And these whispered solutions may target the king and pressure him to consider a different path.
For the future and the kingdom.
The tea turned cold.
Athalia realized she had not spoken for several breaths.
Lady Corinne, the quietest of the group, finally murmured, "Your Majesty, please do not distress yourself. The people respect you deeply. They simply… fear uncertainty."
Athalia's lips curved into a polite smile like a mask of silk pulled over iron. "There is no uncertainty. His Majesty and I remain united in all things."
"Yes, of course," they chimed. "Naturally, Your Majesty."
She could read them clearly.
Their pity, their relief at speaking their minds and the hunger to see how the queen would respond.
By the time the gathering concluded and the noblewomen scattered with their dainty curtsies, Athalia's composure was flawless… but inside her chest, a storm churned, slow and gathering strength.
She walked back toward the palace with Lira, her loyal maid, following closely behind. The corridors felt colder than usual, their long shadows seeming to stretch toward her.
"Your Majesty," Lira ventured softly, "you're quiet."
Athalia paused near a tall window of stained glass. Golden light poured over her face, illuminating her tight jaw and troubled eyes.
"Lira," Athalia murmured, "is it true? About Emelia?"
Lira lowered her gaze. "I do not know, Your Majesty. But I will investigate. However, if the news has spread, it's only normal for the people to feel joyful about it."
Athalia inhaled slowly. The air felt thick.
"And the whispers about Adrain marrying again?" she asked.
Lira hesitated, then nodded once. "Some say… it may be for the sake of the kingdom. Nothing more."
"Nothing more," Athalia repeated with a bitter softness. "A queen's worth reduced to a womb."
Lira looked up quickly. "No, Your Majesty. You are adored and respected. The kingdom flourishes under your influence."
"And yet," Athalia whispered, staring at her reflection in the stained glass, "all they see is what I have not given."
Her reflection looked back at her, beautiful and poised. A queen built from ambition, sacrifice, and secret bargains.
Her hand touched the cold glass. "Emelia is pregnant."
The words struck her like stones.
Her own sister now carried what the noblewomen believed Athalia refused or failed to produce.
Athalia's mind stung with the cruel irony.
She could have conceived years ago. Before the pact. Before the herbs. Before she became queen.
But she had abandoned all of that to secure her rise.
And now the people murmured that her crown trembled because her belly remained empty.
"Lira," she whispered, "I have given everything to this throne. Everything. And still, it is not enough."
Lira stepped closer. "Your Majesty… "
Athalia lifted her chin, her expression solidifying into something unreadable, yet cold, resolute, and dangerous in its stillness.
"I will not be threatened," she said quietly. "Not by gossip. Not by fear. And not by my own sister's good fortune."
She turned from the window, her gown trailing behind her like a shifting shadow.
"The kingdom believes it knows what a queen should be," she said. "They are mistaken."
In her voice there was no tremor, only the quiet promise of a woman cornered, of one who had sacrificed too much to lose anything now.
And as she walked deeper into the palace, the faint whisper of her pact echoed in her mind, reminding her that she had not only courtiers to contend with…
The Kingdom had a Victory banquet with noblemen and women present. The hall gradually emptied after the banquet, leaving behind only muted footsteps and the scent of extinguished candles mingling with roses Athalia had arranged earlier.
She remained seated long after the last noblewoman offered her curtsy, her fingers pressed lightly to her temple. The murmur of the women's gossip still echoed in her mind, soft, indirect, polite on the surface, yet sharpened underneath like thin blades disguised in silk.
Her lady-in-waiting, Lira, quietly stepped toward her. "Your Majesty… shall I help you retire?"
Athalia lifted her head, her expression composed but dimmed around the edges. "Not yet. I need a moment."
Lira hesitated, then nodded and stepped back to keep a respectful distance. Athalia's gaze drifted again to the long table where tea cups delicately painted with lilac blossoms rested in half-circles. She thought of how the noblewomen had sat around her laughing, gossiping, and pretending warmth.
She pressed her fingernails gently into her palm.
It had not been their words alone that unsettled her. She had endured comments about her childlessness many times, sometimes masked as concern, sometimes veiled in curiosity, and at times simply cold.
That day's remark, however, had carried something else. Something coordinated and rehearsed.
And woven into it all was the mention of Princess Emelia.
Pregnant.
The word had settled in Athalia's stomach like a stone.
Lira entered quietly behind her. "Your Majesty… shall I prepare your evening gown?"
Athalia did not turn. "No."
Lira hesitated. "Then… shall I call for dinner?"
"No."
"Your Majesty… what do you wish for?"
Athalia finally turned, her eyes cold, determined, and deeply shaken.
"I wish," she said slowly, "to be alone."
"Your majesty," Lira called out.
"I must rest," she whispered, though what she meant was that she needed solitude, needed space to breathe, to think, or to panic properly.
Lira bowed quickly and stepped back. "Are you feeling unwell? Shall I call the healer?"
"No!" Athalia snapped, harsher than intended.
Lira lowered her head. "Of course, my queen."
Lira bowed and slipped out.
Athalia faced the window, watching the sun sink behind the distant hills. The sky darkened, and her reflection faded into the glass.
She moved away slowly. "Lira," she said, her voice even, "fetch my cloak. I want fresh air."
Lira looked surprised. "Now, Your Majesty? It is nearly nightfall."
"That is fine." Athalia offered a small, controlled smile. "I will stay within the upper gardens."
Moments later she stepped out into the crisp twilight, the sky painted in shades of coral and lavender. Torches flickered along the palace walls, and the air carried the scent of damp earth and jasmine vines. She walked toward the stone railing that overlooked the eastern city and let the cool wind brush against her face.
"Lira," she said quietly, "what did you find out about Emelia's pregnancy rumor?"
Earlier that day, Lira had gone to confirm the authenticity of the rumors. Then she heard it.
An older market seller who was a woman who had seen generations rise and fall told her friend:
"What I saw today will stir the rumors more, mark my words." The noblewoman said. "I saw the Queen Mother preparing baskets of food and valuables to be sent to Princess Emelia in exile. I also think she is preparing for a grand feast when Princess Emelia gives birth."
"Emelia?" the friend echoed. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, it seems she is really expecting."
Those were the whispers that traveled quickly.
But one whisper in particular reached the palace walls as Lira headed back:
"Princess Emelia carries the next heir if the Queen cannot have one."
And the moment Athalia heard it from Lira, a cold certainty settled over her:
She needed to erase both Emelia and the child or secure her position another way which could mean producing her own heir first.
One way or another, the throne would not slip from her hands.
"Why now, Emelia?" she whispered.
Because that was the real fear.
Not the nobles. Not the gossip. Not even the whispers of a second wife.
But the sense that her sister's pregnancy was not a coincidence and a threat.
That the past she had buried along that she had made to secure her throne was slowly rising again.
That first sign of the future Athalia had fought to control was slipping out of her grasp.
As she stood alone under the twilight, the breeze shifted, carrying with it the faintest echo of a fear she had long tried to forget.
And somewhere within her, something began to unravel.
"Even in exile, you still want everything." She said clenching her fists. "I won't let you."
"Your majesty," Lira cut in. "Also, the people talk about bringing in a new wife. What do we do, if the King marries another?"
Athalia paused. She couldn't ignore this either.
"Lira," she said quietly, "how long has that rumor of a second wife been circulating?"
Lira hesitated before answering. "Months, Your Majesty. But subtly. No one dared speak of it openly… until now."
"And Adrain?" Athalia asked without turning. "Has he heard?"
"Yes," Lira said softly. "But he has not encouraged it. The king has always cherished you."
Athalia closed her eyes.
Cherished. Adored. Comforted.
And yet… even love could be bent beneath the pressure of a kingdom's expectations. A ruler could not always prioritize affection above duty, not when advisers whispered, nobles probed, and the kingdom waited for a future heir.
Footsteps approached from behind, not rushed, not hesitant but familiar.
Adrian.
"Athalia," he said softly.
She didn't turn at once. "You had left the banquet earlier."
"So did you. Lira told me the gathering distressed you." He moved closer, stopping at her side. His tone was gentle, but there was a tightness in his jaw.
Athalia kept her gaze on the horizon. "It was only gossip," she said lightly. "Nothing new."
"But tonight it affected you," he insisted. "I could sense it from across the room."
Finally, she turned to look at him. His expression was open, concerned, almost impatient for her to confide in him. Yet she could not. Not about the herbs. Not about the pact. Not about the fear that tightened around her each time the subject of an heir arose.
Instead, she chose what was safe.
Athalia met his gaze which was warm, sincere, and painfully trusting.
"Adrain," she whispered, "tell me honestly. Have you been approached about taking a second wife?"
He blinked in surprise, his hands tightening around hers.
"Is that what this is about?" he asked softly. "Athalia, those are nothing but shadows of palace talk."
"So you've heard them," she murmured.
"I have," he admitted. "But I answered the same every time: The queen is my wife. There is no need for another."
Athalia looked away, her voice low. "And if the pressure grows?"
"It won't change my mind," Adrain said firmly. "Not unless…"
"Unless what?"