—a shade of forest green velvet, trimmed with hand-stitched silver thread. The kind of dress worn by a wealthy merchant's wife who had no need to flaunt her fortune.
Gabriella Lancaster was not entering the capital today as the Queen Mother of the Empire.
Not yet.
Today, she was Malachi Verina, the wife of a southern spice merchant visiting the capital for the first time. A name borrowed. A role assumed. A mask donned with practiced ease.
Inside the parlor, laughter and gossip floated through the air like smoke. Perfumed, thick, and inviting. The hostess—a bright-eyed woman used to sniffing out status—greeted her with warmth and a slight bow.
"Welcome, madam," she said, eyes subtly scanning Gabriella's attire and accessories. "A table?"
"By the window, if you please," Gabriella replied smoothly, her voice low and even.
She was escorted to a corner table by the windows, just close enough to hear a cluster of young noblewomen who were halfway through their tea and scandal. Gabriella sat with poised grace, one gloved hand folded over the other, her back straight, expression impassive. She ordered jasmine tea and lemon scones, though she had no intention of touching them.
She had come here to listen.
The group of noble girls beside her was precisely the type she had anticipated—wealthy, vain, and delightfully indiscreet. Gabriella knew the older ladies of the court had committed her face to memory, but these young girls? They wouldn't recognize her unless she declared herself. And they were too young to know better than to keep their voices down when gossip tasted this sweet.
"—I heard His Majesty nearly fainted during the public address," one of them whispered, eyes wide with drama. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, and her fingers twirled nervously around her fan. "They say the prince stood beside him the entire time. As if ready to catch him should he fall—or to protect him from every danger."
She sighed, dazed. "He's so... handsome. And protective."
Gabriella took a quiet sip of her tea, her lashes lowered. The prince. She hadn't heard much beyond vague mentions—Elliott had adopted a child long ago, that much she knew. But she had not kept tabs, too focused on keeping her distance as a gesture of goodwill. Still, the mention of this 'prince' stirred interest.
Another girl leaned forward, fan fluttering with excitement. "That's nothing. Did you not hear about the border? They say he ordered Altherian soldiers hung from trees. You know, the southern empire- ones they say responsible for the poisoning—the saffron incident."
The word poisoning made Gabriella's hand pause on the porcelain cup. Her expression didn't change, but her senses sharpened. It had haunted her since she first heard whispers of it even in her exile—her son, poisoned in his own palace.
"They say His Majesty's health is still delicate," another girl murmured, a touch of unease in her voice. "It's been one thing after another—his health's always been frail, but now the poison... and the asthma. And with war looming..."
Solemn nods passed around the group like a funeral wreath.
Gabriella's fingers tightened around her teacup. She didn't show it outwardly, but the cold fury that slithered through her blood was ice-sharp. No matter how many years passed, Elliott remained hers—the only thing in this world she had truly claimed, truly loved. And they had dared to harm him. She knew about the poisoning, of course- but hearing it being mentioned again angered her regardless.
But she said nothing. She simply listened.
The gossip soon shifted- Elliott faded to the background, and the prince became the focus of attention once more.
"Oh, and he's gorgeous," one of the younger ones swooned. "You should've seen him at the banquet last month—he's got this cold, sharp sort of charm. Like a knight out of a tragic novel."
"Don't be ridiculous," another sniffed, "He's more than that. He's the empire's sharpest sword. That's what they say. That there's no one deadlier."
Gabriella's lips curled ever so slightly. The sharpest sword, was it?
That certainly wasn't the quiet boy she had once dismissed as irrelevant. She would need to correct that mistake.
She had almost finished her tea when a voice, quieter than the others, caught her attention again.
"You know," one of the girls whispered, "my cousin is in the royal guard. He says the prince hasn't left His Majesty's side. Like—at all. Not even to sleep or eat."
A chorus of murmurs followed. Even Gabriella leaned in slightly.
"They say he was even seen spoon-feeding His Majesty because the Emperor was too exhausted to lift a fork himself—"
"Oh my god," one girl gasped, "it's like something straight out of a romance novel!"
The others tittered, fanning their faces. Gabriella raised an arched brow.
A romance novel?
How interesting.
When she finally rose and left the parlor, Gabriella wore a soft smile. She'd gathered all she needed. She was never one to barge into battle unprepared—she preferred to survey the battlefield, identify every pawn and bishop, and move her pieces accordingly.
The poisoning was confirmed. It had been saffron—public knowledge by now. Outrage simmered in the streets. War, it seemed, was inevitable.
Elliott was alive, but weakened. His asthma had worsened. His enemies would see this as an opportunity.
And Aiden.
That was the revelation of the day.
The adopted child she had filed away in the back of her mind was no longer a footnote—he was a man now. The capital whispered his name with awe and wariness, in equal measure. Ruthless, lethal, devoted to her son.
Gabriella had made many mistakes in her life—but underestimating valuable pieces was never one of them. Not twice.
Tucking the gathered information into her mind, Gabriella stepped into her waiting carriage once more. She didn't need to voice her next destination—the coachman understood.
The horses turned, hooves striking cobblestones as the carriage glided forward again.
It was time to return to the palace.