At this, Julian closed his book. The soft thud seemed to echo in the quiet room. He adjusted his posture, leaning toward her with an expression that leaked a profound, agonizing sincerity. He reached out, taking her cold, rigid hands into his—palms that were too soft, too warm, too comfortable.
"Your Majesty," he whispered, his voice a soothing, honeyed balm. "I understand that ruling a kingdom is a heavy burden. I know the necessity of an heir. But..."
"But what?" she demanded.
"To reduce our bond to a mere physical act... it would be a desecration of a pure love," he murmured, his eyes searching hers with a fake, watery devotion. "I refuse to view you through such a base, carnal lens. I see you, not just a body. I love the very essence of your soul, Evangeline. To rush into such... worldly stages... it takes time. You know how deeply I revere you."
Evangeline ripped her hands away as if his skin had turned to white-hot iron. She stood abruptly, the silk of her gown hissing against the floor like a warning. The word revere made her want to retch. He wasn't protecting her; he was embalming her.
"Fine," she snapped, her voice trembling with a fury she refused to let him see. "As you wish. I shall continue to wait."
"Finish your tea, Your Majesty," Julian called out after her, his voice still draped in that sickening, saintly calm.
"No, thank you," she snapped without looking back. "I've lost my appetite. I'll see you later."
She swept out of his chambers, her face a frozen mask of fury. In the corridors, the atmosphere curdled the moment she appeared. Servants flattened themselves against the stone walls, holding their breath as if the sheer heat of her anger might blister their skin. They knew the signs: a misplaced glance or a loud breath was enough to put their heads on the palace pikes by noon.
The moment she reached her sanctuary, she slammed the heavy oak doors. The sound didn't just ring; it boomed through the halls like a cannon blast.
But the thick wood couldn't keep the world out. Almost instantly, the whispers began—snaking through the keyholes and under the gaps in the floor.
"The King rejected her again, it seems. We walk on eggshells today."
"Can you blame him? Who would want to embrace a madwoman like that? Our King is a saint; she is a monster."
Evangeline heard every word. Each syllable was a poisoned needle pricking at her skin. For a second, she thought of calling the guards—of purging the halls until the floors ran red. But if she killed everyone who spoke ill of her behind her back, there wouldn't be a single soul left alive in the palace.
The storm inside her finally broke.
She turned on the room with a primal, silent violence. She swept her perfumes off the vanity, the glass shattering and filling the air with a cloying, expensive stench. She lunged for the silk curtains, ripping them from the gilded rods with a strength born of pure desperation. Royal documents, decrees, and maps were scattered like autumn leaves until the floor became a graveyard of ruined opulence.
She stood in the center of the wreckage, her chest heaving, her hair coming loose from its pins.
"Since when," a voice drifted from the balcony, "has destruction been your preferred style of interior design?"
Evangeline stiffened. She turned her head slowly toward the window.
Silver was there. He was perched on the stone ledge with a chaotic, feline grace, his arms folded over his chest. He wasn't cowering like the servants. He was just watching, his eyes reflecting the mess with a calm, unnerving curiosity.
"How long have you been there?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous rasp.
"Not long," he said.
He slipped from the window ledge with an acrobatic flip, landing soundlessly amidst the debris. He didn't flinch at the broken glass. Instead, he began to wander through the wreckage, poking at a shredded silk curtain with the toe of his boot.
"Forgive the late greeting," he chirped, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Good morning, Your Majesty. I see you've been busy painting a new masterpiece of destruction. A bold choice of medium; it's no wonder you didn't notice me."
"Shut up, you fool," she snapped.
She threw herself onto the bed, her chest heaving with a mix of exhaustion and lingering rage. The silk sheets felt cold, even through her layers of clothing.
Silver didn't stop. He produced his wooden spheres from some hidden pocket and sent them into a rhythmic, blurring dance in the air. Thrum, thrum, thrum.
"Why is the sun of our kingdom so eclipsed today?" he mused, his eyes fixed on the spinning balls. "Did a maid burn your toast? Or perhaps something is... bothering you? You are the Queen, after all. You can simply dispose of anything that irritates you."
He paused, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his painted face. "Unless..."
"Unless what?" She stared at him, her pulse thumping in her throat, waiting to see if he would dare to say it.
"Is it the King again?"
Evangeline let out a low growl and buried her face beneath a heavy velvet pillow. "If you already know the damn answer, why do you bother asking?"
"Because looking after my Queen's well-being is my duty as her fool, is it not?" He moved closer, the bells on his cap giving a soft, lonely jingle. "Perhaps I could offer a shred of counsel? A different perspective?"
The fury flared again, sudden and sharp. Evangeline grabbed the pillow and hurled it at him with every bit of strength she had left.
The wooden balls clattered to the floor, rolling into the dark corners of the room. She sat up, her hair a wild mess, her eyes bloodshot. "Do I look like I've lost my mind so completely," she hissed, "that I've started taking advice from a mad jester?"
Silver didn't look offended. He knelt slowly, retrieving his wooden spheres one by one. When he stood up, his smile had changed. The playfulness was gone, replaced by something sharpened, something lethal.
"They say the line between madness and wisdom is thinner than a hair and sharper than a blade," he whispered, his voice dropping into a rasp that made the hair on her neck stand up. "Perhaps, then, madness is merely wisdom wearing a mask."
"Fine," she said, her voice brittle. "Speak."
"May I know the nature of the quarrel, generally speaking?"
She pulled the pillow from her face, letting out a long, ragged exhale as she looked at him. "It's about the heir."
"The heir," Silver noted. The mirth vanished from his face as if it had never existed. He gathered his wooden spheres in a heavy, deliberate silence, tucking them away. "I see."
Then, a cunning smirk returned—darker and more predatory than the first. "Perhaps I can offer you the clarity the King denies you."