The celebration was a tapestry of deception—silks, smiles, and simmering secrets. After the execution of the Dark Queen's followers, the kingdom had demanded a feast, not just for justice, but for blood. They rejoiced in flame and fury, burning witches and warlocks as though ash could cleanse memory.
The courtyard glowed with golden torches. Laughter clinked against goblets, and musicians played like nothing was broken. Yet, for Lilian, each note was a scream under velvet.
She played the part of the dutiful daughter-in-law well. Smiling. Dancing. Pouring wine. Draped in gold and crimson, she looked like victory personified. But beneath her embroidered bodice, her heart pounded like a hunted thing.
When the High Priestess raised a toast to the "purity of the kingdom," Lilian's skin prickled. Eyes were on her—not just of courtiers, but of spirits unseen.
The fire pit roared in the center of the gathering, and as it crackled, Lilian heard something.
A whisper.
It was not her imagination.
"…mother of ruin…"
She turned sharply, but no one else reacted. Just laughter and the clinking of silver.
Later, alone in her chambers, the echo returned. From the hearth. From her bones.
Something inside her stirred—not fear, but a recognition. Like something ancient had marked her.
She pressed a hand to her abdomen. Still flat. Still hers.
But something was beginning.
Not life. Not yet.
A reckoning.