Third Person's POV
It had been four weeks since Rhenessa Daelora had returned to Noctyra, and two weeks since Caelen began to realize that his wife no longer saw him.
Not in council.
Not in passing.
Not even in memory, it seemed.
Every time he tried to charm her, to remind her of the husband she once adored, Talia met him with nothing but that serene, untouchable composure — the kind a ruler wears when she's long stopped pretending to care.
At first, Caelen told himself she was merely preoccupied with royal duties. Then he decided she was tired. But now, as he sat alone in the solar, surrounded by untouched scrolls and fading flowers meant for her, he could no longer lie to himself.
Something in her had changed.
And whatever it was… it wasn't him.
⸻
He rose abruptly, his reflection glaring back from the golden-framed mirror. His collar was immaculate, his hair perfectly styled — and yet he looked nothing like a king. Just a man chasing the ghost of the woman who'd stopped waiting for him.
"No more excuses," he muttered, straightening his jacket. "She will see me today."
With that, he strode through the corridors of the palace, ignoring the startled bows of servants as he made his way to the Queen's study.
The doors stood slightly ajar, the faint scent of jasmine and parchment drifting from within. He knocked once, then entered without waiting.
Talia sat at her desk by the window, sunlight pouring around her like a halo. Her hair was pinned loosely, strands of rose-pink glinting in the light, and her gown — a soft cream silk trimmed with gold — fell off one shoulder in a way that was entirely unintentional… and yet devastatingly effective.
"Caelen," she greeted without looking up, her quill scratching across parchment. "If this is another attempt to flatter me into dinner, I'm afraid my schedule is full."
"A husband doesn't need an appointment to see his wife," he countered smoothly, stepping closer. "Though perhaps I should start sending written requests — you've been impossible to reach."
Talia sighed, setting her quill aside. "Perhaps you've been reaching for the wrong reasons."
Before Caelen could reply, the door creaked open again.
Stella entered, clutching a sealed letter adorned with a dark red wax crest — the mark of Noctyra.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice just a touch too cheerful. "A courier arrived this morning. A letter from the Empress herself."
Talia's composure softened instantly. "Thank you, Stella."
She broke the seal, her heart already fluttering at the sight of Rhenessa's handwriting — bold, elegant, unmistakably hers.
Caelen watched, his expression tight.
As Talia's eyes darted across the page, her cheeks flushed — first faintly, then vividly. Her lips parted slightly as her gaze lingered on a line too private to be read aloud. She pressed the parchment closer to her chest, trying (and failing) to hide her reaction.
"Something… pleasant?" Caelen asked, voice carefully casual.
Talia blinked rapidly, trying to compose herself. "It's… diplomatic correspondence."
"Diplomatic," Caelen repeated slowly. His gaze flickered toward the letter, catching just enough to read "—dream of your hands, my sun—" before Talia folded it shut.
A pause.
Caelen cleared his throat sharply, the tips of his ears red. "Ah. Yes. Diplomatic. Of course."
He turned abruptly toward the door. "Well. I'll, ah—leave you to your… state affairs."
"That would be best," Talia said sweetly, returning to her desk — though her fingers trembled as she traced Rhenessa's signature at the bottom.
The moment the door shut behind him, Stella's composure crumbled into barely contained laughter.
"A spicy letter, Your Majesty?" she teased, eyes dancing.
Talia bit her lip, cheeks still glowing. "You could say that."
Outside the study, Caelen leaned against the corridor wall, exhaling slowly.
He wasn't sure which feeling burned more — jealousy, humiliation, or the bitter realization that the sun no longer rose for him.
The moment Caelen's footsteps faded down the corridor, laughter slipped through the Queen's lips — quiet, helpless, glowing.
Stella grinned from the doorframe.
"You're enjoying this far too much, Your Majesty."
"Maybe," Talia admitted, cheeks still warm. "But when one is blessed with such correspondence, who could be blamed?"
She smoothed the parchment on her desk, reading the letter again, tracing Rhenessa's bold handwriting as if it were a path back to her. The words burned softly, each one dripping with affection and teasing promise.
She pulled open a drawer and withdrew fresh parchment — creamy, gold-edged, and scented faintly with marigold oil.
"Stella," she said, dipping her quill in ink, "I'll require a courier this evening. No delays this time — not even the threat of rain."
"Of course," Stella said, biting back a smile. "Shall I assume this message is… highly confidential?"
"Very," Talia replied, her tone playful but her eyes tender.
⸻
The Letter of the Sun
My Dearest Nessa,
Your words reached me today — and I fear my composure may never recover. I tried to read your letter in the presence of others, but I was soon reminded that diplomacy should never involve such language.
If your goal was to make me blush, you've succeeded. You may claim your victory the next time we meet — though I warn you, I fully intend to even the score.
Solara thrives, though it feels emptier without your fire beside me. I've thrown myself into rebuilding what this kingdom once was — laughter, music, light. I've begun painting again, though I can't seem to capture the precise color of your eyes. Perhaps because they change with your moods — stormy, bright, or burning.
You'd be amused to know that the courtiers whisper about how I glow lately. They say it must be the "warmth of peace." If only they knew what truly warms me.
Until your return, I will wait — not as a queen waiting for her ally, but as a woman waiting for her heart to come home.
Yours — always and dangerously,
Tali
⸻
When the ink dried, she sealed the letter with her golden wax sigil — a sunburst entwined with a flame.
"Send this immediately," she told Stella. "And not a word to anyone."
"As always, Your Majesty."
⸻
Across the palace, Maris sat in her chambers, brushing her hair before the mirror as Caelen paced behind her. His movements were sharp, restless — a man with thoughts too loud to be ignored.
"She barely looked at me," he muttered. "Not a word of warmth, not a hint of care. It's as if she's forgotten she has a husband."
Maris set the brush down and turned to him, her voice soft, coaxing.
"She hasn't forgotten, my love. She's… changed. Solara's people adore her, and the Empress—"
She paused deliberately.
"The Empress what?" Caelen pressed, jaw tightening.
"You've seen it," Maris said carefully. "How Talia lights up when that woman's name is mentioned. It's not diplomacy, Caelen. It's devotion."
He froze, eyes narrowing.
"You're suggesting she—"
"I'm suggesting nothing," Maris interrupted smoothly, rising to her feet. "I'm only saying… perhaps you've given her too much freedom. Perhaps she's found something — or someone — who makes her feel powerful again."
Her fingers brushed his arm, her voice honeyed.
"But the throne is still yours. The people still call you King. Don't let her forget that."
Caelen's expression hardened, though confusion flickered behind the anger.
"You think I should confront her?"
"No," Maris said, smiling faintly. "Not yet. The sun reveals its weakness when it's watched too closely. Let her burn herself out first."
She kissed his cheek softly, hiding the glint of calculation in her hazel eyes.
And though Caelen didn't notice, for the first time, it wasn't only jealousy guiding him — it was manipulation.
In the volcanic heart of Noctyra, the moonlight shimmered faintly over the palace of obsidian and emberlight.
Empress Rhenessa Daelora, conqueror of shadow and flame — the woman feared by generals and worshiped by poets — sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by half-open scrolls and a single golden envelope that smelled faintly of jasmine and marigolds.
The courier had arrived just after midnight, trembling and singed from his journey through the molten valleys. He hadn't even finished bowing before Rhenessa snatched the letter from his hands and dismissed him with a wave.
Now, she held the parchment like something holy.
"At last," she murmured, breaking the seal. "Let's see what my sun has set aflame this time."
Her eyes darted over the first lines, and slowly, her regal composure melted into something far less imperial.
The corners of her lips curved. Then her eyebrows rose. Then her entire expression dissolved into open laughter.
"Oh, Tali," she breathed, grinning. "So the Queen of the Sun does know how to tease."
The letter's closing line — "Yours, always and dangerously" — made her snort softly, an undignified sound for an Empress.
At that precise moment, her mother, Empress Dowager Serathyn, chose to appear in the doorway, expression mildly amused.
"I assume you're not laughing at a council report?"
Rhenessa hastily folded the letter, though her flushed ears betrayed her.
"Strategic correspondence," she said quickly.
Serathyn crossed her arms, one brow raised.
"I see. Does strategic correspondence often make you giggle like a lovestruck maiden?"
"Occasionally," Rhenessa said, entirely unrepentant.
Her mother sighed, shaking her head fondly. "If the Sun Queen has you blushing like this now, I dread to imagine what state you'll be in when she visits Noctyra."
Rhenessa smiled, eyes gleaming.
"Oh, when that happens, Mother… I doubt I'll be capable of speech at all."
Serathyn chuckled as she turned to leave. "Then heaven help your council."
When the door closed, Rhenessa sprawled back on the bed, letter pressed to her chest. The soft glow of shadowfire flickered over her grin as she whispered to herself:
"Dangerously, indeed."