Midnight veiled the palace in hushed stillness. The silvery moon poured its glow across Queen Roselin's chambers, washing the walls with soft luminescence. A flutter of wings broke the quiet as a pigeon landed gracefully on the ornate stone balustrade of her window. Roselin, ever alert, rose from her chaise without a sound.
The bird bore a tightly bound scroll, sealed with wax that bore no crest—only a smear of red, like blood smudged in haste.
She untied it with slender fingers, unrolling the message quickly. Her eyes scanned the curt contents.
"We can't wait any longer. Do it as soon as possible."
Her lips parted in a dry chuckle. Of course. The time had come.
Roselin moved back inside, her silk robe trailing after her like smoke. The chamber, warm with candlelight and scented with rose oil, felt colder suddenly. Her eyes flitted to the flickering shadows on the wall, the memories they seemed to mock. The rumors had reached her days ago: King Arthro had taken a new concubine—a dancer from Barbar. Fierce, sensual, wild. The kind of woman that fed the king's lust for exotic distractions.
Roselin sat back down at her vanity, staring at her reflection.
Such a man… she thought bitterly. And here I thought his heart belonged to Shithal. That woman had clung to him for years now, occupying the west palace where the king spent most of his nights. He rarely visited the queen's chambers anymore—except on ceremonial occasions, and even then with a forced smile.
She took a deep breath. There was no point drowning in resentment. What mattered now was that the pieces were in place. Inside the envelope, tucked beneath the letter, was a small parcel wrapped in silk. Roselin opened it slowly. A tiny vial lay within—emerald green, faintly glowing in the candlelight.
She smiled.
---
The morning sun broke through the palace arches, painting golden lines across the polished floors. Queen Roselin stood in her writing nook, composing a short message on parchment, sealing it with her signet.
"Shiao," she called.
Her maid, loyal and graceful, appeared at once. "Yes, my lady?"
"Take this to the king. Tell him I invite him to dine with me tonight. A private supper. Just the two of us."
Shiao hesitated briefly but said nothing. Her eyes, clever as always, showed understanding. "At once, Your Majesty."
Roselin watched her go, then turned toward the mirror again. She would not merely be a queen tonight. She would be temptation, grace, vengeance.
She spent the rest of the day in quiet preparation. No court duties. No idle distractions. The palace kitchens buzzed with energy as she instructed the head chef herself. She had memorized the king's preferences: roasted quail stuffed with pine nuts, seasoned with saffron and thyme; sweet honeyed carrots glazed to a perfect sheen; almond wine imported from the southern hills—the only vintage he ever praised.
"Do not overcook the meat," she warned. "It must be tender. Juicy. Perfect."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
By evening, the halls glowed with candlelight. The queen's chambers had been transformed into a haven of warmth and rich aromas. The table was set for two—intimate, romantic, and laced with danger.
Shiao entered with a long box in her hands. "My lady," she said softly, "it's time to dress."
Roselin nodded, rising. "Tonight, I must wear something unforgettable."
Shiao smiled. "The gown is ready."
She unveiled it carefully—the deep crimson silk catching the light like flowing wine. The gown shimmered, bold and seductive. Its embroidery was minimal, but precise—tiny threads of gold traced along the curves of the fabric in mesmerizing, serpentine patterns. It was the kind of dress that didn't scream for attention—it commanded it.
Roselin let the fabric fall over her shoulders. Shiao laced her in with gentle hands, adjusting the bodice to cling to her figure, letting the skirt cascade in a river of scarlet. The neckline dipped just enough to stir curiosity, the sleeves resting off her shoulders to reveal smooth skin touched by light.
Once dressed, Shiao brushed her hair back and pinned it up in soft waves. A touch of rose tint on her cheeks, a little gold at her eyelids, and glossed lips completed the look.
"My lady," Shiao whispered, stepping back to admire her, "you look so beautiful… it's such a pity the king has ignored this side of you for so long. But tonight—I believe he will see you with new eyes."
Roselin let out a sweet, silken laugh. "Then fetch me my perfume. The one with night jasmine and burnt sandalwood. Tonight, I'll remind him what he once longed for."
---
The hour passed in velvet silence.
A guard's voice echoed from outside the chamber doors. "Your Majesty… the king is on his way."
Roselin turned to Shiao. "Is everything prepared?"
"Yes, my lady. Just as you wished."
The queen nodded, took a final glance at herself in the mirror, then stepped out into the corridor. She walked slowly, purposefully, each movement flowing like liquid grace. As she descended the steps toward the entrance hall, the golden glow of chandeliers rained down upon her.
At the end of the hall, heavy footsteps approached.
The guards stepped aside. The doors opened wide.
King Arthro entered, tall and imposing in his dark tunic stitched with silver. His eyes swept over the chamber, then fell upon Roselin.
He paused.
For a fleeting second, something unreadable crossed his expression. Surprise? Admiration? Wariness?
Roselin bowed deeply, the folds of her gown swirling around her like fire. "Welcome, my king," she said, her voice like silk brushing against steel.
Arthro stepped forward. "My queen," he murmured, eyes not leaving her. "You look... radiant tonight."
She smiled and gestured to the table. "Come. Let me treat you to a feast you won't forget."
He followed.
And just as she turned, the faintest smile crept across her face.
King Arthro stood silently before the long, glistening table. An array of his favorite dishes were set before him, steaming gently in the candlelight. The hall was unusually quiet. No servants. No guards. Just Roselin, his queen, standing with an air of composed grace at the opposite end of the table.
He had not expected this.
Roselin was never one for such gestures—not in their time together. Not since their wedding night, which had been more political than personal.
"Quite the feast," he said finally, his voice edged with suspicion.
Queen Roselin smiled, unfazed. "You've had long days, my king. I thought you might enjoy something warm and familiar."
He eyed the spread again. Something felt off. For months, their exchanges had been brief and formal. He spent his nights in the concubine quarters of the West Palace, and she never once questioned him for it. But now—this? His instincts whispered caution. He hid it behind a cool stare.
Still, he sat. Took a small bite. Then another. Every flavor was immaculate. Nothing seemed altered or strange.
After several minutes, Roselin poured two crystal goblets of wine and approached him. "Try this," she said, offering one with deliberate calm. "A rare vintage. From Ruttle."
"Ruttle?" He raised an eyebrow as he accepted the glass. "That quiet little village in the south?"
"Not forgotten," she replied. "They produce wine that's rarely spoken of but often remembered."
He sipped. Then again. The flavor lingered on his tongue, rich and dark. An earthy sweetness that grounded him in ways he hadn't expected.
They began to speak—not of duty, not of affairs of state—but of sculpture, and old songs from the eastern provinces. The sort of talk he hadn't shared with anyone in years. Even the concubines, despite their beauty, didn't speak to him like this.
Time slipped away.
An hour passed. Maybe more.
Then came the flush.
At first subtle, then growing. His skin heated beneath the layers of silk. He loosened his collar, confused by the quickened pulse, the ache stirring within.
"What is this?" he murmured to himself. "The food? No… the wine?" The feeling grew. It wasn't just desire—it was a kind of haze, a pull deeper than flesh. He stared across the table.
At her.
She said nothing. Simply watched him.
He rose slowly, unsteady on his feet. "Roselin," he said, the name falling from his lips with strange weight. "What did you put in that wine?"
She blinked, genuinely—or carefully—startled. "What?"
"You drugged me," he said, jaw tight. The fire in his veins burned too strong to ignore. "Say it. Tell me the truth."
Her voice trembled just slightly. "How could you accuse me so easily? I have done nothing but serve your table. I sat with you. Spoke with you. I missed your presence—nothing more."
His hands found her shoulders—not rough, but firm, searching. "This feeling. It's not natural. My body—it's not my own."
Roselin didn't back away. "Perhaps you feel things now only because you've forgotten what it's like to be touched by someone who doesn't have to pretend."
He narrowed his eyes.
"I know I'm not one of your concubines," she said quietly. "I know I was chosen for diplomacy, not affection. But I have still waited. Waited for the day you'd see me as more than just a name on a treaty."
He stared at her. The flush rising, the hunger growing, but so too did the confusion. He had never looked at her like this. And now—this night—it pressed on him like fate.
"I don't trust this," he muttered.
"Then leave," she said, voice barely audible. "Or stay, and see what it is you've ignored."
He looked into her eyes, searching again. Not for innocence. Not for lies. Just something real. He saw… restraint. A longing that had no place in their cold union.
Still burning, still uncertain, Arthro stepped closer. Not out of love. Not out of passion. But because there was no one else tonight—and because some part of him needed to feel seen, if only for a moment.
He guided her back—not forcefully, not tenderly, but with a quiet inevitability—to her chamber. The night felt carved out of time.
There were no gasps, no declarations. Only the quiet rustle of robes falling and the hesitant nearness of skin. She didn't resist. She didn't seduce. She simply allowed.
His hands traced her collarbone, her shoulders. Her breath hitched—not with desire, but with a depth he couldn't name. He kissed her neck. She didn't stop him. When he looked up, he thought he saw a tear, glistening just beneath her lashes. Or perhaps it was the flicker of the fire.
There was no passion. Only ache. Only two people, strangers in marriage, finding whatever warmth they could.
As the hours passed, their bodies moved together not in fevered want, but in slow, searching rhythm. It was not love. It wasn't even comfort. It was release—from months of silence, from duties performed out of obligation.
When it was over, they lay side by side. Not speaking. Not touching. Just… breathing.
His gaze drifted to the ceiling, mind churning.
"I will have that wine tested," he said at last, the edge back in his voice.
"You should," Roselin replied softly. "But sometimes, it's not poison. Sometimes it's simply what you've been avoiding."
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "And sometimes, it is what you fear."
She turned her face away. "As you wish, my king."
They fell asleep without further words.
And somewhere in the corner of the room, a single drop of dark wine caught the light—and vanished into the stone floor.
---