The palace corridor greeted them with the echo of lanterns. The jewel at Lythienne’s throat sent tiny sparks of light as she turned to look at Alaric.

  Alaric held that look for a beat, then asked—half testing, half teasing. “Why do you get so hard when you hear Theron talk about matches?” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Jealous?”

  Lythienne stifled a smile that was not quite a smile. She stepped closer, her voice calm but authoritative. “I’m not jealous. I simply dislike the idea of our family name being put up in a bargaining market.” She emphasized the words with a firmness that carried protection—protection she had always given, and which now made her bold enough to cross lines.

  She clenched the fan in her hand, a motion so small only the palm would know. “I back my husband,” she said, then added in a tone soft yet commanding, “If that is your wish, I will consent. But the dignity of this house is not to be traded rashly.”

  Alaric exhaled, looking at her for a long moment. “Who ever said I wouldn’t want that? If Kaela is what you mean— I wouldn’t refuse.” The sentence came out plain, without flourish, but it left a mark that was hard to ignore.

  They walked on; their steps slowed, narrowing. Kaelith shadowed behind them, his eyes sweeping the corridor; his fingers rested not far from his sword’s scabbard. There was a thick silence, like heavy cloth drooping over the scene to hide it from the world.

  At a quiet junction in the corridor, Alaric stopped and looked at Lythienne with a mix of resolve and longing.

  “Where are you going?” he asked softly, his voice like a whisper holding the air in his chest.

  “To the garden. The children wait for me,” Lythienne answered, barely audible.

  That answer sounded like something Alaric did not want to hear. He glanced around—only the three of them were there. The corridor was hush, almost isolated.

  In a single breath, Alaric closed the distance; his movement was quick, almost an animal instinct rising before his reason caught up.

  “I need a moment,” he said, then his lips seized Lythienne—deep, demanding, too sudden to be fully refused.

  Lythienne pushed against Alaric’s chest, half-surprised.

  “Alaric— not here. What if someone sees? Kaelith is right behind us.”

  Alaric glanced at Kaelith; his look was enough to make the young guard straighten and lower his eyes in fear.

  “Kaelith already knows our secret,” he said softly but forcefully, the authority in each word. “Just a moment. The last time we—didn’t even get to finish anything.”

  He seized Lythienne’s wrist and pulled her into a darker alcove of the corridor. Kaelith halted at the entrance, taut like a bow drawn too tight.

  “Guard,” Alaric commanded. “And do not look.”

  Kaelith nodded quickly, his face pale.

  Alaric returned to Lythienne, closer, more urgent.

  “Tomorrow morning I leave for Thalasson. A long mission… supplies, and perhaps news of Kaela. This is the last chance before I go.”

  His voice was not weak—he was not a man who knew vulnerability—but there was a concealed restlessness inside him, something pressing too hard to be stopped.

  He kissed Lythienne again.

  This time Lythienne could not shape words; the kiss swallowed her voice, overwhelmed her refusal. She returned it because she knew the man, because part of her still kept feeling—but there was tension in her shoulders she could not hide.

  When Alaric began to pull her deeper into his embrace, Lythienne flinched.

  “Alaric—not here,” she hissed, truly frightened now. “This is a public place. If a servant passes—”

  Alaric did not answer. He only looked at her as someone who had decided before debate began.

  His movements grew more pressing.

  More demanding.

  More… forceful.

  Lythienne held her breath. “Alaric, w-wait—Kaelith… Kaelith!”

  Her voice cracked, reflexive.

  Kaelith stepped forward abruptly, but before he could turn—

  “Where you are!” Alaric snapped, a voice like a lash. “Watch the surroundings. That is an order.”

  Kaelith froze, his body almost trembling.

  The corridor seemed to contract; the world narrowed to a held breath, the rustle of fabric, and a pressure that left no room for words.

  Lythienne averted her face; her cheek burned between shame and fear.

  “Al—Alaric… quick… please, make it quick,” she whispered—not seduction, but a plea for it to end before danger came.

  Kaelith stood at the mouth of the dark recess, chest rising and falling, eyes fixed on the corridor’s far end, too afraid to look though the world behind him had grown too close, too still, too hazardous.

  Soon, the hush broke gently with ragged breathing easing.

  Alaric stepped out first, smoothing his clothes with a swift but arrogant gesture, as if he regretted nothing of what had just occurred. Then he returned to Lythienne, who was still adjusting her gown with slightly trembling hands.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He lifted the queen’s hand and—like an old habit, almost ritual—kissed the back of her fingers. This time it was soft, nearly sacred, in contrast to the haste before.

  “Pray I return to you, my dear,” he said low.

  Lythienne held his gaze, her voice flat, almost hollow.

  “You will return, Alaric.”

  He left, patting Kaelith on the shoulder as he passed. “Escort the Queen to the garden… and guard her while I am gone.”

  Kaelith bowed. “Yes, Prince.”

  When Alaric’s steps faded entirely, the corridor felt empty, cold, heavy.

  Lythienne did not move at once. She fussed with her gown, trying to erase its disorder, but her hand trembled slightly—not from physical exertion, but from shame clinging to her skin like a cold mist.

  Kaelith spoke softly, “Your Majesty…?”

  Lythienne gave a small start, returned from her reverie. She looked up slowly—her face still flushed, but not with the coquettish red of someone newly in love.

  It was the red of a queen dragged from her dignity.

  “Kaelith,” she said quietly but firmly. “Next time… if he does that in public and I refuse—you must stop him. That is an order. No matter that he is a prince.”

  Kaelith faltered. “But… he—”

  Lythienne’s look silenced him. The look of a queen, not a lover.

  Kaelith bowed his head quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Her expression softened fractionally, turning into quiet hurt. She bowed her own head, as if to hide the cheek that still burned.

  “See me to my chamber, Kaelith… I do not want the children to see me like this.”

  Her voice cracked—not breaking, but precariously close.

  Kaelith walked at her side, keeping a respectful distance, as if to shield the queen from the world that had just taken a small piece of her dignity.

  Along the corridor toward the royal chambers, Lythienne moved with grace—graceful as a queen who had only just realized that love could not only bind…

  but also cut.

  They reached her private rooms while the palace was still busy tidying the aftermath of the great meeting. Afternoon light pierced the high windows, illuminating Lythienne’s steps that looked flawless from outwards but held slight tremors within.

  Kaelith opened the queen’s door with proper respect. Lythienne entered, followed by servants who immediately bowed and moved to help with the jewelry.

  With one elegant motion that sliced the air like silk, Lythienne lifted her fan slightly.

  “Leave me alone,” she said softly.

  The tone was like a blossom, but its roots were command.

  The servants retreated without daring to ask. As they left, Kaelith began to close the door from the outside—but Lythienne’s voice halted him.

  “Kaelith.”

  He stopped at once.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  Lythienne turned halfway; the afternoon light caught the gem in her hair.

  “Come in. And close the door… from the inside.”

  The tone was gentle—yet an act of sovereign decision.

  Kaelith obeyed, shutting the door soundlessly, then stood at attention, keeping an appropriate distance.

  “Your Grace… is there anything you wish to command?”

  Lythienne turned slowly, both hands folding the folding fan she had held earlier. Behind her smile, an ember was hidden.

  “Kaelith,” she said softly but danger-laced, “tell me… do you have a woman?”

  The question made the soldier’s body tense for a moment.

  “No, Your Majesty. No one,” he answered.

  Lythienne nodded, as if the certainty she needed had been given.

  She moved closer; her gaze was regal but cold—like a queen appraising the quality of a rare blade.

  “Good. Then listen to me very carefully.”

  Kaelith inclined his head slightly. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Lythienne drew a small breath, not to calm but to arrange her words so control stayed in her hands.

  “Earlier…” she said softly, “Prince Alaric made… an impulsive decision in a place that is not for private matters.”

  She paused for half a second; her smile had faded.

  “And I do not want the consequences of… his haste… to spread through the palace in the form of a bloody scandal.”

  Kaelith nodded, understanding without needing more.

  “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  Lythienne stepped nearer; her voice lowered, more private—like silk over a dagger.

  “I want you to buy something for me. A potion. A potion to… ensure that no unwanted legacy arises from today’s events.”

  Kaelith gave no expression—trained guard—but he swallowed thinly.

  “Very well, Your Majesty.”

  “Because you have no partner,” Lythienne continued, her voice calm yet piercing, “people will suspect if you simply purchase it openly.”

  A slight smile touched her lips—subtle, pretty, and calculated.

  “Therefore before you return to the palace… you will stop by a brothel in the lower district.”

  She lifted her chin slightly, as if this were a strategic order.

  “Go in for a few minutes. Let people see you. Make them believe you had business there.”

  Kaelith bowed deeply. “I… understand.”

  “Good.”

  Lythienne stepped another pace closer; they were only a few breaths apart.

  “After that, only then buy the potion. Do not mention anyone’s name. Do not use palace funds. And… do not let anyone follow you home.”

  The queen’s voice turned cold.

  “If even a single tongue moves, Kaelith… that will be a very expensive decision.”

  Kaelith straightened.

  “No tongues will move, Your Majesty. This task is only for you.”

  Lythienne inclined her head slightly—a gesture she rarely offered to anyone.

  “Go now. I want this done before the sun fully sets.”

  Kaelith struck his chest with a clenched fist in salute.

  “I go this instant.”

  He turned and left quickly, nearly a shadow summoned by a secret duty.

  Some time passed—not long, but enough for Lythienne to sit on the edge of her dressing table, her delicate hand touching her lips as if erasing the last trace of an action that embarrassed her. Her stare was blank, yet dignity remained.

  Three soft knocks sounded.

  Lythienne rose, smoothed her gown into place, then opened the door a fraction.

  Kaelith stood outside, breathing a little steadier, his clothing neat though clearly hurried. In his hand, a small parcel wrapped in plain paper—unremarkable, unsealed.

  “Your Majesty,” he said in a low voice, “I have what you ordered.”

  Lythienne opened the door wide enough only for him and the parcel.

  “Come in.”

  Kaelith handed the package over and bowed deeply.

  “No one followed. No one saw.”

  Lythienne accepted the parcel with graceful fingers, then whispered—almost like a secret the world should not overhear:

  “Good, Kaelith. Your loyalty… saved my honor today.”

  Kaelith bowed again, deeper.

  “For the Queen—always for the Queen.”

  Lythienne closed the door slowly after him, leaving herself in a room that looked calm… yet inside her chest shame and anger piled, becoming embers that one day would flare into something much larger.

  Once the chamber door was shut, the silence fell like a heavy curtain. The room that usually felt like a stage of grandeur—silver-blue drapes, carved dressing table, night-rose scent—suddenly became the loneliest place in the realm.

  Lythienne stood with her back to the door for several seconds.

  Her breathing was steady, but too steady—sign that she was holding something in until it might break.

  She walked to the dressing table. The crystal surface reflected her face: Queen of Valterion, but with a faint red on her cheek and eyes still holding a tight glint. She touched her lip with the back of her finger—this touch was not romantic, but an appraisal.

  She loved Alaric.

  That did not change.

  Never would.

  But the way Alaric had pulled her into a narrow corridor, the way he demanded without considering space or eyes nearby…

  it made her chest hot—not from hatred, but because her dignity had been dragged from its rightful height.

  She, Queen of Valterion, had been turned into a secretive woman by the man she loved.

  And she had let it happen.

  That hurt more.

  Slowly, she opened the small parcel Kaelith had brought. The potion rested quietly in her palm—still, while her heart raged.

  She poured some into a silver cup, her movement composed. Even while her heart trembled, her body never forgot to be queen.

  The liquid swirled.

  She stared at it for a moment, then whispered to her reflection in the glass:

  “Lythienne… you let yourself appear weak. And the world never forgives a queen’s weakness.”

  Her tone was not anger at Alaric—but at herself.

  She drank the potion slowly—not as medicine, but as a secret that must be swallowed so it will not leak into the world. The bitterness touched her tongue; the taste of shame was far more bitter.

  If you'd like to light one little light for me:

  ??https://ko-fi.com/barunamarch

  But simply reading and enjoying this tale is more than enough—I am already deeply grateful.