The king and queen met at the side of the hall, and without ceremony or hesitation, they embraced. It wasn’t the stiff, formal greeting I had half-expected from royalty, but something warmer and familiar. For a brief moment, the weight of the room seemed to ease, as though everyone present understood they were witnessing something private.

  When the king finally let his wife go, the queen’s gaze drifted past him.

  Her eyes moved slowly, taking in the length of the hall, the gathered people there, two knight captains, some servants and then us. Our unfamiliar cluster of faces clearly stood out. A flicker of confusion crossed her expression, quickly followed by surprise.

  “Dearest husband,” she said softly, her voice smooth, carrying an accent much like Lady Celestia’s—rounded, lilting, almost Italian in tone, a stark contrast to the king’s measured, near-British accent. “May I ask who these guests are?”

  The king’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice—not loud enough for the hall to hear, but close enough that the intimacy of the exchange was unmistakable.

  “Your niece has succeeded,” he replied simply.

  The queen’s eyes widened.

  Once more, her gaze snapped back to us, sharper now, searching, measuring. Whatever she had expected, it clearly hadn’t been this. The confusion was gone, replaced by something heavier—recognition, perhaps, or the dawning realization of what our presence meant.

  The king turned from his wife and bent down, scooping up his youngest with an easy, practiced motion. The little princess immediately wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled into him, as though she hadn’t seen him in years rather than days.

  “Welcome back, Gwen,” the king said fondly, pressing a kiss to her hair.

  “Father, father!” the little princess said, nearly vibrating with excitement.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Mother punched someone!”

  Okay, that was—not a sentence anyone ever expected to hear, maybe not in a royal palace, but certainly not from a princess. For a heartbeat, the hall froze.

  The king blinked once. Twice. Then he looked down at his daughter, then slowly lifted his gaze to his wife. An exasperated expression crossed his face, the kind that suggested this was neither the first time nor the last time such a report would be received.

  The queen, for her part, looked entirely unbothered.

  She continued scanning the hall, her sharp eyes moving from face to face with quiet intensity, as if weighing each person she saw. It was only then that our parents re-entered from the kitchens, possibly called by one of the servants. They approached the tables a little sheepishly, their steps hesitant, probably wondering whether they were about to be introduced all over again.

  The queen’s gaze passed over them, then going to our table… then stopped.

  Her eyes locked onto one particular figure.

  The prince, blissfully unaware, had his back turned and was still openly ogling Reika, his posture far too relaxed for someone standing within his mother’s line of sight.

  The queen’s expression sharpened and turned into like that of a hawk catching sight of prey, instantly.

  And just like that, the air in the hall changed again. Somehow, without a single word being spoken, everyone in the room could feel that something had just gone very, very wrong.

  The queen walked towards her son without saying a single word. Conversation died instantly.

  Her back was straight, her posture immaculate, her gait measured and unhurried. Each step of her boots struck the stone floor with a soft clunk—it became the only sound in the hall in that moment as everyone was utterly silent.

  Guards stilled. Servants lowered their eyes. Even we, despite not being the center of it all, felt the air tighten as though the room itself were holding its breath.

  When she stopped behind the prince, the queen spoke.

  “Alistair Caradoc.”

  The prince jumped like he’d been struck by lightning.

  He froze, shoulders locking in place, then he turned slowly, a mask of dread already carved into his face. Whatever expression he had been wearing a moment ago vanished, replaced by pure, unfiltered horror.

  The queen raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Are you not going to greet your mother?”

  The prince swallowed so hard I could almost hear it. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

  “U-uhm—yes. Yes, of course,” he stammered. “Hello. And, welcome back, Mother.”

  He stepped forward and made a motion to hug her. The attempt was awkward at best—too stiff, too hesitant, like a man approaching a bear he wasn’t sure was asleep.

  The queen accepted the embrace, but only just.

  Her arms came up, politely, returning the gesture in form rather than spirit. Her expression didn’t soften in the slightest. If anything, the stern line of her mouth made the moment feel even more ominous.

  The queen stared at her son for several long seconds, her gaze sharp and unwavering.

  “Well,” she said at last, her voice calm and precise, “what, might I ask, were you doing that you were so distracted you failed to greet the queen?”

  Not mother. The queen. That distinction landed like a blade on the prince.

  Reika, to her credit, subtly lowered herself—just a fraction—angling her posture so she wouldn’t stand out. It was the kind of instinctive move someone made when they realized they were standing too close to an incoming storm.

  The prince swallowed. “I—I was,” he began, then stopped. His eyes flicked sideways, anywhere but at his mother. “I was just discussing, with our guests the possibility of me joining their practices.”

  The queen’s eyebrow rose a millimeter. The prince rushed on, words tumbling out faster. “So that I might gain real-world experience, of course. And become strong.”

  Silence. Then the queen tilted her head slightly.

  “So ingrained were you in this discussion,” she said coolly, “that you failed to hear any other voices?”

  She took a single step closer. “Mine? The king’s? The soldiers? The servants?”

  Each word was measured, deliberate and unforgiving. The prince’s eyes darted wildly now, searching the room for salvation. Sweat was starting to form on his forehead.

  “U-uh—” he started but did not finish.

  “I am waiting,” the queen said, without the slightest trace of mercy.

  The pause stretched, taut and merciless.

  “Or, is this how you discuss matters with our honored guests?” The queen continued, her voice lowering just enough to send a chill through the hall. “By making them wait for an explanation?”

  She placed emphasis on the word discuss, pressing it like a thumb into a bruise.

  From where I stood, I could practically hear the prince’s thoughts collapsing in on themselves. He opened his mouth again, desperate now.

  “I—I was only trying to be welcoming,” he blurted. “I thought it would reflect well on the crown if I—”

  “If you what?” the queen cut in smoothly.

  “If I showed—initiative?” he finished weakly.

  The queen regarded him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable.

  “Initiative,” she repeated, though her voice still held an icy edge. “Is admirable.”

  The prince visibly relaxed.

  “But,” she continued, and that single word erased all the prince’s hope, “manners are not optional. Nor is awareness.”

  Her gaze flicked—briefly, sharply—toward Reika.

  Reika visibly winced, her shoulders drawing in by instinct, before the queen’s attention snapped back to her son.

  “Well?” the queen asked coolly. “Any other reason?”

  The prince opened his mouth.

  Closed it.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Opened it again.

  A soft, humiliating choke escaped his throat as he tried to speak, like the sound of a thought dying mid-sentence. The queen’s eyebrows rose another fraction.

  “Oh?” she said lightly. “Does your throat hurt? Are you already tired from talking?” She tilted her head, mock-concerned. “You must have spoken at length with our guests, then.”

  “Y—yes,” the prince answered quickly, seizing the lifeline she’d thrown him. “A lot! I learned… tons.”

  It was, to anyone with ears, a lie. In my life, when my mother was angry at me or my brother, we found that lying tends to make things—worse especially if she knows.

  “Very well,” the queen said, nodding once.

  Then she turned, not to her son, but to the two knights who arrived with them.

  “It seems the prince is tired for today,” she said pleasantly. “Captains, please escort him back to his chambers so that he may rest.”

  She turned back to the prince, her expression sharpening again. “You will excuse yourself,” she said, “and you will do so properly.” Then, colder still, “After this, I expect you to comport yourself, in the manner befitting your status.”

  The prince snapped straight as if pulled by invisible strings, the color draining from his face.

  “And tomorrow,” the queen added, her lips curving into a radiant smile—one that felt less warm and colder. It was the kind of smile that promised consequences should the wearer’s expectations not be met. “I will have the pleasure of hearing all about what you have actually learned.”

  “Yes, Mo—Your Majesty,” the prince corrected himself hastily.

  He bowed low. Too low. The kind of bow that suggested either deep respect or abject terror. Possibly both.

  Then, turning to face us, he did something surprising. For the first time since we’d met him, he excused himself perfectly—formally, correctly, without arrogance or hesitation.

  The queen inclined her head, satisfied.

  The two captains stepped in, flanking the prince on either side, and escorted him out of the hall. As they passed their fellow captains, both wore wide, unmistakable grins.

  And to my surprise, the two captains, ones escorting the prince, raised their eyebrows in a casual, familiar greeting. Familiar because, at least, from my understanding, it is unique to my country.

  Beside us, captain Aldric responded with a nod while captain Godwin raised a hand. Both were also smiling.

  When the prince’s back finally disappeared beyond the doorway, the tension dissipated almost instantly. Only then did the hall seemed to breathe again.

  The queen turned back to us, her posture easing, the steel in her gaze softening into something warm and human.

  “I apologize for that display, honored guests,” she said, her voice now gentle but with a hint of amusement. “It seems a mother’s duty is never truly finished.” She smiled, a real one this time—gracious and unforced.

  She lifted a hand lightly. “There is no need for anyone to stand. I would rather not ruin the evening meal for everyone.” Her eyes swept the hall once, kindly. “We shall catch up properly tomorrow instead.”

  With that, she turned away and walked back toward the king’s table.

  The moment she reached it, the atmosphere changed completely. She greeted her eldest daughters with warm embraces, drawing them close, laughter soft and familiar. The king joined them, one arm slipping naturally around her waist, while their youngest hurried in as well, clinging to her mother’s side like nothing dramatic had happened at all.

  Watching them, it almost felt unreal—how quickly the iron authority gave way to family warmth.

  Trayn let out a low whistle.

  Arthur leaned in and whispered, “Well. Now we know who puts their foot down in that family.”

  The two knight captains beside me blinked, clearly puzzled.

  I leaned closer and murmured, “It means… she’s the one in charge.”

  For a split second, they processed that—then both broke into chuckles.

  “Yes,” Captain Aldric said, nodding appreciatively as his gaze lingered on the king’s table. “She does indeed give off that feeling, does she not.”

  Taka tilted his head, eyes still fixed on the royal family. “The way she handled that—and everything about her. Her posture, the way she walked. Does the queen have a military background?”

  Shun waved a hand dismissively. “Come on, Taka. That’s just a trope. It could just be training. Like how, in early Japan, women were taught how to walk, speak, and carry themselves properly. I think there were even marriage schools or something.”

  Hanzo blinked and turned to him. “There are marriage schools in Japan? Isn’t that… made up?”

  Shun stared at him. “You’ve never heard of them? Some girls were gossiping that Reika would attend one once she graduates.”

  Hanzo shook his head slowly. “Not once. And that’s the reason why I think they’re made up.”

  Before Shun could launch into what looked like an impromptu lecture, Captain Aldric chuckled and stepped in, clearly amused by the exchange.

  “It is true,” he said, smiling. “Her Majesty did serve in the military.”

  Weirdly enough that made all of us straighten a little.

  “But she is former military now,” Captain Godwin continued. “These days, she is known by two titles throughout the kingdom.” He paused, just long enough to let the anticipation build. “The Queen—and the strongest mage.”

  There was a brief, stunned silence.

  I glanced back at the woman laughing softly with her children, one hand holding a fork, the other around her youngest’s shoulder. The image didn’t quite line up with strongest mage in the kingdom, and yet… after what we’d just heard about her punching someone and witnessed how she dealt with the prince, it made an unsettling amount of sense.

  “Strongest,” Arthur repeated quietly. “As in… strongest?”

  Captain Godwin grinned. “As in, most people stop arguing the moment she says something.”

  “…Huh,” Trayn muttered. “That explains the prince.”

  First Lady Celestia. Now the queen. And in the future Reika.

  I was starting to think that this world had a habit of hiding terrifying strength behind calm smiles—and females. Scary.

  ========================================================================

  At the king’s table, the queen ate in thoughtful silence.

  She knew very well that she ought to be paying closer attention to the hall. To the unfamiliar faces. To the young people who laughed too easily for those freshly torn from their world, and who would soon become figures of power whether they wished it or not.

  Observing them should have been her priority. Instead, she found herself distracted by her plate.

  She paused, fork hovering, then took another bite. The meat was crisp yet tender as well as juicy, the coating light without being fragile, and the sauce—the sauce—bound everything together with a balance she had never encountered before. It was neither overly rich nor timid, sharp enough to wake the palate but warm enough to linger.

  She exhaled softly through her nose.

  Remarkable, she thought, setting the fork down only to reach for it again a moment later. For all the magic in this kingdom, food like this was rare. Even more so are those that can make it. The master of the kitchens had out done himself with tonight’s meal.

  As she ate, her gaze once more drifted naturally across the hall.

  Laughter. Conversation. The would-be heroes clustered together, unguarded, the adults, possibly parents were nearby joining in, some even talked with the two knight captains. There was an ease to them that she suspected had not been present the night before—less tension in their shoulders, fewer guarded glances. They were settling in and adapting.

  Then something else occurred to her.

  Her fork slowed.

  She looked again.

  Then she tilted her head slightly toward the king beside her.

  “Dearest,” she said softly.

  The king looked up at once, attentive. “Yes?”

  Her eyes flicked briefly toward the tables below. “Where is Celes?” she asked. “Is she not dining with us tonight? Or has that girl buried herself in the archives again?”

  There was fondness in her voice, but also expectation. Celestia had always been like that—vanishing into duty, into study, into responsibilities she never should have had to shoulder alone. All in an effort to prove herself.

  The king’s mouth curved into a wry smile. He sighed before answering. “Due to her—let’s say, dedication to her duty,” he said carefully after another brief sigh, “after she succeeded, she fell ill.”

  The queen’s expression changed though the warmth softened into something with concern.

  “Ill,” she repeated. “How ill?”

  “Exhaustion,” the king replied. “Overexertion. She pushed herself far past what was reasonable. Now she has a fever.”

  The queen sighed internally. Of course she had to do that.

  That girl had always believed that if she simply worked harder—studied longer, stayed awake later, demanded more of herself—everything would fall into place. It was a belief inherited from a grandfather whose shadow loomed far too large.

  The queen for a brief moment remembered her father. She closed her eyes, then opened them again.

  “And where is she now?” she asked.

  “In her room,” the king said gently. “Resting. Under orders.”

  “Hmm.” The queen resumed eating, though her pace had slowed. “I leave for a time,” she murmured, “and she nearly works herself into the grave.”

  The king chuckled quietly. “Well, fortunately she has now stopped. She succeeded.”

  “Yes,” the queen replied, eyes drifting once more towards the hall below—towards the heroes, towards their future. “However, it seems the world has a habit of giving her burdens instead.”

  She took another bite, the flavor grounding her, even as her thoughts turned elsewhere.

  Rest well, Celes, she thought. We shall speak soon.

  “Dearest, the master of the kitchens has truly outdone himself today,” the queen said, allowing the last of her tension to slip from her shoulders as she reached for another helping. “My compliments to him.”

  When no reply came at once, she paused mid-motion and looked up.

  The king’s expression told her everything.

  It was the look of a man who had filed something away for later—the same look he wore when a report was too inconvenient to address over supper. She studied him for a heartbeat, then said nothing and continued eating, committing the matter to memory.

  Later, indeed.

  Later came after the hall had emptied, after courtesies were exchanged and the day’s noise had finally settled.

  The queen had washed and changed, shedding travel-stained clothes for something lighter, while the king sat at his study table in their shared chambers. A partition separated them as a female servant helped fasten the last clasps of the queen’s gown. Once finished, the servant bowed and withdrew quietly, leaving the room to its rightful occupants.

  Silence lingered for a moment. Then—

  “Ali Dearest,” the queen began, her tone calm but expectant. “What is this about?”

  The king did not pretend to misunderstand.

  “The one who cooked was not the master of the kitchens,” he said. “It was the mother of one of the heroes.”

  The queen closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again.

  “You let them cook?” she asked, disbelief sharpening her words. The queen’s tone made it clear, she was scandalized. “Dearest, hero or not, they are our guests.”

  She stepped around the partition, arms folding lightly. “And what, exactly, happened to the master of the kitchens?”

  The king smiled wryly and began to explain how Celestia succeeded during the night, however come morning, a problem occurred. “We believed he had stepped out on an errand. When he did not return, we had no suitable replacement in time. Lady Anna herself volunteered.”

  “Volunteered,” the queen repeated, testing the word.

  “Yes. And,” the king added, unable to keep the amusement from his voice, “she prepared a meal for Celestia as well.”

  The queen stilled. “…And?”

  “Your niece enjoyed it greatly,” the king said. “So much so that she managed to finish her bowl despite the fever.”

  That earned a soft exhale from the queen—part relief, part gratitude.

  “I will need to thank this Lady Anna properly later then,” she said. “Anyone who manages that deserves my thanks and possibly a reward.”

  Then her gaze sharpened again. “And the master of the kitchens?”

  The king’s smile faded. “Aldric and Godwin investigated. Their conclusion is that he fled. The time was between the heroes being summoned and morning.”

  “Fled,” the queen echoed.

  “The servants believe,” the king continued carefully, “that he committed many wrongdoings, secretly of course. Enough that the mere presence of the heroes drove him to leave.”

  That was not reassuring.

  The queen seated herself on the edge of the bed, the weight of travel finally catching up to her. Then a thought occurred to her. “They know, then?”

  “It was an accident,” the king said. “We were careful. But one of them mentioned it during conversation.”

  She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. It was another bad sign.

  “The servants we can manage. The one who fled is the true problem.” She looked up at him. “Who might he have reported to?”

  The king shook his head. “That, we do not yet know.”

  The queen leaned back, the mattress dipping beneath her as exhaustion finally claimed its due. Two months of travel, vigilance, and restraint flowed out of her all at once.

  After a moment, her voice softened.

  “Dearest,” she said drowsily, “did you find anyone interesting among the heroes?”

  The king thought for a moment.

  “Among the heroes?” he said at last. “Possibly four. Maybe five.”

  Her eyes opened a fraction. “And not among the heroes?”

  The king chuckled quietly, a fond smile touching his lips.

  “One.”