*Belinda*
"Of all the things he could do…" Belinda clutched the arm of her chair. "No. No, it's not just that. It's her. He's not just helping with the war—he's joining her council."
He'll be stationed there. Living beside her. Breathing her air. Giving her everything, leaving them to help her.
Abandoning them.
Her fingers twisted the fabric of her dress into tight wads, trying to keep from screaming. But it was barely enough to stop her. The fury and disappointment welling inside were enough to drown her. The frustration–no, the very betrayal of it all. And this was betrayal.
A betrayal nearly as deep as the day Alexander went behind her back and fell in love with Parsul. When he broke off their engagement. When he married Parsul with her belly full of his child.
That day was the worst moment of her life. And now this? This was him screaming, without words, who his heart still belonged to.
Belinda could see the writing on the walls. What this choice, Alexander's decision to join that girls' council, really meant. He was choosing her. Again, he was serving her, prioritizing her.
Always her. Over and over, the same thing. Every chance he could take, Alexander found new ways to show how little he cared for Belinda compared to her. To them.
No–for both of them. Because he wasn't just going to be leaving her behind. He was forgetting their son. HER SON.
Just like he did with her for Parsul,. Belinda trembled so hard it made her hair fall loose from its perfect coil, cascading dark curls over her temples—mockingly soft against the heat in her skull. Her chest felt caged. Each breath tighter than the last. She pressed her fist against her mouth, but the scream clawing its way up her throat couldn't be swallowed.
Her painted lips cracked open in a gasping sob, but she forced herself to stifle it, covering her mouth until the pressure made her vision blur. She could not be overheard, not by the servants, not by anyone.
What if they were to hear her? Her pain? Her sorrow? How fast would the word spread among the nobles?
The whispered gossip that once again, Alexander was running to that woman's child. Once again, how he cared for Parsul and her daughter, not her. Not their son. Over and over, picking her over Belinda. How they would smile and laugh behind her back. Rip her apart. Jeer at her.
Worse, what would they report back to Alexander? Belinda could already imagine how eager they would be to report the smallest of infractions. And it made Belinda's stomach turn.
She had to force her pain down, deep down inside her, unable to show even the slightest weakness. She could never let her guard down. Whatever happened in this room would never see the light of day. No one could know, could see how lost and unraveled she was now. The perfect queen of Dawny, the loving wife of the king, the perfect mother. She strived so hard to keep up that image—for him. For herself.
Yet, it was still all for nothing. It was she who was going to be left out yet again. It was Belinda who was going to be left standing, all alone. The only one to witness her fall was the only consistent thing in her life, the only one who was loyal enough, trusted enough, to afford this moment of her character breaking. Julia, her one and only companion now.
Belinda stifled another heart-ripping sob, biting into her hand to stop the sound from getting louder. Her teeth cutting into the soft white of her perfect hand. The blood in her mouth tasted like copper and shame. She bit harder, until the metallic sting was the only thing keeping her upright.
The sight of blood triggered the old maid to rush back from the door. Her brows pressed together with great concern as she rushed to her aid.
"Your Majesty, you're bleeding!" Julia swooped in, face srunched up in concern, taking her hand from her mouth to immediately wrap it in a handkerchief, the white quickly staining red. "Please, don't hurt yourself like this."
"Julia," Belinda's voice cracked. Her grey eyes darted away from the desk, the letters strewn about. She was willing them to disappear as long as she could not see them. They would not exist, Alexander's betrayal would never happen, as long as she did not see the words written on the pages.
But it made no difference. Looking at the fire, it was like the very flames mocked her. Laughing at each shudder and ember of heat. Singing back the very words in every crackle, every spark of wood. Alexander was abandoning them. He was choosing that girl.
The words burned in her ears. She couldn't get away from them. Every flicker whispered the same truth: He chose her.
He chose her.
"I feel sick." Belinda's throat tightened. "No, I might cry."
But there were no tears in her eyes. Drier than her throat, tighter than her chest. Because what was the use of crying when your pain never mattered? She opened them to see the letter before her again—both of them. Hidi's and her husband's letters lay beside each other, displaying the same cruel joke.
At that moment, Belinda could feel the sickness leave her for something else. A coldness crept through her bones—slow and creeping, like frostbite in winter. Her body shivered, but not from the autumn air.
"I should have known, "Belinda whispered to no one. The words were brittle, like glass ready to crack. Her gaze was distant, her eyes glazed as if seeing ghosts.
"Your Majesty?" Julia gripped the cloth tighter around her hand, the splash of red staining the pristine white, ruining it forever. Red was always such an ugly color.
Belinda cursed the color just as much as she hated the silver. The color of that bastard girl's hair. Both mocked her, hurt her, but at the same time, made the pain numb. It was cold—colder than the wind howling at the window.
"He hasn't changed one bit." Belinda's voice was distant as she peered back down at he papers. Pulling her hand away from Julia's care, she gathered them all up. She lifted them to push into Julia's old hands, making her take them all. "Burn them."
"Your Majesty, this is-'' Julia tried, looking for something to console her, but it was well beyond that point. Belinda was too far gone. Her anger and her sorrow were morphing into something strange. Bitter and sharp.
"Throw it in the fire." Her words were silenced through the silent room, her grey eyes glancing to the hearth again. The fire that mocked her with the words. Still crackling like a thousand laughs.
Her own foolishness in thinking things had changed. That Alexander could see her. Love her. After years and years of devotion to him, honoring him, showing him all of her heart, her loyalty, her forgiveness, even after he had betrayed her, time and time again before. To finally let go of the ghost of Parsul and realize that it should have been her in his heart now. To think he would finally get over her.
How wrong she was. A fool. She had waited. Endured. Offered him every piece of herself. Every grace, every forgiveness.
And for what?
To watch it all burn.
Julia clenched the papers tighter, hesitating. "But your majesty, what about Hildenberg's letter?" She tried to reason. "His prince wants that–"
"Both of them." Belinda's tone snapped like a whip. The anger curled sharp in her gut, twisting tight. Her gaze cut upward, grey eyes turning silver with unshed tears and fury. "I said I want them both to burn."
Julia flinched, but only for a moment. Something passed between them then. A quiet shift. The older woman's expression softened, not with weakness, but with recognition.
This was different. This was not one of Belinda's usual tempests. Something inside her had changed.
"…Yes, Your Majesty," Julia whispered. She turned, crossing the room in silence. At the hearth, she stood still for a breath—then cast the letters into the fire.
There was no ceremony. No hesitation. Just surrender.
The white paper curled at the edges, blackening quickly as the flames seized them. Belinda watched as they turned to ash—each one a piece of her life she once guarded. The flames clawed at the names. At Hidi's looping script. At Alexander's clean hand.
And she thought, absurdly, of her wedding dress.
White. Once so full of hope. Now burning in front of her eyes, piece by piece, until the fabric was just soot. Her marriage, her love, her faith in him—it was all going up in the same flames.
Julia, ever quiet, took the iron poker and stirred the ashes until the fragments were scattered. Indistinguishable. Lost. As if they'd never existed. But Belinda could still hear them. The words had already taken root. Not his voice anymore, no—hers.
"Fool," it whispered. Little fool. She was Parsul's daughter. Of course he'd choose Ana.
When had he not?
She swallowed hard, the taste of heat and bitterness rising in her throat. Tears prickled behind her eyes but never fell. Her anger was too sharp, too consuming.
"I don't know what's worse." Belinda rose slowly from her chair. Her eyes were unfocused on the fire.
"Alexander is choosing to pick her up, or this isn't the first time he's abandoned me."Us. The word caught in her throat. It wasn't just her anymore. That had been true for a long time, hadn't it? Now there was another casualty. An innocent who should have never been touched by his father's sin. His biggest betrayal.
Alexander wasn't choosing a child. He was choosing one. Giving one the warmth of a father's hand... and leaving the other with nothing but the cold.
"How can he do this to Nicoli?" Her voice dropped, sharp and guttural, not meant for sympathy but for the gods themselves to hear. "How could he take himself away from his son just to run back to her?"
Her knees buckled before she could catch herself. "Gods damn you, Alexander—" Julia was already there, catching her as she fell, holding her firm.
"Your majesty," She cried, holding her up. Her old hands were firm and sturdy, gripping her tight as tears of pain and understanding filled her eyes.
But Belinda twisted away, shoving her off with a violent shake of her head. "No. Don't pity me. Don't touch me." She reached for the edge of the desk instead, clawing it for balance, her breaths breaking in shallow bursts.
She had forgiven him too many times. For his absence. For his silence. For his choices. But this was unforgivable.
The fire hissed in the hearth behind her, as if it too were ashamed. Julia stood nearby, waiting in silence until the queen's breathing steadied, her legs no longer trembling. Belinda turned toward her then, a pale figure framed by heartbreak.
Julia finally ventured to break Belinda from her trance."What are you going to do?"
"Do?" Belinda blinked at her, as if waking from some dream. The present was coming back to her. And she could see Julia waiting.
"What I always do."She smiled—no, sneered—biting into the powdery taste of rouge on her lips. A bitter aftertaste of years spent sculpting herself into a woman for a man who would never truly see her. Who never had. Who never will.
"We take care," she spat, "while he plays father in the meadow with that bastard." The flash of rage fell through her at the idea of the two together.
How happy they would be. Stealing Nicoli from a father just so she can have one! It was wrong, so deeply and utterly wrong. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. To their son! To Nicoli!
She moved in a blur, grabbing the heavy glass paperweight and hurling it across the room. It shattered with a sharp, ringing finality, sending shards across the floor. The glass shattered over the floor as both women stared after it in awe and expectation.
Julia flinched. Neither spoke. Until Belinda's voice returned, low and cracked.
"He's stealing Nicoli's father just so she can have one."She clutched at her own arms now, as though holding herself together. Her grief was a force, battering her from within. "What does he think he's doing?" Her voice broke again, splintered and hollow. "Just leaving us? Leaving Nicoli? For her?"
Julia moved in again, slower this time, gentler, but Belinda kept talking.
"To be a good father?" She scoffed, shaking. "Now he wants to be a good father? To her child? What about ours?"
Belinda turned to see Julia share her pain. But the old woman was wiser than to feed into it. She only firmed her hand around Belinda's
"Your Majesty, he will be back -"
"To just leave again, you mean!" Belinda snapped back sharply but crumbled right after. Her stance swayed, and she leaned into Julia's shoulder."Don't you see Julia?! It's the same."
Julia said nothing, only tightened her grip on Belinda's hand. But it couldn't stop the unraveling.
"He'll leave again. He always does," Belinda whispered through clenched teeth. "He never stays. Not really."
She trembled, covering her face, but even that couldn't contain the fury growing in her chest.
"No matter how hard I try. No matter how perfect I am. No matter how much I love him." Her voice darkened. Her fists clenched—hard enough to draw blood.
Tiny red crescents bloomed in her palms where her nails bit into flesh. She stared at them numbly, as though they weren't even her hands.
"Belinda—please." Julia reached out, her voice choked with worry, and took both wounded hands in hers. "You're hurting yourself. Let me help."
She gently wrapped her arm through the queen's, ready to guide her from the room. But Belinda's voice surged again, hoarse and vengeful.
"If he thinks I'll forgive him for this, he's wrong." She jerked to a stop. "This time, he's not just leaving me. He's leaving Nicoli. He's taking everything from him—"
"I know," Julia said softly, drawing her closer. She didn't argue. She didn't need to. She made her face tender and compassionate. It was a sight only reserved for Belinda as Julia looked over her like a mother would for her wounded child.
And Belinda was wounded. She was by the very person she loved. Such a wound would never heal. The cut would run too deep. She had fallen so deeply in love with a man who never chose her.
And this time… she knew he never would. The wound was fresh, but it came from the same knife. Only now, it had struck bone.
"I'll never forgive him," she murmured. "Not until the day he dies."
Belinda allowed herself to lean. She sagged into Julia's shoulder, the storm inside her settling into a silence more devastating than rage.
All fire gone cold, grief etched into every line of her face.
Her voice wasn't angry now. It was exhausted. Hollow. Like she'd reached the end of a long, bitter road with no turning back.
"He picked them again," she whispered. "Just like before." She could do nothing. Just like then. Powerless—not as a queen, but as a woman who had loved with her whole being and been left for it.
"I wish I could hate him," Belinda confessed. "If I could just hate him, it wouldn't hurt like this." But she couldn't. And it did.
It always would.
Her eyes turned toward the hearth once more. The fire hadn't gone out. It burned steady—mocking, as ever. The last of the letters had disintegrated, reduced to dark flakes swallowed by the embers. The white had gone black. Like a wedding dress reduced to cinders.
Like their vows, now hollow. Like love, turning to smoke.
Belinda watched the flames, as if waiting for some confirmation.
That there was no going back. That the fire would hold this line she could not cross again. That what burned could never be unburned.
Only then did she allow herself to turn away.
*Julia*
"Your majesty," Julia murmured, her voice as soft as the hands guiding Belinda with reverent care. She kept her hold steady, arms firm around her mistress as they reached the door and stepped into the hall. Belinda leaned on her like a child lost in a storm, her tears hot and silent against Julia's shoulder. Her body, usually regal and proud, had folded under grief—fragile, undone. The woman's usual power and strength had slipped in a rare moment.
A moment Julia knew was not to be taken lightly. Belinda's reputation was at stake as she lost control of her emotions.
To see her like this…
No one must see this. Julia instantly knew. No one must witness her like this, not this version of the queen. Belinda would never want to be seen in such a state. She always worked too hard to appear perfect- the ideal wife, Mother, and queen, and Belinda always had to be pristine.
So it was her role to ensure that whatever was precious to Belinda would be protected. Had to be.
Julia's chest tightened with fury as she guided Belinda to the door, stepping into the hall. She scanned the corridor with a cold, practiced eye. staring down the maids bussing about. It certainly was busy this morning. But Julia could handle them. They were younger maids and more impressionable.
"Ladies," she said sharply, her voice a whip-crack. Julia gave each of them a firm, dark stare. The younger maids startled, their eyes wide as they caught sight of the Queen in a fragile state. But one look from Julia silenced them. Her eyes, hard as iron, said it all: You didn't see a damn thing.
Good. Julia lifted her chin, rage simmering in her throat. feeling her job was done. Though she could not say if they would speak of this later. Spies were everywhere, but that could be a good thing. He should know.
Let the King know how hurt Belinda is. Julia burned with anger in her chest. Bitter with rage. He was the cause of all her pain. Tell him and let him feel guilty. He should feel guilty for doing this to someone who loves him sincerely.
Let him feel a fraction of her pain.
If only Alexander could suffer half as much as Belinda did now. But even that thought, satisfying as it was, had to be swallowed back—for Belinda's sake. For all her pain, her mistress still loved Alexander. And for that, Julia would bite back her bitterness. Still, it burned.
All these years. She had been with Belinda from the very beginning—Every secret kept, every lie lacquered in lipstick and silk. Juliahad cleaned the blood from these halls more than once—hidden it under rugs, behind smiles, beneath veils of royal grace.
Every scheme, every betrayal, every heartbreak Belinda had endured—Julia had borne witness to them all.
She would do it again, a thousand times. For her. Always for her.
Belinda was everything. Her mistress. Her daughter in all but blood. Her cause. Her reason.
Julia had given her hands, her years, her soul. And she would give more still, if that was what it took to preserve her.
Julia could not curse the man who caused it—though the words trembled at the back of her throat. No, she would do what she had always done. She would carry the weight. She would protect.
Julia would protect her mistress as she had done many years before.
"It'll be fine," Julia whispered gently, steadying her mistress as she had done so many times before. "All will be fine in the end." There was no threat in her voice. Only steel. A vow whispered through the smoke.
If her hands needed to stay dirty so Belinda could stay clean, then so be it. Julia didn't like the things she sometimes had to do. But she'd do them again, and again, and again—if it meant sparing Belinda even a breath of pain.
Because no one else would.
She only ever cared for Belinda. What Belinda wanted, Julia would want. What Belinda feared, Julia would face.
And when Belinda no longer wanted, no longer needed—Julia would still be there.
Whoever becomes a problem, Julia will take care of it. That's how devoted she was to her mistress. She always would be. Anyone who made Belinda suffer…Julia would take care of it.
*Nicoli*
It was only after the muffled footsteps faded that the hidden door creaked open. Nicoli's tiny fingers pressed against the wood with hesitation, the door groaning softly as it cracked ajar, like even it wasn't sure if it was safe to come out.
But there was no one left. The study stood empty. Still, it didn't feel empty. The room felt full—full like a shadow that lingered even after the storm had passed.
The fire still burned in the hearth, low now, but steady—a living thing chewing through the silence. And the air… it was thick. Not just with smoke, but something heavier. The charred scent of burnt paper clung to the room like a ghost, stubborn and inescapable. It wrapped around Nicoli like a presence, like the memory of what he'd just seen—what he shouldn't have seen.
He stepped inside, the door left open behind him. A breeze from the hall slipped in, cold and whispering, raising goosebumps along his arms.
The smell was sharp. Acrid. Like scorched ink and secrets too painful to hold. He remembered the sound of the pages burning—how Julia had thrown them in so quickly—and how his mother had cried. Not just cried. Sobbed. Screamed.
Nicoli had never seen her like that before.
His mother—his strong, perfect mother—undone. Not from pain or injury, but something worse. Something invisible. He didn't understand it. Couldn't make sense of it. It made something inside him tighten and ache in a way he didn't have words for.
He moved closer to the hearth, drawn forward like a leaf in wind. His sapphire-colored eyes, so often bright and curious, had dulled to a deeper hue—shadowed now, older somehow. The world felt different. Like something had cracked.
Ash curled along the hearth like withered petals. He knelt beside them, fingertips brushing soot and dust. The heat from the fire flushed his cheeks, but his back remained cold. He sifted through the ashes, grey dust clinging to his hands, until he found a single, charred edge of parchment. His father's handwriting peeked through the blackened ruin, faint, familiar.
"The letter…" Nicoli whispered, eyes narrowing.
And now it was gone. Useless now. Whatever Hidi had written about Ana had been lost to the fire, and part of him knew it didn't matter anymore. He didn't need words to know that something terrible had happened. Something that had hurt his mother in a way he couldn't fix. Couldn't understand.
Why had his mother cried like that? Why was she angry at his father?
Why did it feel like something was breaking, and he didn't know how to stop it?
He thought of her voice, cracking as she cried. Thought of the way she cursed his father's name.
His father always smiled at him, patted his head, carried him in his arms, told him stories, taught him how to ride, and told him always to take care of others. Who told him to protect what mattered?
So why hadn't he?
"Did you do this?" Nicoli whispered to the fire, its glow painting orange across his cheeks. The warmth felt almost kind. But behind him, the chill bit deeper.
What did she mean by choosing Ana over us?
Nicoli frowned. Ana was part of the family—she always had been. He loved Ana. She was like a sister—she was his sister.
So why did his mother's voice splinter just from hearing her name?
Nicoli stared at the fire a little longer, wishing it could explain. It had eaten the words, the pages, the letter. Maybe it had answers too. Maybe it knew something.
He stared into the fire, wishing it would answer. But it only crackled, spitting tiny embers that danced and died before they reached the floor. It kept its secrets, the same way adults did.
There were too many quiet things—adult things—spoken behind closed doors. Words not meant for children, but heavy enough that he couldn't forget them. And now those secrets had crept under the door. Into him.
He didn't understand it all. Not really. But he wanted to. He had to.
"Ana," he whispered into the warmth, the name curling like smoke into the air. She would know. She had to. He could trust Ana.
But what about his father?
Nicoli bit his lip, unsure why the question felt so wrong. He didn't want to feel like he should blame his father. That he caused this, hurt her. Did something wrong to his mother. But it was there, a thin crack forming—because it was his father who made his mother cry like that.
And Nicoli didn't know what to do with that.
Thomas would be looking for him by now. He needed to go. He couldn't be found here. Not like this, in this room that still echoed with sobs. Not with soot on his fingers like guilt.
Still, he lingered.
"I don't like this," Nicoli murmured. He didn't like the weight of things he didn't understand. Didn't like how small he suddenly felt in a world that used to be so simple.
Nicoli sat still for a long moment. Long enough for the ashes on his palms to settle like guilt. He brushed them off, gray snowflakes falling from his skin. He would have to pretend. Pretend he hadn't seen her fall apart. Pretend he hadn't heard the sobs that split her in two.
He'd have to pretend. Pretend he hadn't seen. Hadn't heard. That he wasn't scared of what it all meant.
For now. Until he had answers. Until then…
He turned toward the hidden passage again, heart thudding in his chest, heavier than before. He stepped into the dark, one foot, then the other.
Then stopped.
For one breath, he lingered in the doorway, firelight spilling over the edge of his shoulder. The warmth was behind him now.
And slowly, the door eased shut. With a soft click, the light vanished, swallowed by stone.
The hallway was dark. And Nicoli was alone.
But something in him had changed—some small, quiet truth planted in the ashes of that moment. A knowing. A shadow that would follow him, quiet but unshakeable.
It was like a veil had been lifted over his eyes. The knowing had already settled in him like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples through everything.
He didn't know what to do with it. He didn't know who to talk to, or even if he should. All he knew was that his mother was hurting.
And somehow, without anyone saying so, it felt like his job now to pretend nothing was wrong for her sake. Or maybe for his.
He wasn't sure yet. The fire behind the door cracked faintly, but its warmth no longer reached him. Nicoli returned down the hall and walked on—sapphire eyes forward, back straight.
A child still. He didn't understand it all. But he understood enough.
He walked on, his soft steps breaking the silence of the still and forgotten space. Still a child—but something less than before. Or maybe something more.