After she was ready, she sat at the dressing table. Her shoulders dropped a little — very few people ever saw her like that.

  She rubbed the nape of her neck. There was a strange feeling: loved, desired, but also humiliated. If Alaric had asked in a different way… she would have given herself completely without needing to be asked.

  But that corridor. Kaelith’s presence. Danger being seen. All of it wounded the part of her she guarded most carefully: her poise.

  She exhaled slowly, closed her eyes, and let a single second of honesty pass.

  “Alaric… why do you make me fall in love in such a complicated way?” she whispered.

  Her smile was small — bitter. She did not hate him. Even after everything, her heart still called Alaric’s name louder than reason. But she was a woman who chose a crown. And a crown leaves no room to be treated recklessly.

  With a gentle motion she called a servant. “Enter.”

  The voice returned to the queen’s — clear, firm, beautiful. The servants came in, arranged her hair, touched up her makeup, sprayed a soft perfume that restored her authority. Lythienne sat quietly, saying nothing, letting her face be rebuilt like a perfect mask.

  When everything was set, she stood. “Enough. You may go.” They bowed and retreated.

  Kaelith waited outside. He didn’t stare at the queen, but he saw the small change: a calmer face, eyes a touch sharper.

  “To the garden,” Lythienne ordered. Kaelith nodded.

  Before she stepped out, Lythienne touched the doorframe — then inhaled. She still loved Alaric. No potion could make that disappear. But that day, she loved herself a little more.

  Valterion’s palace garden was bathed in late-golden light, as if the sun had softened its voice when it touched the royal lawn. Trees swayed gently, leaves flashing. The breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and wet earth — a soothing smell, the opposite of the chamber Lythienne had just left.

  When Lythienne stepped in, the world seemed to straighten its back with her. Her blue-and-gold gown flowed softly; her shadow was long, graceful, and strong. Kaelith followed half a step behind — quiet, disciplined, blending into the background.

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  At the garden’s edge, laughter broke the hush. Three small children ran after silver butterflies dancing over the flowers. Aeliana spun, her brown hair catching the light, laughing freely. Aric swung a wooden sword as if daring unseen foes. Little Varian sat in the grass, watching a beetle with concentrated attention, his lips slightly parted.

  The children’s attendants rose promptly when they saw the queen. They nearly stiffened with formality until Lythienne raised a hand — a small gesture but beautiful.

  “No need to be tense,” she said softly. “Let them play.”

  The tone was different from the one she used when commanding inside the palace. There was no sharpness, no demand. Only… warmth. The children ran to their mother like three little bursts of light.

  Aeliana was first, looping her arms around Lythienne’s waist. “Mama! Mama look? I caught the butterfly four times!”

  “I’m sure the butterflies gave up when faced with your beauty,” Lythienne murmured, kissing the crown of her head.

  Aeliana blushed — her mother rarely gave such direct praise, and when she did, the world seemed to pause.

  Aric strode up proudly, brandishing his wooden sword. “Mama! I guarded Aeliana all afternoon! No one dared come near!”

  “Is that so?” Lythienne bent, touching her son’s nose with a fingertip. “Then Mama owes thanks to my little knight.”

  Aric reddened, proud.

  Varian arrived a bit later, stumbling slightly, then hugged his mother’s gown. His small hand was warm, sticky with candy. Lythienne bent to tidy his tousled hair.

  “My little one…” she breathed, her voice low, as if only for Varian.

  This was the part of herself she never gave to anyone but these three. She looked at them for a long moment — a gaze only a mother who truly loved her children could have. No politics. No demands. No dignity to uphold. Only pride, affection, and a small fear: the fear that the world she had built would not be safe enough for them if she let down her guard.

  “It’s getting late,” she said gently. “The air’s cooling. Let’s go home, hm?”

  Aeliana nodded without objection. Aric sheathed his sword with a flourish, pretending to be a grown knight. Varian lifted his little hand for his mother to take.

  Lythienne took his hand carefully, as if Varian were made of glass. Her eyes softened. Even in an expensive gown and bearing a high station, she lowered herself slightly to meet them — a gesture she would make for no one but her children.

  Kaelith watched from behind. He observed the shift: from a queen whose steps could command storms to a mother whose steps could calm a child.

  They walked home like a painted royal family. The servants bowed respectfully, but the children chattered on, scrambling for her attention. Aeliana showed a picked flower. Aric described imagined monsters. Varian kept holding Lythienne’s hand, not wanting to let go.

  And Lythienne — she smiled. Truly smiled. Not a salon smile, not a diplomatic smile, not a persuasive smile. But a mother’s smile that found peace only in these three small beings.

  Yet as the palace came into view, her posture straightened again. The mother’s smile slowly shifted back into the queen’s. Because she knew what waited behind those stone walls: intrigue, danger, wounded pride, and a love that simultaneously made her shiver and burn.

  She kissed Varian’s head once more before they approached the palace gates — before her step turned back into a queen’s stride.

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