Chapter 3: The Crown's Shadow
Aurenya's POV
The smell of cinnamon bread and clove-scented tea drifted into my room before the morning sun fully crested the tall stained-glass windows. It was the scent of comfort—nostalgic, calming. But today, it made my stomach twist.
I sat at the edge of my bed in silence, still dressed in the ivory nightgown Elara had helped me change into hours before. I hadn't slept since the dream—or memory—whatever it had been. Elara's visit had shaken something loose inside me, and no matter how many times I tried to breathe slowly or ground myself, the truth clung like smoke to my ribs.
She was alive.
And now, so was I—in a time where none of what I remembered had yet happened. A time I might be able to change.
The knock at the door was softer this time. Refined. Polished. I didn't answer. A pause, then the handle turned anyway.
"Darling," came the smooth, familiar voice.
I turned my head slowly to find Aunt Liora standing in the doorway, her dark green robes pristine and her silvery hair coiled into the elegant twist she favored for morning appearances. Everything about her was measured. Composed. Regal.
She glided into the room, shutting the door with a quiet click behind her. Her perfume—orange blossom and sage—wrapped around me like a spell. For a moment, I forgot how sharp her words could be. How even comfort from her came laced with calculation.
"You're up late," she observed, sitting gracefully in the chair opposite my bed. "I expected you at breakfast."
"I wasn't hungry."
She hummed, a low note of polite disapproval. "You must keep up appearances, niece. Especially now."
I frowned. "Now?"
Liora tilted her head. Her eyes, deep gray and unreadable, studied me as if trying to solve a puzzle she'd already solved once before.
"I suppose there's no point drawing it out," she said, reaching into the folds of her robe and pulling out a sealed envelope—the royal crest burned into the wax like a brand.
I knew what it was before she even held it out.
My hands trembled as I took it.
The parchment was smooth. Heavy. Final.
I stared at the seal, and time folded in on itself.
The same envelope. The same wax. The same breakfast I hadn't touched. I remembered this moment.
The day everything began to fall apart.
"The King has made his decision," Liora said, her voice soft but firm. "You are to be Queen."
The room spun.
My throat closed, and I felt that strange echo of poison again, as though memory could rot me from within.
I forced the seal open with numb fingers and read the words I already knew by heart.
Chosen.
Wife.
Bearer of heirs.
All phrased like a contract.
Like a purchase.
The page slipped from my fingers and drifted to the floor.
"You already knew," I said hoarsely.
Liora's expression didn't change. "Of course I did. We all did."
And yet she let me open it. Let me feel the weight of it again.
"This isn't a marriage," I whispered. "It's a transaction."
Liora crossed her legs, resting her hands in her lap. "You are the niece of the High Matron. Your bloodline is pure. You have the look, the grace. The King made the only logical choice."
"And love?" I snapped. "Was that part of the equation?"
"Don't be naive." Her voice cut like ice. "The King chose you, dear. Even cold Alphas need heirs."
Her words dropped like stones into my stomach. I felt them crash down, sinking deeper with each echo.
I had remembered this moment differently the first time.
Before, it had stunned me. I'd cried. Liora had embraced me and told me I would grow to love him. That duty came before desire.
But this time... her smile was thinner. Her voice carried more edge. Or maybe I simply saw it clearly now.
This wasn't love. It was strategy.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I asked.
Liora rose smoothly from her seat, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. "Because you needed to believe it was your choice. All queens must. It makes them easier to mold."
She moved to the mirror and adjusted her brooch, eyes flicking to my reflection.
"You'll wear blue today," she said, as if it had already been decided. "Royal colors suit you. And the press will be watching."
"Elara is alive," I blurted.
Her hands froze. Just for a second.
Then resumed.
"I should hope so," she said calmly. "She's been your maid for a decade."
"But—"
"Is there something wrong with you, child?" Liora's eyes found mine again in the glass. "You've been speaking strangely since the eclipse. Dreams? Visions? That's the trouble with sensitive girls. Always clinging to superstition."
I stood then. "This isn't superstition. I remember. I died, Liora. He poisoned me."
The silence that followed was vast.
Liora turned slowly.
And for a moment—just a moment—I thought I saw something crack in her polished armor.
Then it was gone.
"I'll send for the healer," she said, brisk now. "And Elara. You clearly need rest."
"I'm not mad."
"No," she said gently. "Just overwhelmed. Understandable. Royal appointments can be... intense."
She moved to the door. "The King will call for you this evening. Try to smile."
The door shut behind her.
And I collapsed to the floor.
Tears came—silent, sharp, furious. Not from heartbreak. From rage. From betrayal. From the hollow echo of having no one to confide in, no one who would believe me. Not now. Not yet.
Not when the wolves were still dressed as kings.
Minutes—or hours—passed. The shadows shifted along the edges of the walls. Somewhere in the palace, bells rang, and footmen rushed to tend to their morning duties. I remained on the cold stone floor.
I traced the edges of the rug beneath my hands, feeling the fibers catch beneath my fingers. A mundane sensation. Real. Grounding. It helped keep the storm inside from tearing me apart.
When the knock returned, it was softer.
"Lady?"
Elara.
I wiped my face quickly and rose to my feet. "Come in."
She opened the door slowly, carrying a tray with tea and warm bread. Her expression was careful, her eyes full of concern.
"You didn't come down. I thought you might be... unwell."
I didn't answer. My eyes roamed her face, taking in every familiar feature. The curve of her jaw, the tiny scar near her left brow where she'd once fallen from the stable loft. She was real. Alive. Standing here, offering me comfort as she always had. Before fate had ripped her away.
"Elara," I said.
She smiled, confused but gentle. "Yes, my lady?"
I reached for her hand. Held it. "You were gone."
Her brow furrowed. "I've been here every day."
"No. You—" I stopped myself. "Never mind. I'm sorry. I just… had a bad dream."
She studied me, then gave a small nod. "You're allowed those, you know. Even queens-in-waiting."
I sat back down on the bed and let her set the tray on the side table. I watched her move with the ease of someone who knew this room better than her own. Someone who had been more than a maid. She had been my only true friend.
"I don't want to marry him," I whispered.
She paused. Then lowered herself beside me on the bed.
"I know."
"I think he'll hurt me. I think—"
"He already has," she finished, quietly.
I looked up.
"You've been quieter these last few days," she said. "Not just since the King's letter. Before that. I could feel it. Something's different."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
But I squeezed her hand, and for now, it was enough.
The next chapter of my life had begun again. This time, I would not be silent.
This time, I would not die obediently.
This time—I would fight.