Conversation

I watched the grand dining hall, my gaze moving from one finely dressed guest to another. The chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the polished silverware and delicate porcelain. Despite the beauty of the setting, a tension hung in the air like an unwelcome guest.

The king's voice, sharp and dismissive, had cut through the polite conversation, leaving an uncomfortable silence in its wake. My heart ached for Lady Celia, who had borne the brunt of his rudeness. Though Celia's expression remained composed, I noticed the slight tremor in her hand as she picked up her fork. We had only just met, but it was clear she had already found a way to irritate the king.

"May you accept my apologies," she whispers, her voice devoid of genuine regret. Her gaze fixes on the maid serving her a bowl of chicken soup, and she shifts in her seat, betraying no clear reason for her sudden displeasure. We all resume dinner, attempting to ignore the king's abrupt outburst. I try to concentrate on my meal, but a sudden question directed at me forces me to lift my head with all the effort I can muster, and it comes from none other than the very man who the source of my uneasiness is.

"My lady, I must assume you are aware of my true identity, so allow me to introduce myself once more. I am Lokai, cousin of the king, but let us save this topic for another time," he says, pausing to take a sip of his wine. What sort of apology is this? Lady Celia's apology to the king a moment earlier seemed far more convincing. Is this truly an apology, or merely a statement? He gracefully sets the glass back on the table and takes a napkin to dab at his lips before continuing. "My lady, how do you find your stay in the palace with the king's constant absence? I deduce it must be quite challenging," he asks, looking at me as if searching for any hint of deceit. I am unsure of his intentions, but I am certain they are not in my favor. I glance at the king, but he is so engrossed in his meal that I know I must respond myself. But how? As I ponder a reply, Lady Celia speaks, her laughter muffled.

"You know she's merely here to stay and produce this kingdom an heir, and there's not much for her to do when all she seems capable of is fainting at the mere thought of deceit," she says, gesturing towards the maids encircling us. She leans back in her chair, giving me a challenging look. "She's not like us, who fight and strive to maintain our kingdom's peace, so she has nothing to offer that could entertain you about her stay in the palace," she concludes, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. All I can do is bow my head in deep acknowledgment, realizing that her words, though meant to wound, speak only the truth. I have nothing to contribute regarding my stay here; there is simply nothing to do. I just gaze at the glass of water beside me, awaiting a nod of agreement.

"The question was for the queen to answer, not for your foolish outburst," a retort, lifting my head at the sudden reprimand. My gaze sweeps across the room until it settles on him—the source of the voice, Lord Edwin. Our eyes lock, and abruptly, the clamor of the room recedes into the background, isolating us in this fleeting, silent communion. He offers me a smile, one that pierces the tension of the moment, bestowing tranquility. I take in his features—sharp, distinct, and unmistakably handsome. There's an effortless poise about him, a serene assurance that I find strangely reassuring. Yet, it isn't affection or love that stirs within me—merely an acknowledgment of his steadiness, his dependability amidst this whirlpool of doubt. Lady Celia snorts, her contempt plain as she deliberately turns away, disregarding his intervention as if it were nothing. Her disdain only heightens the strain, and I perceive the focus of the other two men, excluding the king, pivoting back to me, anticipating my reply to Lord Lokai's inquiry. Time elongates, and the burden of their anticipation weighs heavily upon me.

I inhale deeply, attempting to forge a smile that doesn't quite illuminate my eyes. "Oh, it's... lovely," I say, my voice a gentle whisper, hoping it conveys the proper tones of gratitude. "The palace possesses its own... allure. The ceilings tower above, and the halls extend endlessly. It feels like... residing in a fragment of history."

Internally, a wave of unease washes over me. My thoughts drift to my mansion, with its warm, familiar rooms, where I'm not perpetually on exhibit. I yearn for those tranquil corners, shielded from scrutinizing gazes and severe assessments. Here, I am dwarfed, rendered inconsequential.

"But of course," I continue, my voice wavering slightly as I attempt to conceal my discomfort, "it's different from my estate in the countryside. My mansion is... more intimate. It might be less grand, but it possesses a warmth that I find... comforting."

I look around at the faces before me, hoping they cannot discern how much I desire to withdraw. They nod with such enthusiasm that it's unclear whether they genuinely understand or are merely humoring me.

"But truly," I interject, injecting a semblance of cheerfulness into my voice, "there's something to be said for the... hustle and bustle of palace life. It's a unique kind of splendor, isn't it?"

The conversation moves beyond me, yet my own words linger, haunting me. The palace boasts grandeur, but it's a grandeur that seems cold and remote. In contrast, my mansion, with its tranquil nooks and modest comforts, is where I find solace—away from the intimidation and the chilly expectations that besiege me here. From the room's corner, Bluebell catches my eye. Amidst the room formality, her presence stands out as a small, soothing beacon. She offers a subtle, comforting smile—a gesture so understated, yet laden with significance. Her eyes, soft and empathetic, seem to offer a silent vow that I stand not alone amidst the opulence and anticipation. Lord Edwin clears his throat and faces the king.

"Your Majesty," he starts, his voice piercing the commotion, "I must bring up the recent border damages. The casualty reports are disturbing, and the fortifications' damage will require months to mend. We must devise a strategy to tackle these problems before they worsen."

The king nods, his expression grave. "What of the reports of witches kidnapping children? Are there any new developments in addressing this menace?"

Lord Edwin's expression hardens as he replies, "The witch situation has become critical. Rumors and panic are rampant, and despite heightened patrols and investigations, we seem no closer to a resolution. A unified strategy is required to safeguard the children and to confront the base fears driving these allegations."

The atmosphere in the room becomes charged as the conversation shifts to grave topics. I listen, a mounting sense of horror creeping down my spine. What could they mean by abducting children? I've heard tales of witches and wizards' cruelty, and the fury they unleash upon the kingdom, but the thought of them kidnapping children for their nefarious purposes is utterly sickening and disturbing. How could anyone commit such an act? Unintentionally, I shift in my seat, my face betraying my unease—a detail Lady Celia observes with delight, not missing the chance to taunt me with a remark.

"Your Highness, your attitude reveals your lack of education and fragility, especially considering the challenges faced by parts of the region. Your flinching and uneasiness will not contribute to the kingdom's improvement. Perhaps you should stay in your room if you cannot come to terms with this," she said, her face contorted with anger. I still don't understand what I did to anger her so deeply, but I am sorry. From the corner of my eye, I caught Lord Edwin clenching his fist, and for some reason, it comforted me to know that someone else couldn't stand her. He was about to reprimand her again when, to my own and everyone else's surprise, I responded.

"Do you expect me to smile at this information, Lady Celia? Yes, I might be uneducated as you say, but I was taught to feel and understand people. With this, I can deduce that you are not pleased with the state of your kingdom," I whisper, my words trailing off softer and softer as I lower my gaze to my plate. Yet, I couldn't miss the smile on Bluebell's face and, shockingly, on Lord Edwin's as well when I spoke. Lady Celia, on the other hand, was seething with rage and about to retort when Lord Edwin interjected.

"Now we all know who is truly concerned about the safety of her people here but let us thank the king for bringing to the kingdom and palace a queen who cares more for her people than her wardrobe," he praises still with that gentle smile plaster on his face but at least it doesn't look force. As I raise my head to the king, who was also staring at me, our eyes lock with an intensity that feels almost piercing—a blend of concern and something else I can't quite identify. There's a conflict in his gaze, as if he's wrestling with something unspoken, before he shifts his attention back to his glass of wine. 

"What everyone can replicate are those insignificant words. What we need is a strong and trustworthy queen, not someone who sits in her room waiting for the king's dead body. We need a queen who will fight alongside our king. We need a fighter, not a crying cat; a warrior, not a damsel in distress," she said, knocking on the table to emphasize her point. She extended her hand but suddenly stopped to ask, "Do you have any ignis in you?" She asked, but I could only look back at her intense gaze, not comprehending her words. She sighed. "With this, we can deduce that she is not only useless but also lacks even an ounce of what I asked. Are you certain you can't convene a meeting with the high house and inquire about the purpose of this sudden marriage?" she said, turning to look at the king, who in turn shifted his gaze to me.

"Haven't your family informed or taught you about your ignis?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion. All I could do was shake my head again; I had never heard of this ignis, nor had I been taught about it. "So, do you know if you possess it or not?" he inquired, his deep and resonant voice filling the room like a soothing melody, echoing in the quiet spaces between us. Each question he asks vibrated with a richness that resonated to my core, grounding me in ways nothing else ever could.

"I don't know if she even understands what we're asking," came the unexpected remark, not from Lady Celia but from Lord Lokai, his voice tinged with amusement. "Regrettably, I must concur with my not-so-dear sister's statement regarding the kingdom's need for a strong queen. With all due respect, you cannot possibly be unaware of your Ignis; that would be shameful. But then again, it would be of the..." His tirade aimed at completing his sister's humiliation was interrupted when the king placed his glass on the large table. The sound wasn't particularly loud, but it was enough to capture their attention. He wiped his mouth and suddenly...

"Miss Bluebell," he calls, and all eyes turn to where the king beckons. He gazes at Bluebell, who seems reluctant to move, but as if pulled by an unseen force, she walks toward the table and stops at its far end, bowing to him. "You may come closer to the queen," he says, and she complies, approaching to stand near me. "How long have you been with Saltanat?" he asks, and I lift my head in surprise at the words that escape his lips. His voice softens, carrying a subtle warmth and tenderness, as if he cherishes every syllable of her name.

"Three years, Your Highness," Bluebell voiced, pulling me from my reverie. Her reluctance was palpable, and I could sense her discomfort. All eyes were now on the king, their gazes bearing unspoken questions. They seemed confused as to why he was questioning Bluebell when they had the opportunity to taunt me further.

"Three years, you say?" he inquires, nodding at her response before turning fully towards her, his knuckles still rapping on the table. I look between him and Bluebell, puzzled by the direction of the conversation, and it's evident that his incessant tapping is making her uncomfortable. Bluebell is usually unflappable—I remember how she chased him off the day I got locked in that tiny room, fierce and unyielding. Yet now, she seems as if she needs a respite, or for the world to split open so she can disappear into its depths. Redirecting my focus to the table, I'm taken aback to find everyone as on edge as Bluebell, anticipating the king's next move. I find myself equally apprehensive. "What about you, Bluebell? What about your ignis, or do you not possess any?" he probes. At his question, Bluebell's eyes widen as if she had foreseen it; the query lingers, pointed and unforeseen. The words hit her like a thunderbolt, eliciting a subtle flinch. Her breath hitches, her eyes briefly expanding before she regains her poise. Her grip on her gown tightens, the silk bunching under her clenched fingers. She parts her lips to speak, yet no words come out. For a tense moment, she is petrified, the collective scrutiny of the room bearing down on her oppressively. She gulps, quelling the knot in her throat, and at last, she musters a reply, her voice a mere murmur.

"I wish I could relay any form of information, but I am forced not to. May punishment be sent, but I am forced not to convey any of this information for either me or for my lady," she was about to continue when Lokai's voice boomed across the table.

"Your Highness," he said, raising an eyebrow as if he were any better with the lies, he had started. But this time, Bluebell seemed to have regained all her strength and arrogance as she turned slightly towards him.

"For you? I am aware, my lord," she said as he fumed at her rudeness. He was about to retort when she continued, "As I was explaining to my king, the information you seek does have an answer, one which I am compelled to withhold. I would appreciate it, if Your Majesty would refrain from further inquiries." With her final word, a plate was hurled across the room, shattering against the wall behind me with a jarring crash. Once again, it was none other than Lord Lokia who had thrown it. This time, he stood up and pointed a finger at Bluebell, whose gaze remained steadfastly on the king, returning his less than intense stare.

"What kind of peasant has been brought to the palace? She clearly has no respect for her queen, nor does she possess any for the king. The king merely asked a question regarding his queen, and yet you have the audacity to order him to refrain from further inquiries!" He roared, his voice laced with anger and fury, echoing off the walls. The words came out sharply, each one like a dagger aimed straight at her. His face, twisted with rage, turned red as his fists clenched at his sides, the air around us heavy with the intensity of his emotions. "She should be sent to one of our dungeons to be taught a lesson and to have some sense knocked into her," he declared. At his words, I flinched, fear tightening its grip on me. My heart raced, and I recoiled, feeling insignificant under the weight of this sudden anger of his. How could he possibly think of sending her to a dungeon? I know she often speaks out of turn but why condemn her to such a fate? she is not a criminal.

"My king?" Bluebell, who hadn't glanced once at the man in rage, called out. The king paused seemingly undisturbed with the sudden outburst of his cousin, his brow furrowing slightly as he pondered her words. His eyes grew distant, fixed on something only he could perceive, while his fingers absently traced the table's edge. A thoughtful expression took over his face, the corners of his lips curling into a faint, contemplative smile.

"Are you allowed to at least tell me where those answers are, or should I find someone else?" he asked, but Lokai seemed reluctant to let it slide.

"You are not going to tolerate this kind of behavior, Ileus. She must be..." he begins, but his words fade to a whisper when he meets the king's eyes. The king's gaze narrows into slits, a cold, piercing glare that could slice through steel. The intensity of his stare is sharp and unyielding, burning with silent fury as it locks onto its target. There is no mistaking the message in his eyes—pure, unfiltered disdain. "I mean, my king," he corrects himself before continuing, "she must be... punished." It seems he, too, has a habit of addressing the king by his name and feels concern.

"Yes, my lord, we could..." she began, but he raised his hand abruptly, stopping her mid-sentence. The gesture was firm and authoritative, brooking no argument. She fell silent, the unspoken command clears in his eyes as he held her gaze, his hand lingering in the air for a moment before slowly lowering it.

"Why don't we finish it in my study, my queen?" he suggests, beckoning me. It takes a moment, but I eventually nod. He stands tall, his kingly authority apparent in every gesture. As he turns to leave, a sudden pulse of energy surges through the air. Before we can step further, the world shifts around us. In an instant, the room's familiar confines become alien. With an unexpected flash, the air hums with arcane energy. A shimmering portal bursts forth, stunning the onlookers and enveloping us in blinding light. Moments later, we land with a thud on the cold, damp stone floor of a... dungeon! The oppressive darkness is immediate, the air thick with the stench of mildew and decay. The flickering light from a lone torch casts ominous shadows upon the walls.

"what"