Chapter 67 THE THREAT
The days narrowed after that. The guards dwindled like candles burned too low to hold a flame and each morning Athalia woke to a new absence. She learned the shapes of the gaps: the missing armor rack by the door, the empty peg where a cloak had hung, the scuffed stone where a man had stood too long on watch.
King Adrian came once a week now, sometimes less, his eyes darting to the corners as if the room itself might accuse him. His eyes on the newborn as he kissed Athalia’s cheek with a mouth that tasted of apologies. He spoke of councils and roads and the grain stores.
He did not speak of Selene ever since he was informed she left. Guards had gone in search but didn't find her.
The Queen Mother came twice in a month. She brought lavender and instructions. She touched Athalia’s hair and frowned at the gray threading it.
“You must conserve your strength,” she said. “The people are restless.”
“They always are,” Athalia said. “It keeps them warm.”
The Queen Mother’s rings clicked. “Your humor is ill-timed.”
“Then time it better,” Athalia replied.
The Queen Mother’s visits left a taste like chalk. After she went, Lira would open windows and shake rugs as if dust were a curse. Athalia would lie back and let the ceiling swim.
On the tenth day after Selene’s leaving was spoken aloud for the last time, Athalia heard footsteps in the corridor at night. She sat up, heart racing. The door did not open but the footsteps passed, paused, then retreated. In the morning the corridor was empty, and the crow was gone.
Then something happened.
“Read it again,” Queen Athalia said, her fingers drumming the arm of the chair. “Slowly. I want to hear how they phrase treachery.”
The messenger swallowed and obeyed. “ ‘By decree of the High Council and with the blessing of the Crown, His Majesty King…’ ”
“Skip the flour,” Athalia snapped.
“ ‘…has taken Lady Celine of House Varent as Queen Consort.’ ”
The words settled into the chamber like ash. Athalia stopped drumming and her hand curled instead, nails biting into silk.
“Out,” she said.
The messenger fled as the doors shut with a sound too soft to satisfy her.
Athalia stood weakly. The chamber seemed smaller suddenly, its walls leaning in as if curious. Celine of all names and of all women.
She crossed to the window and pushed it open as the city lay below, tiled roofs catching the sun, and banners snapping lazily in the wind. Somewhere down there, bells would already be ringing and people would be smiling and celebrating. They always celebrated weddings and never celebrated warnings.
“He promised,” Athalia said to the empty air. “He promised he would listen.”
She knew his mother had raised him, taught him how to hold a sword, how to smile without revealing fear, and how to choose allies instead of friends. But she had paraded daughters of loyal houses before him like chess pieces, each one carefully weighed. But why will he have chosen Celine?
The sharp-tongued Celine that spoke cunningly when she couldn’t give an heir. The clever Celine who smiled like she knew something she didn’t.
Athalia turned from the window and rang the bell hard enough that it clanged.
“Bring parchment,” she said when a maid appeared. “And ink. The black one.”
The maid hesitated. “Your Majesty…”
“Now.”
The parchment lay smooth and pale before her. Athalia did not sit, she wrote standing, strokes sharp, and words precise. She did not insult and did not plead.
She sealed the letter with crimson wax and pressed her signet hard, as if force might carry meaning across distance.
“To the King’s court,” she said. “Immediately.”
The courier bowed and took it.
Athalia exhaled with heart beat fast, a caged thing. She paced slowly, waiting for relief that did not come. Instead, an image rose unbidden: Celine at court, dark-eyed and composed, her head tilted just enough to seem respectful while her mouth prepared a blade.
Athalia laughed once, bitter. “She will choke on the crown,” she said.
The letter never reached the King.
Celine sat by the window when the courier was announced. Sunlight poured across the table, illuminating the scattered sheets of music and correspondence she had not bothered to organize. She looked up as the door opened, her expression mild.
“A message for His Majesty,” the courier said, holding out the sealed parchment.
Celine’s eyes flicked to the wax and the Queen’s seal.
“How diligent,” Celine said. She rose and took the letter before the courier could object. Her fingers brushed the seal thoughtfully. “You may go.”
“I was told…”
“And I am telling you,” she said, still smiling. “Go.”
The courier hesitated only a moment before bowing and retreating.
Celine waited until the door shut, then she broke the seal.
She read once without expression, a second time more slowly and on the third, she laughed softly.
“So,” she murmured. “This is how she speaks when she’s angry.”
She folded the letter neatly and set it aside. For a moment, she stared out the window, watching the training yard below. Soldiers moved in formation, bright as pieces on a board.
“You been by his side well,” she said to no one. “Too well to obey you forever.”
She returned to the table and pulled fresh parchment toward her. The pen moved quickly, and lightly. Where Athalia’s words pressed and commanded, Celine’s curved and flowed.
She did not defend herself, did not accuse but only thanked.
She wrote of respect, understanding and of knowing how difficult it must be to see one’s plans overturned by affection. She wrote of hoping, sincerely, to learn from Athalia’s wisdom. She ended with a line so gentle it almost looked like surrender.
I trust, in time, you will see that I serve the Crown as faithfully as you always have.
Celine sealed the letter with plain wax . No crest or no challenge.
“Send this,” she told a servant. “With my compliments.”
When the servant left, Celine leaned back and closed her eyes.
“She will hate this,” she whispered. “Much more than anger.”
The reply reached Athalia two days later.
Athalia read it once, twice. Then she crushed it in her fist.
“No wonder he rarely visited,” she said aloud, pacing the chamber. “He dined with the devil.”
The words echoed back at her, sharp and satisfying. Yet beneath them, something colder moved.
Athalia had learned long ago that the most dangerous enemies were the ones who bowed first.
“She is trouble,” Athalia said. “I know her kind.”
She clenched her fist knowing what she was getting into.