Third Person's POV
The council chamber buzzed with anxious chatter. A month remained before the coronation, and preparations had consumed the palace — tailors, decorators, emissaries, and nobles alike working tirelessly to welcome the dawn of a new era.
But this morning, the dawn arrived with thunder.
The gilded doors slammed open.
King Caelen strode in, his steps echoing like drumbeats against the marble floor. Behind him followed a young woman — pale, trembling, her gown shimmering like moonlight.
The council fell silent. Quills stopped mid-scratch. All eyes turned.
Talia sat at the head of the long table, her posture regal, her gown of gold and ivory glowing softly under the skylight. She did not rise.
"Your Majesty," murmured Chancellor Idren, rising cautiously, "the council was not expecting—"
"You'll all want to hear this," Caelen cut in sharply. "It concerns the future of Solara."
He motioned for the woman behind him to step forward.
"This is Lady Lira of House Verenne," he said, his tone too proud, too loud. "My future queen."
The words struck the room like thunder. Gasps rippled through the council; a few nobles exchanged bewildered glances.
Lira curtsied, her eyes downcast, pretending modesty — though her pulse hammered with victory.
Talia's gaze didn't move. She simply folded her hands atop the polished table, the faintest smile ghosting her lips.
Caelen turned toward her, his voice swelling with rehearsed bravado.
"Talia, our marriage is over. You've made that clear enough. I'm done living in your shadow. From this day forth, I'm divorcing you — and naming Lady Lira as my wife. The people will see this union for what it is: the restoration of the crown's dignity."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Everyone waited — for outrage, tears, something.
But Talia only tilted her head, that serene smile sharpening into something that glittered like the edge of a blade.
She rose slowly, her gown whispering against the floor as light rippled over her like water.
"You're right, Caelen," she said softly. "Our marriage has been over for quite some time. I only stayed because I thought you might learn from your failures."
Her tone remained calm — too calm.
He faltered slightly, his expression flickering with confusion.
"If this is what you truly want, then so be it. You may have your divorce. You may even have your Lady Lira."
Her eyes finally turned to the trembling woman.
"Though I do hope she's ready for what comes with being tied to a man who mistakes his pride for power."
A few councilors stifled laughs. One or two even nodded in approval.
Talia's gaze returned to Caelen, her smile now pure, radiant confidence.
"You thought this would break me, didn't you? You thought I'd fall apart so you could rise again. But, Caelen…"
She stepped closer, her voice lowering to a whisper only he could hear.
"You just set me free."
Then, louder, for all to hear:
"Council, record it. As of this day, I, Queen Talia do Sol, consent to the dissolution of my marriage to King Caelen. Let it be known that his crown and his conscience are now his alone."
The chamber erupted — whispers, gasps, the scratching of quills as the decree was marked.
And through it all, Talia smiled faintly, sunlight streaming through the high windows and catching in her golden eyes.
Caelen stood frozen, his entire performance turned to dust in his hands.
He had expected fury.
He had wanted tears.
Instead, she gave him grace — and that was worse than any punishment.
As Talia turned to leave, Rhenessa was waiting by the doorway, her expression a quiet storm of pride and possession.
When Talia passed, she brushed her hand briefly against Rhenessa's, and the empress murmured low enough for only her to hear:
"You handle men like a queen. Soon, you'll handle kingdoms like an empress."
Talia's smirk deepened.
"Oh, my love… I already do."
The sun was just beginning to set over Solara's marble spires, painting the sky in bands of honeyed gold and rose. Within the east wing of the palace, laughter echoed faintly — high and bright, the kind born of denial more than joy.
Behind a half-closed door, Lira's soft giggle rippled like silk.
Caelen leaned back in his chair, boots crossed on the low table, a goblet of amber wine in hand. His face was flushed from victory — the self-congratulatory glow of a man who believed he had finally reclaimed control of his life.
Lira sat beside him, her hand tracing idle circles along his arm. The engagement ring — newly forged, heavy with gold and vanity — glittered on her finger like a captured sunbeam.
"Everything's falling into place, my love," Caelen said, smirking. "Once the coronation ends, the people will see who their true royal family is. Not her and her shadow lover — but us."
Lira smiled, the perfect mask of devotion, but her eyes flicked briefly toward the cradle in the corner — Sorren's old cradle, still covered in fine silk. It had been brought here on Caelen's insistence, a showpiece of his claim to fatherhood.
It made her skin crawl.
She forced a soft laugh, resting her hand over her growing belly. "And what of your people, my king? Will they welcome another child so soon?"
He chuckled, oblivious. "They'll welcome anything that restores the crown's glory. A king, a new queen, and an heir — that's all they ever wanted."
Before she could reply, the door burst open.
Maris stood there, hair unkempt, eyes blazing, her infant son clutched protectively against her chest. She looked nothing like the fragile mistress she once was — her anger lent her a kind of terrible beauty.
"So it's true," she hissed. "You parade her around the palace like a trophy now?"
Caelen's grin faltered. "Maris—this isn't your concern—"
"Not my concern?" she snapped. "You made me believe I mattered! That Sorren mattered!"
The baby whimpered softly at her rising tone.
Lira stood, her face pale but composed. "Lady Maris," she said gently, feigning innocence, "please, lower your voice. You'll frighten the child."
Maris's fury turned on her, sharp as a blade.
"Don't speak to me as if you care. You don't even know what love is — you're just a snake who thinks spreading your legs will make you a queen."
Lira's face flushed, but she didn't move.
Caelen rose, jaw tightening. "Enough! Both of you—"
Maris cut him off, stepping closer, her eyes burning with pain.
"You left me alone, Caelen. You left me when Sorren was barely breathing his first. You left me while I bled and broke, chasing your pride instead of your child."
He flinched — the truth striking harder than any slap.
"Do you even know the sound your son makes when he laughs?" she demanded. "Do you know the color of his eyes? No. Because you never looked."
The baby whimpered again, and she softened, rocking him gently.
"You could've had a family. You could've been a father. But all you ever wanted was a crown to hide behind."
For once, Caelen said nothing. His silence was heavier than any defense.
Maris turned her gaze on Lira one last time — calm now, cold.
"And you — I hope you get everything you deserve. Because when the shine fades and you're left with the man underneath, you'll wish you'd run."
Then she turned, her gown swirling behind her as she stormed out, the door slamming with finality.
The silence left behind was suffocating.
Lira stood still, her hand trembling against her stomach. Caelen sank back into his chair, his pride cracking for the first time.
"She'll regret saying that," he muttered, but even he didn't believe it.
From the hallway, the baby's soft cries faded — the last sound of innocence in a palace slowly rotting from within.