Salviana chimed in with a nod. "Yes, make something that no one can forget. Bold, elegant, but comfortable."
Spur chuckled, bowing lightly. "You've given me quite the challenge, Your Grace. Rest assured, I'll make you dresses that will leave everyone in awe. This may be my first work in the castle—and likely my last—but it will be unforgettable."
As Monica finished her measurements, she turned to Salviana with a grin. "You're going to look amazing, Your Grace. I can't wait to see the final pieces."
Salviana smiled warmly. "Thank you, Monica. I trust your work will shine just as much as your master's."
With their notes and sketches complete, Spur and Monica packed their tools and prepared to leave. As they exited, Spur paused, turning back to Salviana. "You have a way of making any color or style radiant, Your Grace. Thank you for this opportunity."
Salviana inclined her head graciously. "And thank you for your dedication. I look forward to seeing your creations."
As the meeting concluded, Salviana escorted them to the door. "I look forward to seeing what you create," she said.
Spur bowed deeply. "You'll not be disappointed, Your Grace."
As the pair left, Monica whispered to Spur, "She's so kind! And sleeping dresses, imagine that! I've never—"
"Hush, Monica," Spur said with a chuckle. "We have much work to do, and I'll need your best sketches for this task."
Inside the castle, Salviana turned to Jean with a sly smile. "Do you think they were scandalized?"
Jean smirked. "They'll survive, Your Grace. Besides, you've given them quite the challenge."
Salviana laughed, her spirits lifted. It felt good to bring a bit of life and lightness into the castle.
As the doors closed behind them, Salviana's smile lingered. She climbed the staircase to her chambers, a new excitement bubbling within her. Yet as she crossed the threshold of her room, her thoughts shifted.
She wished Alaric had been here when the tailor came. She didn't fully understand why she wanted his presence—it wasn't as though he'd have an opinion on dresses. But the thought of him standing nearby, watching with his usual quiet intensity, made her heart flutter.
She sighed softly, brushing her fingertips along the edge of her vanity. The room felt too quiet without him.
Dropping onto her bed, she leaned back against the pillows and gazed up at the ceiling. "You'd better come back soon," she murmured to herself.
The castle's silence answered her.
Salviana sank into her plush chair by the window, her gaze drifting over the gardens below. The afternoon sunlight glinted off the glass panes, casting warm streaks of gold across her room. She smiled faintly, running her fingers over the edge of the measuring tape Monica had left behind.
Despite not coming from a wealthy family, Salviana had always had a taste for the finer things. Over the years, gifts from admirers and well-wishers had introduced her to a world of silks, jewels, and perfumes. She had delighted in wearing them, feeling the soft glide of satin against her skin or the sparkle of gems at her throat. But here, in the castle, her wardrobe felt lacking.
Her husband was a prince—one of immense wealth and power. Surely, she thought, there was no harm in enjoying the splendor that came with being his wife.
He'd see her beautifully once he returned.
~~~{────────
~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
The moon hung low over the castle of Wyfn-Garde, its silvery light spilling over the towering spires and casting shadows across the stone corridors.
Queen Sansa Velthorne walked with purpose, her golden-blonde hair glinting in the torchlight as her long, velvet gown trailed behind her.
The icy blue of her eyes was sharp, unyielding, though a trace of vulnerability lingered beneath her polished exterior.
As she approached the heavy oak doors of the king's chambers, the air around her felt colder. The two knights stationed outside straightened at her arrival, their faces a blend of stoic professionalism and quiet unease.
"I wish to see the king," Sansa said, her tone calm but carrying the weight of command. Her voice, soft but deliberate, rarely needed to be repeated.
One knight hesitated, glancing toward the door. The other stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Your Grace, the king is… currently indisposed."
Sansa's expression didn't waver, though a flicker of bitterness sparked in her chest. Indisposed. A word as hollow as the king's promises.
"Move aside," she said coolly. "I am the Queen of Wyfn-Garde, and I will not be barred from his chambers."
The knights exchanged a look, their hesitation palpable, but they remained firm. "Our orders are clear, Your Grace. No one may disturb the king tonight."
Her fingers curled into fists, hidden by the flowing sleeves of her gown. The bitterness surged, mingling with sadness as an all-too-familiar image bloomed in her mind: the king wrapped in the arms of one of his concubines, oblivious to her.
She straightened her back, her regal posture unbroken. "Do you know who I am?" she asked, her voice dipping with the dangerous edge of her temper.
"We do, Your Grace," the first knight replied carefully, "but the king's orders are absolute."
For a moment, she considered pressing further, using her political sway to force them aside. But the futility of it all sank in, a heavy weight pressing against her pride. No amount of authority would earn her a place where she was unwanted.
The flickering torchlight caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall. She would not let anyone see her break.
Not here. Not now.
"I see," she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of ice. Without another word, she turned, her head held high as she retraced her steps.
Her gown swirled elegantly around her feet, a testament to her dignity despite the ache in her chest.
As she walked through the dimly lit corridors, her mind raced. She felt the sting of rejection keenly, the isolation of her position cutting deeper than ever.
Reaching the end of the corridor, she paused by a tall, arched window. The moonlight framed her figure, outlining the golden cascade of her hair.
She pressed her fingers against the cool stone of the windowsill, her nails lightly scraping against it.
He would rather share his night with her or them perhaps. The thought burned, but she inhaled sharply, quelling the storm within.
"This will be the last night I spend alone," she murmured to herself, her voice steely with resolve. "I am Sansa Velthorne. The Queen of Wyfn-Garde."
Straightening, she allowed herself one last glance at the chamber doors far down the hall before walking away.
She would not beg for his attention. She would claim what was hers, and if the king failed to see her worth, she would find her own way to wield power in this castle.
The silence of the castle accompanied her back to her chambers, a silence she had grown used to but vowed to banish.
Tomorrow, things will change.