Queen:
The wind howled outside the palace walls like a beast mourning something sacred. Snow clung to the ancient spires of the Silver Palace, perched on the edge of the mountains where the sun rarely kissed the ground. Inside, the halls were hushed, but not with peace—with tension.
The Queen stood at the tall windows, her eyes narrowed on the falling snow. Even now, in spring, winter still kissed the North. Her white-blonde hair fell like silk down her back, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers laced too tightly to be at ease.
Behind her, the great oak doors creaked open.
“Your Majesty,” a servant’s voice said, low and reverent, “The messenger has returned.”
She turned, her gown rustling like whispered secrets.
“Send him in.”
A tall man entered, snow still clinging to his boo
