Valerian surveyed the grand hall from his position at the head of the ebony table, his silver eyes, as cold and reflective as polished steel, observing the scene before him. The hall buzzed with activity, a carefully orchestrated symphony of clinking goblets, hushed conversation, and the rustle of silk gowns. He noted the furtive glances, the whispers that died down abruptly when his gaze swept across the room. They feared him, these courtiers and council members, and he found their fear…comforting. It was a testament to his power, a tangible reminder of his authority over this kingdom he'd inherited — a kingdom he'd been forced to take control of at a young age after the passing of his parents.
He shifted slightly in his seat, a flicker of annoyance momentarily disturbing his otherwise impassive facade. The seat to his left, Anya's seat, remained conspicuously empty. Her absence, like an unvoiced accusation, hung heavy in the air. The council members, their faces a tapestry of disapproval and barely concealed disdain, exchanged knowing glances. Anya's failure to appear was a breach of protocol, a blatant disregard for the intricate dance of courtly etiquette that governed their world.
Across the table, Cassia, resplendent in a gown of deep burgundy silk and emeralds that glittered like venomous eyes, offered a sympathetic sigh. "Poor Anya," she murmured, her emerald eyes holding a glint of amusement that Valerian, blinded by years of familiarity, failed to perceive. "It's a shame she's missing such a delightful evening."
"Indeed," he replied, his voice cool and measured, betraying none of the irritation that simmered beneath the surface. He, too, regretted Anya's absence, though for vastly different reasons. Her defiance, her refusal to play the role of the dutiful queen, was a challenge he couldn't ignore – a subtle undermining of his authority.
Valerian, eager to deflect attention from Anya's absence, turned to his trusted friend, Lord Rordan – his youthful eagerness tempered by a quiet strength, his handsome features etched with the seriousness of a man who understood the weight of responsibility. He had proven himself a capable warrior, a strategist with a keen mind and an unwavering loyalty that Valerian found… refreshing in a court rife with ambition and veiled agendas.
He inquired about his training and engaged in a discussion of the upcoming festivities, but his mind remained preoccupied with Anya's defiance. Her refusal to adhere to even the most basic of courtly expectations was a challenge, a deliberate provocation. Was it merely fatigue or was there something more to her withdrawal? The uncertainty gnawed at him, a persistent irritant beneath the surface of his carefully constructed control.
A servant hurried towards Valerian, it was Elara. The young woman, her face pale, approached the king, her eyes wide with apprehension.
"Your Majesty," she stammered, her voice barely audible above the din of the hall. "Queen Anya… she sends her apologies. She's… indisposed. She requests… to be excused from dinner".
A hush fell over the hall, the sudden silence amplifying Elara's trembling words. A collective gasp rippled through the assembled court. Valerian scowled, now that everyone had heard the young woman, they knew for certain this was not a joined decision between the king and queen but more so a last-minute request from the queen. Valerian felt a surge of anger, a tightening in his chest that had nothing to do with concern for his new bride and everything to do with the blatant disrespect her absence represented. The council members, their expressions a mix of outrage and barely suppressed glee, leaned forward, eager to witness his reaction.
"Silence!" Valerian's voice, though low, cut through the tense atmosphere like a blade. The hall fell silent, the whispers dying down like embers doused with ice water. "The queen is fatigued from her journey," he continued, his voice regaining its usual cool detachment. "Her absence is… understandable. Let us not dwell on this matter. Enjoy the feast".
His words, delivered with an icy finality, effectively quelled the murmurs, though the atmosphere remained thick with tension. Valerian ate little, his mind preoccupied with Anya's defiance. Her refusal to adhere to even the most basic of courtly expectations was a challenge, a deliberate provocation. Was it merely fatigue, as she claimed, or was there something more to her withdrawal?
As the evening progressed, the initial shock of Anya's absence faded, replaced by a forced gaiety fueled by copious amounts of wine and the musicians' lively melodies. Valerian watched the revelry with a detached coolness, his thoughts a whirlwind of annoyance and a strange, unwelcome flicker of…curiosity.
Later, as the festivities began to wane, Lord Rordan approached Valerian, his brow furrowed with concern. He gestured towards a secluded alcove off the main hall, a space reserved for private conversations.
"A word, Your Majesty?" he asked, his voice low, respectful.
Valerian nodded, grateful for the opportunity to escape the stifling atmosphere of the hall. He followed Rordan into the alcove, the noise of the feast fading behind them.
"Something troubles you, Rordan," Valerian said, once they were alone. He had learned to read people, to discern their intentions beneath layers of courtly decorum. Rordan, despite his youth, possessed a perceptiveness that belied his age.
Rordan hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Forgive my boldness, but… this distance between you and Queen Anya… is it wise? The court is… observant. They sense weakness, discord. It wouldn't do for them to perceive… a rift between their king and queen".
Valerian met Rordan's gaze, his expression unreadable. Normally he wouldn't feel obligated to explain himself to anyone, but Rordan was a close friend. "She'll adjust in due time, eventually she'll learn its better to work with rather than against me.".
"But Your Majesty," Rordan persisted, his voice gentle but firm, "a marriage, even one born of political necessity, needs… a foundation. A show of unity, at least. The people need to see their rulers stand together. Especially now, with the recent unrest in the Southern provinces…".
Valerian's jaw tightened. He knew Rordan spoke the truth. A united front was essential, especially in times of uncertainty. But the thought of feigning affection for a woman who seemed determined to defy him at every turn sickened him. She treated their union as a prison sentence rather than an unfortunate shared destiny, this filled him with a cold resistance. It was he who was wronged, but this time he would make sure he'd fulfill the prophecy since his parents could not.
"Our duties come first, Lord Rordan," he said, his voice hardening. "Anya is queen. She has responsibilities to this kingdom, as do I. Our personal… inclinations are irrelevant".
Love. Affection. These were weaknesses he couldn't afford. His heart, long ago encased in ice, was not a bargaining chip.
Rordan sighed, recognizing the futility of his argument. "As you wish, Your Majesty".
Valerian watched his friend depart, then turned back to the now-emptying hall, the remnants of the feast a silent testament to Anya's absence. He told himself it was for the best, this distance between them. Emotions had no place in this equation.
Yet, as he made his way to his solitary chambers, the echo of Anya's defiance, the memory of her empty seat at his table, lingered in his mind. It was a thorn, a persistent irritant beneath the surface of his carefully constructed control. He pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the matters of state that awaited him. He was a king, and his duty to his kingdom, to the preservation of its power would always come first.