The Queen's quarters were unlike anything I had ever seen, even in the opulent halls of Nivellan.
The moment I stepped past the threshold, I was greeted by a symphony of soft lights and natural warmth. The chamber was carved into the great body of a living tree—an ancient one, its heartwood still pulsing with life. Golden veins of bioluminescent moss spiraled along the walls, casting a gentle, ambient glow that made everything shimmer in hues of green, amber, and silver. No torches. No cold stone. Just the soft breath of the forest wrapped in luxury.
Thick woven tapestries of sky-silk and enchanted leaves fluttered quietly with the breeze that seeped in through arched, open windows veiled by vines. Each tapestry told some tale I could not yet read—images of constellations, long-eared figures raising bows, a tree blooming under a falling moon.
The scent of lavender bark and old rain lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of wild blossoms set in crystal basins across the room. I could hear the slow drip of water in a distant alcove—perhaps a natural spring or a gentle fountain hidden within.
A bed, if one could call it that, rose from a platform grown of twisted roots and covered in layers of silken moss, furs, and feathered spreads. Beside it, a table curved out of the wood itself, as if the tree had offered a limb in service. Upon it sat an orb of moonstone that glowed faintly at my presence.
The whole space breathed—alive, sacred, untouched by war.
And yet, as I stood there, still cloaked in the shadow of a ruined kingdom, I could feel the weight of every curious and judgmental gaze that had followed me through the village. Even here, in the Queen's inner sanctum, I was not free of the past I carried.
Still, I could not deny the awe that crept into my heart.
"This is what peace feels like…" I thought. Not silence. Not absence of bloodshed. But harmony—between nature, power, and those who lived within it.
Elder Makunishita stopped just short of the bedchamber's heart. "You will rest here," he said, his voice low. "Do not leave the quarters without escort. There are still many who will not take kindly to your presence."
I bowed my head slightly. "I understand. Thank you… for your kindness."
He said nothing more, only offered a lingering look—half warning, half pity—before turning to leave.
Duke remained by the doorway. A sentinel in the vines.
I stepped further in, my fingers brushing the soft bark of the wall. The room may have been meant to soothe, but I knew what it truly was.
A trial.
And I had no choice but to endure it.
"What will happen now?" I murmured, my voice barely louder than the hush of wind brushing against the canopy.
My fingers ran over the mattress—soft, woven from feathers and moss, far more luxurious than anything I expected… especially for someone like me. The weight of the room, the kindness, the silence—they unsettled me more than open hostility. Kindness could be a mask. Silence, a trap.
Surely the Queen wanted something.
She could've exiled me without a second thought. Sent me back into the forest with nothing but shame and a story no one would believe. The barrier alone would've sealed my fate. And yet…
She gave me a room. Her own quarters, no less.
Why?
I rose from the bed, crossing toward the window. The breeze was cooler now, scented with rain-drenched wood and starflowers. Down below, I could see one of the inner gardens—a glade of blue-leafed trees where gentle lights floated like fireflies. And resting there, curled beside a small spring, was the winged wolf.
He looked peaceful, cradled by the elven caretakers. Strange, how even beasts were offered gentler fates than the survivors of fallen kingdoms.
I sighed, resting my palm against the vine-framed glass.
"I admit… I am quite fearful of what would happen," I whispered to no one, not even to myself.
The fear wasn't of death. Nor exile.
It was of failure.
Of staining what little was left of my people's legacy.
My ancestors had fought too hard to win recognition from other bloodlines. They forged diplomacy with ink and oath, not just sword and spell. If I lost myself here—even for a moment—I would undo all that. I could be the final stain on a forgotten page.
"I can't retaliate… even if I'm cornered."
My voice trembled.
"I cannot ruin what my ancestors have bled for."
I sank into the carved seat by the window, pulling my knees close, cloak draped around me like a shield.
Be still.Be wise.Survive.
Somewhere in the garden, the wolf stirred. He raised his head toward the Queen's chamber and let out a low, single howl. Not of pain—but of longing.
And I, too, longed—for answers, for guidance… for a place where the daughter of a fallen kingdom wouldn't be feared as a monster.
Just as I began to cradle myself, letting sleep pull at my limbs like lullabies whispered through leaves, the silence was pierced by the gentle creak of the door opening.
I bolted upright, heart slamming against my ribs.
My breath hitched. I instinctively backed away into the furthest corner of the room, hands shaking, sweat blooming cold across my skin.
Too quiet… too soft.
The one who entered did so without sound—gliding rather than walking. Draped in a flowing nightgown of silvery fabric that shimmered like moonlight filtered through water, the Queen stepped inside. Her hair, long and loosened from its crown, fell like a black river down her back.
She approached the bed and slowly sat, folding her hands gently across her lap.
Her presence, though serene, was undeniably powerful.
"Don't worry, dear," she said, her voice a melody tinged with old sorrow, "It's not like I could even hurt a closely immortal being…"
Her eyes found mine—those ageless pools of green and silver. "One who is now the last of her lineage, you might say."
I swallowed, stepping lightly from the shadows. The tension in my shoulders never eased, but I forced my legs to move, circling slowly behind her.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice low and wary.
She tilted her head back slightly—not enough to turn, but just enough to invite my words into her silence.
"A talk wouldn't hurt, would it?" she said with a faint smile.
The room was cloaked in a soft golden glow from the enchanted lanterns that floated like small suns, casting slow-moving patterns over the carved walls. Her nightgown rustled like leaves when she shifted.
If I hadn't known better—if I hadn't heard tales from scholars and travelers about what Elven Queens were capable of—I might have fallen for the softness she exuded. The warmth in her voice. The kindness that clung to her like perfume.
But I wasn't a child. Nor a fool.
She could smile as she withered forests.
She could cradle your face and burn the truth from your mind.
So I remained standing.
The Queen sighed and gently patted the space beside her again. "Come now. I've walked many centuries, but few ever dared speak to me the way you do. You remind me of someone I once knew—a friend who ruled long before you were born."
I hesitated, then slowly stepped forward and sat—perched carefully at the edge of the mattress, like a bird unsure if the branch would hold.
"Ask what you came to ask," I said softly.
She turned to me at last. And for a moment, I wasn't in the presence of a queen—but of someone lonelier than I expected.
"What is it like… to watch your kingdom fall?"
The question hit like a whisper of wind through broken walls.
I blinked, surprised by her gentleness. By the pain in her eyes.
And perhaps… by the shared ruin that echoed between us both.
"It was sudden…" I murmured, voice low as if speaking louder might summon the past back into being. "At first… we were holding a feast. To celebrate the kingdom's 789th year of existence."
The Queen sat beside me, her presence serene—silent yet listening. I didn't look at her. I couldn't.
"A fog began to rise. At first, it clung to the edges of the city like mist over grave soil. But then… it thickened. Grew cold. As if it hungered for something."
My fingers gripped the fabric of my dress.
"My mother… she knew. Somehow, she knew. She brought me to the lower chambers—one of the vaults beneath the palace. She said nothing… but her eyes screamed everything."
I breathed in slowly. My voice dropped further.
"She sealed me in a silver casket. One laced with runes. A hiding place for a daughter, not a princess. I heard her final words from outside… I think she was crying. I think she knew she wouldn't come back."
My eyes closed.
"Then I slept. Or died. I don't know. But time passed… and when I woke up, it was all gone."
I swallowed. The taste of rust lingered in my mouth.
"The air was different. Dead. There was no light in the halls… only the red glow of embers and the scent of rot. I walked… barefoot… through the carnage."
I lifted my head slightly, but didn't meet her eyes.
"The women… stripped of all dignity, even in death. Torn. Desecrated. Their bodies cast across the great stairs as if they were rugs. I… I saw children too. Hung along the outer walls of the palace. Their bodies twisted. Some burned. Others… others were used as jesters."
The Queen's breath caught faintly, but she remained still—honoring the telling.
"By the time I reached the throne room…" My voice cracked, but I forced myself on.
"My father was pierced—dozens of holy spears driven through his chest. One still pinned him to the throne. His face… frozen in defiance even in death."
I blinked slowly, once. Then again.
"My mother… she was suspended above him. Naked. Her body… ruined. Tied by each limb like a marionette… a mockery of grace. Her blood ran down the banners behind the throne like paint. It was… deliberate. Cruel. A message."
The room fell into a heavy silence, like snow burying the world.
I could hear my own heartbeat. Faint. Tired.
"I was supposed to die that night," I whispered. "But I didn't. And I carry that shame with me."
The Queen's gaze remained on me—not pitying, but solemn.
"There is no shame in surviving," she said softly, her voice like wind through leaves. "There is only the question of what one will do with the life that remains."
I finally turned to look at her.
Her beauty… was more than immortal. It was haunting. Her silver hair shimmered like frost beneath moonlight, cascading down her back in loose rivers. Her skin glowed faintly, like moon-polished ivory, untouched by time. Eyes the color of deep forest twilight stared back at me—not cold, but unblinking. Ageless. Knowing.
"I did not expect you to endure so much," she murmured. "The bloodline of Nivella was feared… but I see now why it was envied."
I didn't know what to say.
She reached out slowly, not to touch me, but to rest her hand between us on the bed. A gesture of peace.
"You may rest here tonight, child of dusk. Not as a guest… not as a threat. But as a soul in mourning."
The words brushed over my heart like balm.
And though I did not smile, something in me exhaled—for the first time since that night.