Third Person's POV
Five months had passed since the liberation of Auravell.
Under Queen Talia's and Empress Rhenessa's leadership, the former land of stone had begun to breathe again. The cities rebuilt, the markets reopened, and the people—once hollowed by tyranny—had begun to smile beneath the Solaran sun.
But back in Solara, time had not been as kind to King Caelen.
The palace was alive with purpose: servants rushing through the halls, artisans painting banners in gold and crimson, and architects reshaping the throne room itself for the coming Coronation of the Empress of Sun and Shadow—a spectacle unlike any in Auremera's history.
The world moved forward.
Caelen did not.
⸻
That morning, the queen stood before the great windows of the council chamber, sunlight washing over her like molten gold. The soft glow played along the silk of her gown, pooling at her feet in living light.
When the doors opened behind her, she didn't turn. She could feel the unease in his stride—the hesitation of a man approaching something sacred he once defiled.
"Your Majesty," Caelen said, his voice measured, almost gentle. "May I speak with you privately?"
"You may speak," Talia answered without looking at him.
He moved closer, his reflection appearing beside hers in the glass. He looked older—more worn—but not wiser. The weight of his mistakes had shaped his expression into something brittle.
"It's been months," he began, "and I've watched what you've become. The people adore you. The council praises you. Even I can see how far you've risen since Auravell."
Talia turned at last, her golden eyes steady and cold. "Go on."
"I only mean to say," he continued, his tone softening, "that perhaps there's still room for forgiveness. For… us. I don't expect what we had before. Only the chance to stand beside you again, as partners. For the good of the realm."
Her expression didn't waver, but her laughter—low, edged with disbelief—cut through the air like tempered steel.
"For the good of the realm? Don't dress your pride as patriotism, Caelen. You want to be seen beside me again because the world no longer sees you at all."
His jaw tightened, shame flickering behind his eyes. "You think I don't care? That I haven't tried to be better?"
"Tried?" Her voice rose, soft but sharp. "You've done nothing but wallow. You neglect your child, your duties, even your own dignity. You used to crave power—now you crave pity."
He flinched, his composure faltering. "I still love you, Talia."
"Then you should've acted like it when I needed you most."
Silence stretched between them. The sunlight through the glass turned amber, burning like judgment.
Finally, she took a slow breath. Her voice softened—not kind, but final.
"You have a son who still needs a father. Go to him. Be the man you keep pretending to be. But don't ever mistake me for your redemption."
Caelen stood there, every word striking deeper than the last. He opened his mouth, but no reply came.
Talia turned away, the conversation dismissed. The hem of her gown whispered against the marble as she walked past him—graceful, powerful, unshaken.
Behind her, the king stood motionless in the light of a throne room that no longer belonged to him.
Night had fallen over Solara.
The city glimmered below the palace like spilled starlight — golden lamps flickering between winding alleys, laughter and music rising from taverns that ignored the weight of crowns and consequence.
And from one of the lesser gates, cloaked and hooded, King Caelen slipped quietly into that glittering maze.
He moved with practiced ease, avoiding the eyes of guards and courtiers who still thought their king was asleep in his chambers. He'd made this journey many times before — too many.
Because somewhere deep within the sunlit capital, hidden in plain sight, waited a secret he'd been nurturing for four months.
⸻
The door creaked softly as he entered the townhouse. The room was dimly lit, smelling faintly of rose oil and honey wine.
A woman rose from the velvet couch near the fire — young, striking, the kind of beauty that was dangerous precisely because it knew it was temporary. Her hair was pale as moonlight, cascading in soft waves; her gown clung in all the right places, though it was far from royal silk.
"Your Majesty," she whispered, smiling as she approached. "You came sooner than I expected."
Caelen dropped the hood of his cloak, his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed. "I needed to see you, Lira."
She tilted her head, her tone teasing. "Or you needed to be seen at all?"
He chuckled, though the sound lacked humor. "You think me that pitiful?"
She slipped her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his jaw. "I think you're a man who's been denied too long."
For a moment, he let himself believe it — that her touch could soothe the ache of rejection, that her affection could fill the void where Talia's light once burned.
⸻
Later, when the fire had burned low, he stood by the window, staring out into the sleeping city. "I'm tired of being a ghost in my own kingdom," he said quietly. "They all worship her now — the perfect queen, the savior of Solara."
Lira's gaze softened. "You're still their king."
He turned toward her, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "A king in name only. She's already being called Empress, and I—"
He stopped, the anger in his voice breaking into something desperate. "I need to take back what's mine. To remind them I still rule beside her."
Lira hesitated, then rose from the bed, stepping toward him. "Then do it," she whispered. "Claim your power again."
Caelen looked down at her — young, eager, loyal only to what he could give her — and for a fleeting moment, he saw a path to redemption through her eyes.
"Maybe I will," he murmured. "Maybe you'll stand beside me when I do."
Her expression shifted, surprise flickering into something unreadable. "What are you saying?"
Caelen took her hand, his voice steady now. "I'm saying you deserve more than this. You've stood by me when no one else dared. You should be my queen, Lira. The people will see it soon enough."
Lira froze, her breath catching — then she smiled, slow and trembling. "Then there's something I should tell you…"
He frowned. "What is it?"
She placed his hand gently against her stomach, her eyes glimmering. "I'm with child. One month."
For a long moment, the room was silent except for the crackle of the dying fire.
Caelen's heart pounded — part disbelief, part exhilaration, part fear. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
"Then fate has chosen well," he said softly. "A son, perhaps. A new heir for Solara… one untouched by her."
Lira's smile faltered slightly, but she masked it quickly. "And what will you do now, my king?"
He looked out the window again, his reflection cold and golden in the glass. "Now?" He exhaled, voice hardening with purpose. "Now I take back what's mine — and no one, not even Talia, will stop me."
When Caelen left, Lira stayed awake — lying still beneath the silk sheets, eyes fixed on the flickering shadows the fire painted across the ceiling.
Her lips still curved in the smile she had worn for him, but the warmth behind it had long faded.
She rose quietly, crossing the room to where his goblet sat half-full beside the wine decanter. The faint scent of his cologne clung to the air — sharp, metallic, the smell of a man drunk on pride more than drink.
"My king," she murmured, voice laced with mock affection. "You think you're the one using me."
⸻
She stood before the mirror, tracing her reflection — soft features, pale skin glowing in the firelight. Once, she had been the envy of her circle, the adored daughter of a noble house that fell into disgrace after her father's failed trade ventures.
The crown had taken everything.
The taxes. The land. The name.
And so, when a lonely king came wandering through the market square one quiet evening and her eyes had met his — desperate and gilded with exhaustion — she had seen her chance.
At first, she had played her role carefully.
A secret companion.
A comforting ear.
A lover who whispered admiration where his queen offered silence.
But she knew men like him.
They needed to be worshipped.
And worship always came with a price.
"You'll make me your queen," she whispered now, resting a hand lightly on her stomach. "You'll raise my child under your banner. And my family will rise again."
Her eyes gleamed with quiet hunger as she imagined the gold returning to her house, her mother's tears drying, her father's debts forgiven.
"You want to take back what's yours, Caelen," she murmured, almost fondly. "But so do I."
⸻
She moved to the window, watching the silhouette of the palace rising in the distance, bathed in silver moonlight. The faintest smirk touched her lips.
"A king who's lost his queen…" she said softly, "is the easiest to control."
The baby — her weapon.
His guilt — her leverage.
And soon, when the time was right, the whole kingdom would know.
Lira extinguished the candle and slipped back into bed, curling under the sheets with the serene smile of a woman who already felt the weight of a crown she hadn't yet worn.