Queen Maeve's breath came in shallow, trembling waves as she stared at the canvas before her. The room was silent except for the faint rustle of the curtains as a breeze whispered through the window.
Yesterday's incident of her once beloved son nearly murdering her still weighed heavily on her mind. Valerie's outburst had been unexpected and terrifying, and since then, she had not left her chambers.
She hadn't heard so much as a whisper of an apology from Valerie either —not that she would have let him into her room without heavy security. Valerie's behavior was becoming more erratic, more unpredictable, and she couldn't afford to be careless.
But Maeve was a strong Fae, one who thrived on control and precision. She would not let fear win. When her mind grew clouded and her heart raced, she turned to her canvas. Painting was her solace, her strategy session. She could think, scheme, and plan her next move with every brushstroke.
