Seralya dismissed the guards with a flick of her fingers.
When the doors closed, the silence between queen and bard thickened — like fog in a graveyard.
"Say what you came to say," she told him, voice cool. "But speak carefully. My patience is not infinite."
The bard walked the edge of her chamber, studying the velvet drapes, the gold-threaded banners — signs of a throne built on blood and charm.
"I was in the village of Delwyn last month," he began, "where old women still tell stories by candlelight. They speak of a girl who vanished the night the forest caught fire."
Seralya's eyes narrowed. "That village no longer exists."
"Stories survive where stone does not."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a silver pendant — scorched, cracked, but unmistakably hers.
Seralya took a step back.
"You shouldn't have that."
"You left it," he said, "with the one who burned for your crown."
The queen turned away, jaw tight.
For a moment, she was no ruler. Just a woman haunted by choices.
"That part of my life is dead."
The bard's voice softened. "No. It's sleeping. And I just woke it up."
From the terrace, a cold wind swept in — and with it, the scent of ash.