The morning light crept through the palace windows, pale and hesitant, as if it, too, feared the day ahead. I watched my father from the edge of the council room, his posture stiff but faltering, hands gripping the table as if it could hold him upright. His chest rose and fell with the effort of each breath, slow, measured, yet weighed down by grief. I had learned to step lightly around him, to anticipate his needs before he could voice them. In the weeks since her absence, I had become more than a child—I had become the shield between him and the weight of a kingdom unraveling.
Rumors floated like smoke through the hallways, whispered by servants, courtiers, and the ministers who dared speak too freely. The Queen had left entirely, they said, taking nothing but what she could carry. Some murmured she had fled with the Beastwoman, leaving no word, no explanation, no pretense of duty. Others claimed she had simply vanished, taken by a desire for freedom that none could oppose. None of the stories mattered. The truth was clear: she had abandoned her place, her husband, her children, and the kingdom she swore to serve.
I felt the weight of it settle on me like a stone pressed to my chest. My siblings did not know how to respond. The older ones were angry, flailing in their confusion, unsure whether to cry, shout, or hide. They had known her, seen her laughter, felt the warmth of her rare attention. They had not felt the cold absence of duty like I had, the constant reminder that our lives had shifted irrevocably because one person chose her own desires over all else.
Father had barely risen from the bed of grief. Each day, he forced himself to appear in the council chambers, to speak with ministers, to remind the people that the kingdom endured. I followed him silently, carrying ledgers, ensuring his meals were prepared, that his robes were laid properly, that his hands did not tremble too obviously before the eyes of those who judged him. I became his anchor. His shadow. His child. The only one he could truly rely on in this unraveling.
The ministers were not kind. Whispers of scandal, of mismanagement, of abandonment spread quickly, like wildfire consuming dry leaves. Some argued that the Queen's absence left the throne vulnerable, that the King's weakened state required a regency, that the children should be removed from the line of succession until stability returned. I listened, cataloged every word, felt the sting of betrayal not for the first time. Her absence created ripples, and I had no choice but to navigate them.
I remembered the first moment I understood that her leaving would never be undone. I had wandered the gardens, attempting to calm my restless mind, when I saw a piece of her clothing fluttering near the gates—a pale silver scarf, delicate, embroidered with the crest of her house. It had been caught in the wind and left behind, a ghost of her presence. My heart clenched. I touched it briefly, as though holding the fabric could tether her back to us, but of course it could not. She was gone. She had chosen another. And all I could do was stand there and feel the weight of her decision crush my chest.
The days that followed were a blur of routine and observation. I became hyper-aware of the shifts in the household: the way the servants avoided speaking her name, the way my siblings cast uncertain glances toward her empty chambers, the way ministers and courtiers tiptoed around Father's grief. I noticed the subtle decline in morale, the tension in the air that made conversations falter, the quiet suspicion that the kingdom itself might crumble without her guidance—even if her guidance had never truly been sincere.
One evening, Father sat by the window, staring into the distance with eyes heavy and hollow. I approached him, carrying his evening meal, careful not to speak unless spoken to. His hands shook slightly as he took the plate, and I caught the faint scent of lavender lingering on his sleeves, an echo of her presence. He looked at me then, really looked, and for the first time since her departure, I saw raw vulnerability. The man who had been the pillar of our family, of the kingdom, was fragile. And I understood my role more clearly than ever: I would be the one to hold us upright.
I began to act with purpose. I attended meetings with ministers, quietly offering insights I had learned by observing Father's habits. I monitored the palace staff, ensuring order where chaos threatened. I instructed my siblings in the ways of duty, not yet expecting love or respect in return, only obedience. Every decision I made was in service to my father and the kingdom, a silent promise that I would not fail them as she had.
Evenings were the hardest. In the quiet of my chambers, I replayed fragments of her laughter, the stolen glimpses of her with the Beastwoman, the fleeting moments I had glimpsed when she had still resided in the palace. Rage and grief intertwined, a knot in my chest that would not loosen. I would never forgive her. The thought of her smiling freely elsewhere made my stomach twist, my fingers clench. And yet, beneath the hatred, a quiet curiosity gnawed: how could she live so easily, so fully, after abandoning everything?
It was during one of these evenings that I realized the depth of my responsibility. Father could not rely on ministers entirely—they whispered among themselves, plotting and speculating. My siblings were too distracted by their own shock and resentment to act with clarity. I alone could maintain the balance, the continuity, the presence of mind needed to preserve what remained. I was no longer just a child. I was a guardian of legacy, of stability, of Father himself.
I remembered the stories the ministers shared of distant courts where queens had abandoned kingdoms, of lands lost to greed and ambition, of heirs left unprepared to lead. I would not allow that fate to touch us. I would not allow her absence to become the kingdom's undoing. And in that resolve, I felt a clarity sharpen inside me, a purpose born from betrayal: she had chosen herself. I would choose duty. I would choose loyalty. I would carry the weight she abandoned.
And yet, even as I fortified myself with determination, the whispers persisted. Tales of her laughter, of her freedom, of the Beastwoman's presence in distant lands seeped into the palace like ink into water. Each story twisted inside me, mingling awe and fear, rage and obsession. I could not act on them; I could only witness from afar, my imagination painting vivid images of the life she had created without us.
The final confirmation came one afternoon when a messenger arrived, bearing a letter with her seal. She had left instructions for the care of our lands, of the household staff, and of her children—but no apology, no acknowledgment of grief, no explanation of her heart. Just orders, as if duty could be fulfilled from afar, as if absence could be replaced with ink on parchment. I read it silently, memorized it, and let the reality sink in. She had chosen this. She had chosen another.
I folded the letter carefully, returning it to the desk. My heart pounded, my hands shook, but I felt a strange calm settle over me. The path ahead was clear: protect Father, safeguard the kingdom, prepare my siblings, endure, observe, and remember. Her absence would not destroy us. I would see to that. And when the day came that she returned, when the Queen of my childhood appeared again in our halls, I would stand ready—not to forgive, not to forget, but to confront what her choices had wrought.
For now, I waited, loyal and vigilant, anchored in the knowledge that the weight of the kingdom rested on more than just a broken king. It rested on me. And I would not fail.