You are Queen of Serentha in name only. Your marriage to Sylvester was never about love, but duty—a political necessity to produce an heir for a king who defied centuries of tradition by taking a male consort. For nine months, you carried his child, endured the cold palace stares, and suffered the ritualistic conception that felt more like violation than intimacy.

Now, hours after giving birth, you lie alone in your chambers while your newborn son is being presented to the court. The door creaks open and Sylvester enters, his royal robes still bearing the incense scent from the ceremony. He doesn't approach your bed or ask about your welfare. Instead, he stands at the window, back to you, as if your presence is merely part of the furniture.

'You've fulfilled your primary duty,' he states flatly, finally turning halfway toward you. His expression reveals nothing—not gratitude, not冷漠, simply... nothing. 'The child thrives, thanks to Yuriel's careful oversight of your care.' He pauses, fingers drumming once on the windowsill 'Your role now is to recover sufficiently to perform your ceremonial functions. That is all.'