Chapter Text
The hour when the sun sits on the lowest of midday is the same hour when Tirel Castle crawls to a hush. A few floors beyond the throne is a parlor where the queen sits in rare reprieve near a large arched window, allowing herself to be spilled in golden sunlight. The warmth is blissful, yet vaguely burdensome.
A room swathed in muted rose, toeing the edge of old regality, Queen Diene occupies an armchair stiff with brocade and embroidery. Before her is an ornate low table: a cup of today’s tea, a saucer of scones, and a stack of unopened red envelopes from Ritania’s noble houses. Diene raises the teacup; the rest will remain untouched.
She doesn’t regard the parlor as a sanctuary—certainly not with its stiff upholstery. It is best as a temporary shelter from the day’s duties, and this moment marks a simmering halfway point to the boiling pressure that is tonight’s ball.
Usually, she takes her afternoon rest alone, but Krau’s presence in the seat across from her is an exception she allows. Diene offers him her plate of scones, to which the commander takes no second guesses before digging into the first bite. To break the silence, he grumbles that Taranor’s pastries have grown stale since the war. The queen nods, poised to take a first sip of her tea. She wonders about today’s brew, but before she can hint at any herb, he shifts the conversation—to what they both expected.
"It has been a while since I’ve seen Noard this heated in a Conclave session. Did you not even glance at my finest selection of knights and nobles I’ve been sending your way?"
The boiling tea scalds the tip of Diene’s tongue. She winces and puts down her cup. Of course. For what else did she call him privately today? The High Priest Noard turned that session earlier into a sermon of royal tradition, succession, and the oh-so-sacred duty of lineage—all of which hinge on her decision tonight. Krau is one of her closest friends, someone who wouldn’t mind receiving her next set of rants against marriage, or Noard, for that matter. This informality is what she needs right now, and probably ideas on how to stall this entire ordeal.
“Surely you jest, Krau. Noard should not have been any worried about my marital status in the first place. I am already married—to Ezera, to my people. I cannot imagine myself making a vow borne of political necessity.”
A partially correct statement; enough for most. Krau knows the remaining truth.
The commander finishes his second scone and brushes the crust off his fingers. “As your friend, I have always stood with you in your pain. Time moves, but your resolve remains immovable. Yet it also pains me to remind: you have delayed for as long as you possibly can.”
Diene folds her hands on her lap, letting out a little sigh. Royalty has only looked glamorous on the surface, especially when her first stretch of rule focused on ensuring mornings did not begin with rioting peasantry.
These are not things nobility indulge during their coffee; these are merely words printed on the daily paper. All they care about is frivolity, as they continue to egg on her romantic life. This singular aspect defines her queenhood to them, undermining the sleepless nights spent on the thankless job of running Ezera from ground zero. She learned to swallow the flood of politics shoved down her throat, and has also broken her back protecting their illusion of peace—and their eggs benedict.
“I am still entitled to delays. The Conclave underestimates what five years truly means—still a sapling, in the work of rebuilding a nation after war.”
The Conclave always hears her otherwise.
He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms. His face turns pensive, and a bit knowing. “Politics have indeed hardened you, Diene. I was hoping for your rawer honesty. Burying yourself in duty only buries your grief shallow.”
This is the second half of the truth Krau only knows. While Diene avoids repeating this topic for the past several years, it’s on point for him to dig through her memories, as if it were a mantra to be repeated. She isn’t aware he has taken into soul-reading, somehow. “Clearly, you’ve been waiting for a mention need not be said.”
Repeated acknowledgment indeed does not make her forget the past, but has it been enough for her penance in the present?
“Bask’s sacrifice—one of many—left me this burden of monarchy. I refuse to dishonor his memory, and this path is penance. The Goddess bestows what is just.”
It may be just one name, but this is someone she could never forget, and no one could ever make her forget.
Krau’s expression is a mix of serious, bordering pitiful. “Bask would feel more dishonored knowing you cling to a ghost. He would have wanted you to choose. And the Conclave, somehow, they’re still being gracious letting you decide. I fear, however, such grace will not extend any longer.”
Silence stretches between them, just enough for Diene to pick up her hopefully cooled-down tea. His statements have been the glaring reality she avoids—ironic when succession is one of the core duties she signed up for when the monarchy was offered to her.
She understands the inevitability, but the grief of losing Bask will always be too raw for her to even consider any other man in her life, let alone walk down the aisle. Thankfully, the commander understands her internal turmoil, but he can only do so much to fan the fire from reaching her.
Diene finally sips from her teacup. Today is a sweet blend of cranberry and an herb with faint spice her tastebuds have yet to place.
“–Just choose one among them, and they’ll keep quiet for the meantime,” Krau muses. “It’s all they want to see.”
—A strange hint of a flower, purposefully served to her before, lingers on her tongue.
Damiana. An aphrodisiac!
She spits the tea back into her cup, the taste of betrayal pungent on her lips.
Krau has something going on in his head when he tells her to just choose anyone to silence everyone for the meantime. But the thought of managing some pretentious, love-sick, and transparently power-hungry noble, only to reject him, does not sound only cruel—it will also knot more emotional strings in the long run. A few more months of leeway is likely the most grace such nobles can afford her.
Unless…the other side of the equation also exactly knows what she’s doing?
Diene sets the teacup down. “…I need to sort this out. Buy me more time, Krau.”
He raises an eyebrow. “How much longer do you intend to stall?”
“Send me your most trusted. He shall be my shield. For once the nobles ask, he shall be my answer. And he shall answer to me. Brief him on this temporary arrangement, and I shall compensate him handsomely for his trouble.”
The queen’s face shows a renewed expression—fiercely tempered, honed by years of restraint. She will earn the agency to delay as much as she pleases, to carve out enough time to pivot back to royal duties that truly matter. And perhaps, to finally begin sorting this grief she’s carried far too long.
The commander chuckles. “Quite daring, are we not? Certainly the Conclave won’t see through such deception?”
“I would like to see them try.”
Krau, deep in thought, gets up from the couch and paces to the window beside them. Like a filtering sunbeam, an a-ha moment crosses his eyes as he glances back to Diene.
“I shall send for Gideon Durnhardt. He shall dance with you at the ball. You may choose to favor him as little or as much as needed, but this only works if the Conclave believes it was your decision.”
Durnhardt…a name she hasn’t heard of at this point, surprisingly. Taranor has yet to send more representatives to Ezera.
Diene nods. “Then I’ll play the part. With luck, I live long enough to make a decision on my own terms. But Krau, make this clear to him: this ends when I say it ends.”
He slightly bows in return. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
She stares at the table, praying he is sensible enough to lend her a man not much older than himself. Goddess be damned if she ended up “favoring” a noble who can pass for her father. The wait between this afternoon and the ball is already unbearable. The thought of introducing a new player—even by her own hand—does not assuage the unease twisting in her stomach.
A single piece of scone remains on the saucer, likely the most palatable thing from everything going on at the moment.
“I do not look forward to it,” the Queen of Ezera murmurs. “But the farce begins tonight.”