You didn't speak of the hunt.
Not to Mira. Not to the Queen Dowager. Not even to yourself.
The court moved as it always did — a gliding sea of polished slippers, murmured petitions, and delicate lies. But beneath its surface, something had shifted.
You no longer felt like a ghost in silk.
You had bled quietly the day Casian rode away, but the wound was now memory — raw, but sealed. What was left was silence. And silence could be wielded.
So you rose early.
You joined the Queen Dowager for tea in the east garden, where roses were trained like soldiers and the pavilions cast long shadows. You hosted a luncheon for minor ladies of the court — unthreatening, but noisy — and listened more than you spoke.
You requested updates from the northern provinces. Suggested a charity for the temple orphans. Sent letters to three noble houses your husband had long warned you were "less than loyal."
You were not idle.
And still, each afternoon… you waited.
Not like a woman longing for love — but in quieter ways. In the way your eyes flicked to the gates when hooves approached. In the way you turned away when someone mentioned the hunt. In the way your breath paused each time a steward entered bearing sealed parchment.
That evening, as your ladies prepared your bath, Mira whispered near your shoulder:
"There's a rumor," she said. "A noblewoman joined the hunt midway. Lady Katerina of West Valley."
You did not blink.
"She was once considered for courtship," she added, gentler.
You dipped your fingers into the bathwater. The heat stung.
"She would not dare while I'm still queen," you said, calmly.
But later — once the servants were gone, and the night curled in close — you opened the hidden chest near the window seat and pulled out the bound volume of royal law. You skipped past inheritance and land rights. Past ceremonial duties and sovereign exceptions.
Until you found the clause you had long ignored.
The Severance of Unfruitful Union.
You closed the book without reading further.
Your fingers stayed resting against the cover for a long time.
The fire crackled nearby.
And in the quiet, dread returned — not as panic, but as resignation. A soft, grey ache that would not leave.
…..
You woke up early today.
You remind yourself that it was the day he would return.
You had counted the days — discreetly, in silence. Dismissed the fear and told yourself it had only been a hunting trip. That the extension meant nothing. That when he arrived, he would explain. You imagined the words he might say, the look in his eyes, the way his hand might hover near your face again. You told yourself that the quiet between you hadn't been the end, only a beginning waiting to be spoken aloud.
You dressed with care. Sat in the solar surrounded by old estate ledgers — a futile attempt to anchor your thoughts. But beneath every column of numbers, your mind whispered the same question: What will he say?
You were anxious. And still hopeful.
And then the letter came.
A plain scroll, sealed in black wax — the King's sigil. The steward who delivered it bowed low and said nothing.
Mira found you in the solar, surrounded by old estate ledgers. You opened it with steady hands.
Your eyes caught at the second line.
"His Majesty extends greetings and informs Your Majesty that the hunting party has been invited to remain for the closing festivities in Lady Katerina's province…"
You stopped reading.
The scroll fluttered in your hand.
"…Their return shall be delayed by one additional week…"
One week.
Not shocking.
But it was the way her name was written — plainly, pointedly. Not as hearsay, not as rumor, but as fact.
Written. Sealed. Delivered.
A message not just to the Queen.
A message to the court.
You reread the closing line.
"With respect and honor,
By His Majesty's hand."
No warmth.
No explanation.
Not even a request for your reply.
Not even the lie of it.
Just… her name. A celebration. A delay. A signature.
He had written her name. Not yours.
Your fingers faltered.
The letter slid from your hand and struck the table with a whisper-soft thud.
You stared at it.
And then something inside you folded. Quietly. Utterly.
Your knees gave way before your mind caught up.
You sat there on the cold stone floor of the solar, back pressed against the window seat, knees drawn close like a child who forgot how to be royal.
"I see," you whispered.
It was not a sob.
It was not rage.
But your breath trembled.
Because you had dared to hope — last time, when he held you. When his hand hovered near your face like he meant to stay. When his breath mingled with yours and you were foolish enough to believe it meant something.
You let yourself believe the bruise on your wrist was proof of tenderness.
But it wasn't.
It was just a bruise.
You pressed your palm to your lips, holding in the scream you didn't dare make.
You remembered what your father once told you — A queen must never flinch in front of flames.
And yet here you were, in the ashes.
....
After a long silence, your body moved on its own.
You rose — shaky, slow — and crossed the room to your writing desk.
Your fingers found the parchment, the ink.
You wrote with precision, each word sharp as a blade:
To Lord Elair,
My dearest friend and truest shield,
I must leave the palace at next light.
Send a carriage under my house banner — no royal seal, no guards, no fanfare.
Discretion is paramount.
Meet me at the eastern passage just before dawn.
This is not cowardice. It is remembering.
—A.
You folded it once. Pressed your personal seal — not the royal one, but your house crest. Not the Queen, but the daughter of a fallen king.
You turned to Mira, who stood in silent witness across the room.
You handed her the scroll.
"Take this to Lord Elair," you said. "Yourself. No one else must see it. Use the eastern servants' stair."
Mira's eyes widened slightly — but she didn't hesitate. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"And begin packing," you added, voice quieter. "We leave at first light."
"Where will we go?"
You closed your eyes. A single tear slipped past.
"…Home."
You folded the letter once, carefully. Slid it into your satchel.
And in that moment — as the paper slid against the leather — a single thought passed through you, sharp and clean and final:
He was right. You were born a princess.
And you should never have needed to beg to be seen.