The city did not fall silent after the storm. It simply learned how to breathe again. The headlines thinned first, the sharp, hungry language softened into updates, then summaries, then footnotes. The Alarics' name slid down the page, replaced by newer scandals, newer curiosities. The world, ever impatient, moved on.
But the quiet that followed was heavier than the noise had ever been. Nara felt it most in the mornings. She woke earlier than usual now, not from anxiety but from habit, her body still braced for impact that no longer came.
The light crept into Helen's apartment in pale strips, settling across the floor, catching on half-packed boxes and folded dresses she hadn't yet decided what to do with. She sat at the small kitchen table with a mug gone cold, scrolling through emails she didn't immediately answer.
Praise had replaced suspicion. Invitations followed recognition, proposals arrived from names she'd once thought unreachable. Boards and committees wanted consultations, appearances, opinions. Everyone wanted to be associated with the woman who had orchestrated a royal ball and survived a public attempt at erasure without flinching.
And yet none of it felt triumphant. Success, she was learning, could be loud in its arrival and lonely in its aftermath. At H&N Events, the office had settled into a strange, careful calm.
Hellen moved through meetings with sharper confidence now, her voice carrying authority that no longer needed validation. The team worked with renewed precision, proud but cautious, aware that visibility made excellence non-negotiable. Nara watched them from her glass-walled office, fingers tapping lightly against her notebook.
She had won something, undeniably, but she had also lost the ability to move unnoticed.
Her phone buzzed. Keigh. She didn't open the message immediately, not because she didn't want to but because she wanted the quiet to remain hers for just a moment longer.
Keigh had retreated in his own way. The Dynamite estate, usually alive with motion, felt subdued. Staff moved efficiently, conversations clipped and respectful. His father had buried himself in meetings, leveraging the fallout to reinforce alliances and redraw lines of power.
His mother, however, had done the opposite.
She took to the gardens more often now, walking slowly among the hedges, inviting stillness like a discipline. Keigh joined her one afternoon, the sky stretched wide and blue above them.
"She's holding up," his mother said, not looking at him.
"Yes," Keigh replied. "She always does."
A pause.
"You didn't tell her everything," she observed gently.
"No."
"And you won't."
"No."
His mother stopped walking then and turned to him fully. Her gaze was sharp, not unkind.
"You can protect someone and still trust them," she said.
"I know," Keigh replied. "But some truths don't shield. They burden."
She studied him for a moment longer before nodding. "Just make sure you're not deciding for her forever."
That thought followed him long after she'd returned to the house.
Nara finally read his message that evening.
Are you eating?
She smiled faintly and typed back.
Yes.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
I don't believe you.
She laughed quietly to herself.
I am. Hellen made sure of it.
There was a pause before his reply.
Can I see you tonight? No pressure.
She considered it. The quiet had been good to her but so had he.
Come by, she wrote.
They didn't talk about the Alarics when he arrived. They sat on the balcony instead, knees drawn up, the city stretched beneath them like something distant and manageable. Keigh leaned back against the railing, Nara beside him, their shoulders barely touching.
The closeness felt deliberate. Careful.
"I keep waiting for it to feel finished," Nara said after a while.
"Does it?" he asked.
She shook her head. "It feels… settled. Like the ground stopped shaking, but you're still aware it can."
Keigh nodded. "That doesn't go away. You just learn how to stand on it."
She glanced at him. "You sound like someone who's lived with it a long time."
"I have."
They fell quiet again.
"I didn't thank you," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For not making me defend myself."
Keigh turned to her then. "You never needed to."
Her throat tightened, just a little.
"That mattered," she said.
He reached for her hand, not pulling her closer, just anchoring himself there and she let him. For once, neither of them tried to define what they were holding onto.
---
Across the city, confusion lingered. People still whispered about the Royal Family's involvement, about why they had stepped in so decisively for a woman with no documented lineage, no visible claim. Analysts debated motives, social circles speculated in half-formed theories.
Keigh noticed it all and filed it away. The idea that had flickered through his mind earlier returned now and then, uninvited. He never let it linger. Some doors, once opened, could not be closed again. For now, it was enough to know this that Nara was not alone and she was not protected because of him.
That distinction mattered more than anyone realized.
---
A week later, Nara stood alone in the palace courtyard. She hadn't told Keigh she was coming. The palace courtyard was quieter than Nara had expected. No ceremony lingered here, no watchful eyes followed their steps. The stone beneath her feet was warm from the afternoon sun, the air scented faintly with jasmine and water from the fountain ahead.
The Queen walked beside her at an unhurried pace, hands loosely folded, posture relaxed in a way Nara rarely saw during public appearances. For a while, neither of them spoke.
It was Nara who broke the silence first.
"Your Majesty," she said softly, then corrected herself when the Queen smiled. "I.....thank you. For the statement."
The Queen stopped walking. She turned to face Nara fully now, her expression calm but attentive.
"You don't owe me gratitude for truth," she said. "But I appreciate the courtesy."
"It mattered," Nara replied honestly. "More than you probably realize. You didn't defend me as someone's… extension. You defended my work."
"That was intentional," the Queen said. "I would never reduce a woman's worth to her proximity to power."
Nara nodded. "People were waiting for me to say something. To deny, to explain, to justify myself."
"And you didn't."
"I didn't want my name to become louder than my effort," Nara said. "I've spent too long building something solid to let noise define it."
The Queen studied her with quiet approval.
"Restraint is a language few understand anymore," she said. "But those who do, remember it."
They resumed walking. After a few steps, the Queen spoke again, almost casually.
"You know, people still say you remind them of me."
Nara smiled faintly. "I've heard that too."
"Does it bother you?"
Nara considered the question carefully before answering. "Not exactly. It just… catches me off guard. I don't see it myself."
The Queen glanced at her sideways. "Others do."
There was a beat of silence, then Nara exhaled softly and said, half-smiling, half-joking...
"Maybe I'm your long-lost daughter."
The words hung between them longer than Nara expected. She meant it lightly. A deflection, a way to soften the weight of the comment, but the Queen didn't laugh. Instead, she slowed her steps, her gaze thoughtful rather than startled.
"Perhaps," she said.
Nara blinked. "I was joking."
"I know," the Queen replied gently. "But jokes often carry questions we don't yet know how to ask."
Nara's heart skipped not sharply, but noticeably. The Queen continued, her tone warm, almost amused.
"You wouldn't be the first truth history tried to misplace."
Nara laughed softly, shaking her head. "That would make for a very complicated revelation."
"It would," the Queen agreed. "And inconvenient timing."
They stopped near the fountain now, water spilling rhythmically into stone.
"Still," the Queen added, her voice light again, "if it ever troubles you, if curiosity outweighs caution, there are ways to find answers."
Nara looked at her. "You mean… officially?"
"I mean quietly," the Queen corrected. "With dignity. And without expectation."
Nara swallowed.
"I don't think I'm ready for answers like that," she admitted. "I've lived my whole life without them."
The Queen nodded, unsurprised. "Then don't rush them. Identity is not something to chase. It's something that reveals itself when you're steady enough to hold it."
She reached out then, resting a brief, reassuring hand over Nara's.
"You are enough as you are," the Queen said. "Related or not."
Nara felt something settle in her chest, not certainty, not fear but recognition.
"As for the resemblance," the Queen added with a faint smile, "perhaps it's simply shared strength."
Nara smiled back. "I think I prefer that explanation."
They turned toward the palace together, the conversation unspokenly concluded, but the seed had been planted. Not as a burden, not as a demand, just as a quiet possibility waiting patiently, like everything else that mattered.
---
Keigh texted her as she set her phone down.
Did you have a good day?
She smiled and replied.
Yes. Quietly good.
She lay back and closed her eyes, letting the stillness hold. For the first time in a long while, the world was not demanding anything from her. And for now, that was enough.