At court gatherings, the nobles spoke carefully, choosing words that sounded kind and respectful, but the strain beneath their politeness was impossible to miss. Smiles lingered a moment too long. Compliments were weighed down by implication. Every conversation seemed to circle an unspoken absence.
One evening, Queen Athalia entered the banquet hall just as the musicians adjusted their instruments and servants finished laying the last courses on long tables covered in embroidered cloth. The chandeliers burned warmly above, casting gold across polished stone and silk gowns. Laughter drifted through the hall, practiced and measured.
She had taken only a few steps inside when she heard the murmurs.
"Three years without an heir…"
"It is not natural, is it?"
"Perhaps she cannot conceive."
"Should the king consider a second wife?"
"Hush. Do not let her hear."
The voices softened, but they did not stop. Athalia did not slow her pace. She walked forward as if nothing had reached her ears, as if the words had not struck deep and lodged there.
She took her place beside King Adrain at the high table. Her posture was perfect, her expression serene. A small, courteous smile rested on her lips, steady and composed. To anyone watching, she looked every inch the queen she was meant to be.
But beneath that calm, her ears burned, and her chest felt tight.
Adrain leaned slightly toward her. "You are quiet tonight," he said gently.
She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. "It has been a long day," she replied.
He nodded, accepting the answer without pressing. He raised his goblet and addressed the hall, his voice confident and controlled, thanking the nobles for their loyalty and continued service. The applause was immediate and loud.
Athalia joined in the applause, her movements precise. She kept her eyes forward, though she could feel the glances cast in her direction, lingering and assessing.
Throughout the feast, servants brought dish after dish—roasted meats, spiced vegetables, delicate pastries—but Athalia ate little. She lifted her fork when expected, tasted when required, and set it down again. No one commented. Everyone noticed.
After the banquet ended and the hall slowly emptied, Adrain offered her his arm. She took it, her hand resting lightly against his sleeve as they walked through the corridors toward their chambers. The stone walls echoed faintly with their footsteps.
Inside their private rooms, the doors closed softly behind them. The quiet was immediate, heavy in a way that had become familiar.
Adrain removed his outer coat and set it aside. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a softness strained by effort.
"They gossip because they fear uncertainty," he said. "A kingdom does not like unanswered questions."
Athalia stood near the window, looking out into the darkened gardens. "Uncertainty grows louder when people speak of it," she replied.
He sighed and moved closer. "I do not want their doubts to weigh on us."
She did not turn. "Sometimes doubt is heavier than truth."
He paused. The silence stretched.
"Do you doubt me?" he asked.
The question startled her. She turned quickly, her eyes widening. "No."
"Then do not doubt that we will find our way," he said.
She closed her eyes briefly. "I do not. I am trying."
He reached for her hand and took it gently. "Then trust me."
She wanted to. More than anything, she wanted to believe that trust would be enough.
But in the darkness of her heart, fear whispered its warning, quiet and persistent.
If he knew… he would never forgive you.
As the fourth year of Adrain's reign approached, the pressure grew harder to ignore.
During council meetings, the nobles framed their concerns in careful language. They spoke of "stability," of "legacy," of "future security." Their words were smooth, polished by years of political practice.
Athalia attended these meetings seated beside the king, listening as though the discussions were abstract matters of state. Yet she could feel their eyes turning toward her again and again, measuring her worth not by her counsel or her conduct, but by what she had not yet produced.
Adrain remained respectful in public, never allowing the subject to become openly accusatory. Still, restlessness began to show in him. He loved his wife, but the weight of expectation pressed against him from every side—advisors, nobles, foreign envoys, even the people beyond the palace walls.
One evening, he returned to their chambers later than usual. The lamps were already lit, and Athalia sat at a small table, reading. She looked up when he entered.
He did not remove his coat immediately.
"Athalia," he said, his tone careful but strained, "tell me truthfully. Have you spoken to the physician?"
She hesitated.
Only for a moment, but it was enough.
"Athalia."
"No," she whispered.
He frowned slightly, not in anger, but confusion. "Why?"
She lowered her gaze.
"If there is a concern," he continued, stepping closer, "we must face it together."
She shook her head. "Some things cannot be faced."
His voice sharpened despite himself. "Are you saying a child is one of those things?"
The words echoed in the chamber, louder than he intended. He caught himself immediately and took a step back.
"I am sorry," he said quietly. "I did not mean to raise my voice."
She looked at him then and saw what lay beneath his frustration—sadness, uncertainty, fear he did not know how to name.
She moved toward him and placed her hand against his chest. "We will be all right," she murmured. "Have patience with me."
He covered her hand with his own. "I have patience," he said. "I simply fear you are hiding something from me."
Her heart lurched.
"I am not," she said quickly.
He searched her face, his eyes lingering, trying to find reassurance there. Whatever he saw did not satisfy him fully.
He nodded once, stiffly. "Very well."
Without another word, he turned and left the room.
Athalia stood alone for a long time after the door closed.
Some days later, Lira approached her in one of the quieter corridors of the palace. The young woman's steps were hesitant, her hands clasped tightly before her.
"Your Majesty," Lira said softly, "may I speak with you?"
Athalia stopped. "Of course."
Lira lowered her voice. "The herbs… will they always be needed?"
Athalia stiffened. "You know why they are necessary."
Lira swallowed. "But the king grows more troubled each day. And the kingdom will not wait forever."
Athalia turned sharply. "Do you think I do not know that?"
Lira bowed deeply. "Forgive me. I only worry."
Athalia exhaled slowly. "Lira," she said, her voice quieter now, "I made an oath. A pact that I cannot break."
Lira's eyes widened. "Is it truly impossible to break? What if she deceived you?"
Athalia's throat tightened. "She said breaking it would demand consequences I cannot bear. And I fear she meant it."
Lira stepped closer. "Then what will you do?"
"I do not know," Athalia whispered.
The following morning, she forced herself to take the herbs again. The bitter taste lingered long after.
Yet doubt had already begun to take root.
What if there was no curse?
What if I am wrong?
What if the curse has faded, or never existed at all?
What if there is still time for a normal life?
But then she remembered the sorceress's eyes—unblinking, certain, without mercy.
The memory alone was enough to still her thoughts.
One afternoon, Athalia sat in the palace gardens beneath a sky washed pale by gentle sunlight. Sculpted hedges framed stone paths, and flowering vines climbed trellises with quiet persistence. Fountains whispered over marble bowls, the sound steady and calming.
It was here she gathered with the noblewomen for tea, a customary event meant to show harmony and grace.
Silk skirts rustled as the women took their seats beneath a light canopy. Silver trays carried pastries and cups of jasmine-scented tea. Conversation flowed easily at first, light and careful.
Athalia sat at the head of the gathering, dressed in a gown the color of pale rose. She was composed, elegant, and attentive.
Lady Verena spoke first. "Your Majesty," she said warmly, "the palace shines brighter these days. His Majesty's successes at the borders and the prosperity of the realm—such stability is a blessing."
"The king works tirelessly," Athalia replied.
"Indeed," Lady Riona added. "But you know how people grow restless when questions remain unanswered."
Athalia's fingers tightened around her teacup. "What questions?"
The women exchanged glances.
Lady Verena smiled. "Some wonder… when the kingdom might welcome an heir."
Athalia set her cup down slowly. The faint sound silenced the table.
"The future of the kingdom is in capable hands," she said calmly. "Rumors do not guide a realm."
The women bowed politely, but their expressions held quiet satisfaction.
"And have you heard of Princess Emelia?" Lady Verena asked lightly. "They say she is newly with child."
Athalia's breath caught.
"Emelia?" she repeated.
"Yes," Lady Riona said. "The kingdom celebrates. It is a
good omen."
The words blurred together.
Emelia was pregnant.
Everyone knew.
Everyone except her