She let out a sharp, mocking laugh that bounced off the damp stone walls. "You've actually become funny at last, Silver. Julian? That weak, fragile creature? The thought of him acting behind my back is the best joke you've ever told."
Silver joined her, his laughter a dry, rattling sound that lacked any real warmth. "Hahaha! I am delighted that my humor finally meets your royal standards, Majesty."
But as the sound of his mirth died down, the silence that followed was heavy. A cold, deep-seated doubt began to gnaw at her. She watched him closely. He leaned back against the jagged, weeping wall and produced three wooden balls from thin air. He began to juggle them with effortless, hypnotic precision, his blue eyes fixed on her with a chilling, steady coldness.
"That wasn't a joke, was it?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper that barely carried in the dark.
"Who can say?" he replied, his eyes never leaving the rhythm of the spinning spheres.
He was infuriating—veiling every truth in riddles and shadows. Even for his Queen, he wouldn't offer the satisfaction of a straight answer. He was the Joker, after all; his truth was whatever he decided it was in the moment.
"Can you speak without these damn riddles for once?" she hissed, her patience snapping.
"You know I can't," he murmured.
"What's stopping you? Stop playing games."
Silver caught the balls mid-air, the sudden silence echoing. He leaned in, the bells on his cap silent for the first time. "Hmm. Perhaps because I'm quite fond of my head remaining attached to my shoulders."
"I'm not going to kill you, man," she snapped.
Silver looked at her, his gaze searching her face with a heavy, lingering skepticism. "Who can say?" he whispered again. "In this palace, the line between a hug and a noose is thinner than you think."
She turned toward the door, the heavy silk of her ruined skirts rasping against the stone like the hiss of a snake. "Fine," she said, her voice tight. "Stay or leave, keep playing your games in the dark. It doesn't matter. You are a free man as of this breath. I'll see you tomorrow."
She was halfway to the stairs when his voice caught her—not loud, but sharp enough to stop her.
"Majesty? May I?"
She paused, looking back over her shoulder. "What now?"
Silver was standing in the shadows of the cell, his gaze fixed on the floor. "The ground is filthy," he murmured. "And watching the hem of your gown soak up this muck... it hurts my eyes. A tragedy for the silk, wouldn't you say?"
Evangeline's brow lowered. "And your point is?"
"As a small return for your mercy," he said, stepping into the dim light. "Allow me to carry you back to your chambers. Keep your dignity dry. Is that... acceptable?"
Evangeline stared at him. For a second, the idea of being lifted—of not having to drag her own weight across the cold stone—was tempting. But then the reality of the palace, with its thousand eyes and poisonous tongues, slammed back into place.
"I am a married woman, Silver," she said, her voice dropping into a flat, regal warning. "You carrying me through the corridors would start rumors far filthier than this floor. I appreciate the offer, but no."
Silver bowed his head, his bells giving a soft, shamed jingle. "Forgive me, Majesty. I didn't take that into account."
"It's fine," she said, turning away for good. "I'll see you later."
"Goodnight, Majesty," he whispered to her back.
---------------
Back in her sanctuary, the opulence felt like a cage. She didn't call her maids. She didn't want their prying eyes or their practiced touches. She stripped herself, the silk falling away in a heap of gray stains and salt, and climbed into the vast, silent expanse of her bed.
She lay there, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. Instinctively, her hand slid across the cold fabric to the other side.
Nothing. Only the bite of chilled silk.
Five years. Twenty-three years old, and she was realizing the years hadn't just passed—they had vanished. Five years of marriage, and the King had never once shared this bed. Not even on their wedding night. He had kissed her hand, offered a poetic blessing for her rest, and walked out.
Am I that repulsive? she thought, the question tasting like bile. Or was I just a fool, too blind with the need to be loved that I let him do exactly as he pleased?
She closed her eyes, but Julian's face was there, smiling that perfect, distant smile.
"Julian Heart," she whispered into the empty room. "I made you my King. I gave you a throne and a crown. But did you ever, for a single second, consider me your wife?"
The silence of the room was her only answer, and it felt heavier than the stone walls of the dungeon.
Exhaustion finally dragged her under, but sleep offered no rest. Her mind remained a jagged map of past regrets and half-formed schemes for a future she wasn't sure she could survive.
The next morning, she stood rigid before the floor-length mirror. Her maids moved around her with practiced, terrifying precision, tugging at corsets and smoothing silk until she looked every bit the untouchable Sovereign.
"Is the King in his quarters?" Evangeline asked, her voice flat.
"Yes, Your Majesty. He is."
"Good."
"Shall I send word that you require his presence, Majesty?" the maid asked, her head bowed.
"No," Evangeline replied, watching her own cold reflection. "I'll tell him myself."
When she was finished, she marched toward the King's wing. She didn't hesitate until she reached the heavy oak doors. Her hand hovered over the handle for a heartbeat before she knocked—three slow, deliberate raps. It was the only door in the entire palace she didn't simply kick open. It was a courtesy she gave him, a remnant of a devotion that now felt like a chain.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The opulence hit her like a physical weight. The King's chambers were unnaturally lush, overflowing with treasures that eclipsed even her own. He was living in the golden glow of her glory, surrounded by silk tapestries and gilded carvings she had paid for with her own blood and decrees.
She found him in the corner, bathed in the soft, deceptive light of the morning. He looked like a painting of the perfect noble—serene, beautiful, sitting by the window with a book in one hand and a delicate porcelain teacup in the other.
He looked up. A warm, effortless smile spread across his face as he rose to greet her.
"Oh, Your Majesty," he said. His voice was like velvet, smooth and soothing. "Welcome. To what do I owe the pleasure of this morning visit?"
"Your Majesty," she responded.
The words felt like a formal barrier, high and unbreakable. After five years, Julian had never once uttered her name with anything resembling intimacy. He offered her no crumbs of affection, no warmth, despite the absolute freedom she had granted him in her court. He treated her like a distant monument—grand, expensive, and never to be touched.
Evangeline didn't smile back. She sat opposite him, her gaze as steady and sharp as a guillotine's blade, waiting for the cracks in his perfect mask to show.
He began to bow, a graceful, practiced movement, but she cut him off with a sharp flick of her wrist.
"Sit," she commanded. "Don't bother standing for me."
"As you wish," he murmured, settling back into his velvet chair. "Then at least honor me by sharing a cup of tea."
"Fine."
Evangeline sat opposite him, her gaze fixed and unblinking. She lifted the porcelain cup, the steam rising between them, but the fragrance did nothing to calm her. Her voice cut through the sweet, floral aroma like a blade.
"How are your affairs, Julian?"
"Excellent, thanks to you, of course," he replied, his tone perfectly balanced between gratitude and humility.
"Mmm. Good then."
"Then...?" Julian tilted his head, his smile widening just enough to be patronizing. "Is there something you wish to tell me, Your Majesty?"
She set the cup aside with a sharp clink and stared him down. "We need to speak seriously, My King."
"I am all ears," he said, leaning back, the picture of patient devotion.
"The realm needs an heir," she said, her voice dropping into a cold, flat register. "I need someone to inherit this throne, this crown, and this wealth. Five years have withered away while you claim you are 'not yet ready.' Tell me, Julian—when is the time ripe? We aren't eighteen anymore."