The crown was heavier than Aurelia remembered.
Not in weight—though the metal still pressed faintly against her temples—but in presence. In expectation. In the way every step she took through the halls of Virelia felt watched, measured, judged. Even when the corridors were empty, the silence carried voices. Whispered doubts. Half-formed accusations. Fear wrapped in reverence.
She had been queen for only weeks, yet her name already walked ahead of her like a shadow that did not belong.
A cursed queen.
The words were never spoken aloud in court, never written in the official petitions placed before the throne, but Aurelia felt them in the pauses between bows, in the way courtiers averted their eyes too quickly or lingered too long. She saw it in the stiffened backs of guards, in the careful neutrality of ministers who had once spoken freely.
She did not blame them.
If she were in their place—if the legends were reversed—she might have feared herself too.
