Seated upon the second, only slightly lower throne, Serenya let her gaze drift past the gilded arches and painted vaults, drifting instead to summers long surrendered to memory—the seasons when warm wind carried the perfume of real blossoms and her fingers were laced with another's, the one whose heartbeat still echoed in her palm.

She could almost taste the buttery crust of the loaves they once shared—small, habitual offerings pressed into waiting hands, traded for laughter, for secret smiles, for kisses stolen like ripe fruit in a sun-dappled orchard.

Now even that recollection chilled her. Bread's homely fragrance had been replaced by the cloying incense of hothouse roses; velvet and brocade clung to her skin like a borrowed disguise. The palace corridors—learned by time during her captivity as Cain's queen—remained as foreign as the day she'd been thrust into this glittering cage. And the sands of her first life had slipped through her fingers, grain by bitter grain.

Each night her dreams taunted her with moon-silvered visions of the only love that had ever set her free. Gentle touch had been replaced by jewelled manacles. Husband, conqueror.

The double doors groaned open. Serenya blinked away tears, spine snapping straight, chin lifting: the portrait of composure. Across the dais, Lilian—Cain's newest concubine—watched with sly understanding, eyes whispering 'I saw you cry'. Serenya answered with a court-perfect smile, then faced the doorway, refusing to grant the girl another thought.

A veteran guard entered, his weathered face handsome enough to survive Cain's brutal standards, standards that had condemned a maid for a broth-stained apron and a knight for a scar too vivid. Clearing his throat, he bowed.

"Your Majesty, the staff you requested await your appraisal."

Silence followed—Cain's favourite flourish, stretching just long enough to remind the hall that all breath belonged to him. At last he spoke, lips curling.

"Send them in. Let us judge your discernment."

Servants poured inside: maids clutching starched skirts, squires gleaming in new-forged armour, courtiers whose gowns were subtle bids for Cain's favour. Faces blurred—until one crystallised.

Time convulsed. Serenya's heart convulsed. Words dissolved into meaningless hum; her pulse drummed loud enough to drown the world. She was no longer Serenya Veldrith, the jewelled queen, but Serenya Lance—girl of fresh bread and starlight, standing barefoot in a field of clover.

Cain dismissed the recruits; then dismissed his queen and concubine as afterthoughts. Serenya's poise shattered the instant she cleared the threshold. She hurried, careful to hide the urgency of her steps, until her fingers rested upon a shoulder. Touch alone almost unmade her.

She withdrew her hand, rebuilt her mask, and spoke in the low, measured cadence suitable for a monarch.

"What are you doing here?"

The unspoken questions swirled like storm clouds: Why now? How? Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm, threatening to fracture the armour she wore as surely as a shield. She could not collapse into arms. Not yet. Words would have to suffice—until they didn't.