Chapter 2
873 Words
Valarie POV
The chill wind cut through the room, sharp and unfamiliar, curling around my ankles as if testing me. It carried the scent of stone and smoke from the torches outside, mingling with the faint tang of iron from the palace gates.
I drew a deep breath, trying to steady the fluttering of my heart, but the air tasted bitter on my tongue, like warning.
The murmurs of nobles and servants hadn’t settled when the wind shifted, sudden and cold, tugging at the hem of my gown. The silk slipped against my skin, a reminder that I was exposed, visible, waiting.
Above the crowd, banners snapped to life. Dark fabric whipped violently in the wind, the red lion with black stripes catching the flickering light like it was alive, announcing something long before it arrived.
I forced my gaze away from the flags, though my chest twisted with an unbidden pang of anticipation.
Then came the soldiers.
Boots struck the marble floors in a rhythm that was impossibly steady, echoing through the hall like distant thunder.
Their armor caught the light in sharp, cold flashes, and the scent of leather and polished metal filled the air. No one dared speak; the murmurs faded to silence, replaced by the sound of controlled, unyielding movement.
The nobles parted, slowly, hesitating at first, then with a rippling inevitability. Silks brushed against silk, shoes clicked against stone, leaving a path open as though the room itself was bowing to him. My breath caught.
I stood there, barefoot on the cold floor, clutching the edges of my dress. Every instinct screamed at me to move forward, to run, to fall at his feet—but I froze, my eyes locked on the space between the soldiers, waiting.
A trumpet sounded, piercing and singular. The hall seemed to hold its breath.
Then he appeared.
Black robes shifted with him, heavy and disciplined, flowing over armor that gleamed faintly under the torches. His black hair was pulled tight, every strand bound, every movement controlled as if he were a living sculpture. Beneath the robes,
I glimpsed the glint of a lion’s sigil on his breastplate—familiar, yet… harsh, unforgiving.
My heart lifted for a moment. The prince I had imagined all these years—the one who had given me a red rose, the one who had promised me a greeting that would echo through the hall—was walking toward me.
His brown eyes found mine for a heartbeat, steady, unreadable. They held no warmth. No recognition.
I swallowed hard, trying to summon my voice. The words I had practiced for months, whispered in the quiet of my room, failed me.
Time seemed to stretch as his steps echoed closer. My chest tightened, the familiar thrum of hope mixing with dread. My fingers clenched at my sides, nails biting into the silk of my gown.
A smile tugged at my lips, fragile, unwilling to fully form. Perhaps he would notice me now, perhaps he would remember.
And then… he passed.
The air whooshed past me like a sudden gust. I blinked, shocked. He didn’t stop. He didn’t speak.
My voice, my longing, my hope—all of it felt small and fragile in the wake of his indifference.
“My prince!” I called, voice trembling, carrying farther than I intended.
He paused, just enough to glance back. The warmth I had imagined, the softness I had clung to in memory, was gone. Replaced with eyes sharp and dangerous, assessing me as if I were a curiosity, not someone he had promised to love.
“It’s me… Valerie,” I whispered, almost pleading.
His gaze slid down from my face to my bare feet, lingering just long enough to remind me of my vulnerability.
“Oh.” That was all he said.
The single word echoed in the hall, heavy and empty, a chisel striking through the marble of my heart.
Years of waiting, summarized in one word ‘oh'. A sound so small, so devoid of meaning, that I felt my chest cave in.
The maids rushed toward me, gathering my heels in their hands.
They whispered “Oh, my queen” barely registered. I didn’t answer. Words would betray me, would break me.
I stared after him as he moved through the hall, past the banners, past the soldiers, past the very air I had hoped would carry him to me. My chest tightened, lungs burning, and yet… I did not cry.
Queens do not cry.
And in the cold silence left behind, I realized that the prince I had dreamed of might never exist at all.
The wind shifted again, brushing against my face, carrying with it the scent of leather and iron, of polished metal, of distant banners—and with it, the bitter truth that my expectation had met the harshest of reality.
My grandmother’s words echoed in my mind: ‘…for the greater good.’
I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and let my eyes sweep across the hall, across the nobles who still watched me, across the empty space where he had just been.
Queens do not cry.
But inside, something fragile, once hopeful, shattered quietly, leaving only unease behind.
- Writer
