The Queen's Command

Content Warning: This chapter contains themes of PTSD, trauma, and implied sexual abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

"Who did—and what did they do?" the Queen asked grimly.

Caelan's gaze didn't waver.

"Lady Sakino."

The name landed between them like a dropped dagger.

The Queen's eyes narrowed. "Are you aware of what you're saying, Caelan Grey?"

"I am," she answered firmly. "Fully aware."

A sharp silence followed. No birdsong outside. No sound from the guards beyond the chamber doors. Only the quiet hum of tension winding tight.

Caelan inhaled deeply. "It was Lucian. He told me."

The Queen's brows twitched. "And the child knows of such matters?"

"No. That's the worst part." Caelan's voice dropped lower. "He doesn't even understand what he's saying. He doesn't realize what was done to him was wrong."

The Queen remained still. "Continue."

Caelan looked down briefly, fingers curling tightly over her knee.

"He said…" she began slowly, "his mother told him that if August had been as obedient as he was, she would've shown him some love too."

At that, the Queen leaned back slightly. Her chin lifted, as if distancing herself from the words.

"Love?" she repeated.

Caelan closed her eyes.

Her jaw locked. Muscles in her temple flexed. She took in a slow breath, but the way she exhaled made it sound like her rage was being caged behind her teeth.

"Your Majesty," she said, quieter now, "you may want to sit."

A pause. Then the Queen shifted slowly and walked to her velvet-backed chair. She lowered herself gracefully but with purpose — like a woman steeling herself for war.

Caelan didn't look away.

"He told me," she began again, "that his mother holds him tightly… in ways that make him feel strange. That she kisses him places that don't feel right. That she calls it love and tells him it's a secret."

The Queen's hands clenched slowly over the armrests.

Caelan continued, her voice never rising, but each word felt like a sword being drawn.

"He said she told him this is how people who really love you behave. That it's special. That he should be grateful."

Another pause. Caelan swallowed hard.

"He told her once that it made him feel weird… and she told him that's just how love feels. That he was lucky. That even August didn't deserve her love because he didn't listen. That if August had obeyed—if he hadn't resisted—she would have loved him too."

The Queen's gaze was no longer calm. Her fingers had turned white around the carved wood.

"And the boy…?" she asked softly. "Lucian?"

Caelan's voice softened at last. "He thought… if he let her do those things, he'd be a good son. That it meant he was lovable."

"He doesn't understand he was being used."

She looked up at the Queen, eyes glowing faintly in the filtered light through the stained glass.

"But I understand. And now… I know exactly who turned August into the boy who hated every woman he met. Who taught him to flinch at a mother's touch."

The Queen said nothing for a long while.

Then, slowly, she lifted one hand and pressed it to her chest — right above her heart — as if she were holding it in place.

"Lady Sakino…" she whispered, not in disbelief — but in fury.

A pause of silence. Then...

"Your Majesty… I understand your fury," Caelan said quietly, eyes lifting as she remained kneeling.

Her voice was low, controlled, but beneath it pulsed something colder—calculating.

"But please—let me handle this matter."

The Queen narrowed her eyes slightly, her silence weighing heavier than any raised voice.

"After all… she is favored by the king, is she not?" Caelan added with calm purpose. "If anything is to be done, it must be done carefully. Quietly."

A beat.

The Queen's gaze dropped to her — slowly, deliberately — the kind of look that could make even seasoned generals sweat.

Cold. Sharp. Final.

It was a "don't you dare fail me" gaze. The kind that made it clear: mercy would not be on the table.

Caelan held her ground.

Finally, the Queen spoke—smooth as silk, but edged like a blade.

"Fine."

She rose to her feet, the hem of her gown whispering over marble floors.

"But listen closely, Sir Grey. You'd better not disappoint me. Or make my son cry."

Which, of course, meant:

Do what needs to be done.

And don't get caught.

That wasn't just a warning.

It was a death sentence, politely sheathed.

Caelan remained kneeling, eyes downcast. A soldier before judgment. A hound waiting for the leash to be removed.

"Understood, Your Majesty," she answered. Her voice was calm, but there was something… coiled behind it.

She rose slowly — almost too slowly — the leather of her uniform creaking faintly with each controlled movement. She said nothing as she turned, boots echoing lightly across the polished floor.

But just before reaching the door, she stopped.

Her head tilted slightly.

Then, she turned back.

The candlelight caught the edge of her face — just enough to reveal a smile. Small. Crooked. Not warm. Not kind.

A wolfish grin that didn't belong in the royal court.

"And the boy?" she asked quietly.

Her voice was softer now — but not gentler. There was something dangerous about how still she stood, as if the question itself was a blade she was offering… or sharpening.

The Queen watched her in silence for a moment, expression unreadable. But behind her regal stillness, her eyes narrowed. She had seen smiles like that before — on commanders too loyal to be trusted.

At last, she responded.

"I issue you a new command," she said, turning slowly toward the window, where the light streamed golden across the tiled floor.

"You are to look after Prince Lucian."

Her hands clasped loosely behind her back, posture straight and shadowed in authority.

"See to it he grows… differently. Never like August. And never within reach of that serpent again."

A pause. A beat.

"Give him every reason to stay away from her."

Caelan's grin faded, but her eyes burned a little brighter. She nodded, her expression sobering into something colder, tighter, more resolved.

One last bow.

"By your will."

And then she left, her footsteps quiet, almost eerie in their lack of urgency. Like a predator not chasing prey—but knowing where it sleeps.

The doors clicked shut behind her.

Silence returned to the chamber.

The Queen remained where she stood, her back to the door, her eyes fixed on the sunlight.

Only when she was alone did she allow herself to speak.

A whisper — not of fear, but calculation.

"That kid… is dangerous."

There was no scorn in her tone.

Only the truth.

And perhaps, just the faintest hint of admiration.