The Queen's private chambers were shrouded in silence, the last cup shattered across the marble, tea seeping like blood across the floor.
"That child…" she whispered, teeth clenched, breath shallow with rage. "That woman's cursed child has ruined everything."
For years, she'd played her part well—gentle hands in public, carefully veiled cruelty behind closed doors. The people adored her. The nobles respected her. The court priests revered her as the 'Hand of the Divine.' She was the grieving widow, the loving mother, the shining hope of the Empire's virtue. She'd crafted that image with precision.
And Carlos had cracked it open in a single night.
She'd fed the king lilies through his own hands, imported the rosewine herself, placed her trust in the chef she had raised from poverty. All of it had been perfect. Blameless. Soft enough to look like misfortune, deadly enough to guarantee the outcome. A painless sleep for Erevan, and power returned to her hands.
But the boy—her stepson—had carried the king in his arms, stormed the healer's quarters, and declared war on fate itself.
Now the chef was gone. Arrested. Tortured. The nobles whispered of Carlos's iron glare and fire-wrought will. And worst of all, the king refused to see her.
Not once.
Carlos had closed the doors. The healer—Lumira—stood at his side like a blade dressed in robes, and even the palace guards, those spineless dogs, now followed him.
She sat, trembling, until her rage calmed into something sharper. Colder.
Fine. Let them take the palace. She would take the Empire.
She dressed in white and gold—robes of purity. Her crown gleamed beneath her veil as she walked barefoot into the public chapel the next day, praying aloud for the king's health with perfect, trembling sincerity. Every citizen saw her tear-streaked face. Every noble in attendance bowed to her, whispers blooming like weeds:
> "The Queen is being kept from her son."
"Carlos the duke has taken over the palace."
"Even the healer serves the younger prince now…"
"Wasn't Carlos the son of the first queen? A common that become duke-born?"
She didn't need to push. She only had to be seen. The people would believe what they wished. And she gave them a story of heartbreak, of betrayal. A mother's love twisted by jealous hands.
Later that night, she summoned the nobles most loyal to her, cloaked in a private chamber beneath the Temple's shadow.
"He's made himself a king," she said quietly, staring into the golden wine in her cup. "Taken my son hostage and locked me from his side. You've seen it. You've heard it."
The nobles nodded, silent.
"And now?" she whispered, smiling faintly. "Now we make him the villain they fear. The usurper. The witch-child blessed by flame and shadow. We will give the people their hero—me. And we will give them someone to blame."
She looked up, her eyes glinting with something ancient. "Carlos will fall. And Erevan… he will return to my arms. As he always should have."