Chapter 157 So I’m really Queen
IRIS
The council members sit in their high-backed chairs, their expressions formal but expectant. Every eye in the room is on us. I tug lightly at the folds of my gown, though it feels absurd to care about that right now. How can I care about silk and embroidery when Kelvin is… when everything has changed in the last twenty-four hours?
“Prince Darian, Lady Iris,” the council elder begins, voice low but clear, echoing in the vaulted room. “First, allow us to extend our deepest condolences for the loss of your brother, Prince Kelvin.”
I flinch slightly at the words, a pang of grief twisting in my chest. I swallow, trying to nod respectfully, trying not to let the tears rise. “Thank you,” I manage, voice soft, almost reverent.
The elder inclines his head slightly before continuing. “As you are aware, the Lycan king has passed. The kingdom mourns a great leader. However, in light of the circumstances, the council must act to ensure the stability of our realm. With the crown prince alive and present, we believe the coronation should proceed without delay.”
I blink. Coronation? My throat tightens. My gaze flicks to Darian. His jaw is set, his expression unreadable, but there’s a faint tension in his shoulders I recognize as him bracing for this as much as I am. I had expected battles, war councils, maybe some ceremony. But coronation? Already? The speed of everything leaves me dizzy.
“And… you expect us to carry this out when?” Darian’s voice is calm, measured, but I catch the subtle undertone of disbelief, the same one I feel myself.
“This week,” another council member replies, a woman with sharp eyes that miss nothing. “The kingdom must have a king to guide it, especially now. Delays risk instability, and you, Prince Darian, are both able and capable. We will ensure all proper rites and traditions are observed.”
I watch Darian’s hand tighten at his side, the gesture small but telling. He’s trying to remain composed, but I see it. I see the weight of everything settling on him—the responsibility, the expectation, the grief. My chest aches for him, and yet, beneath the grief, I feel a spark of something else. Relief. That he survived. That he is here. That we are here.
The elder shifts his weight, his tone softening slightly. “Lady Iris, we ask for your patience. After the coronation, your presence as queen will be recognized fully, but for now, the council must speak with the new king regarding urgent matters concerning our borders and the ongoing conflict with the Shadow Clans. We hope you will understand the necessity of privacy.”
I nod automatically, though my mind is spinning. Privacy? Borders? Shadow Clans? Every word feels distant, like it’s happening to someone else. My legs move before my brain catches up, carrying me out of the hall, away from the council and their solemn deliberations.
As I round the corner toward the dining hall, my thoughts scatter. The floor beneath me seems impossibly bright, impossibly real. I see the sunlight spilling across the walls, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden light. And then… I notice the servants.
They bow deeply as I pass, eyes lowered, hands pressed together in perfect respect. Every step I take, they part silently, their movements fluid and precise, almost rehearsed. My heart skips, then races. I stop for a moment, staring at them.
“Wait,” I whisper to myself, barely audible. “They… they’re bowing to me?”
The head servant, a tall woman with silver streaks in her hair, inclines her head slightly deeper. “Your Grace.”
My knees feel weak. My hand lifts instinctively to my chest. “My… my Grace?” I murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Really?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she says again, steady, formal, unwavering. There’s no hint of sarcasm, no hesitation. Just… recognition. Respect. Authority.
I blink, trying to process it. The title tastes strange on my tongue, heavy and bright all at once. My pulse quickens. I glance at the dining hall door ahead, and when I push it open, my breath catches entirely.
The room is a flurry of movement, though quiet and composed. The long dining table is immaculate, silverware gleaming, plates polished to perfection. Servants bustle behind the scenes, unseen for the most part, tending to every detail—laying out fine linens, arranging flowers, adjusting chairs. And every movement is for me.
For me.
I take a hesitant step forward. My fingers brush the edge of the table. I can feel the coolness of the polished wood beneath my palm, a grounding sensation in the midst of the surreal. The servants pause momentarily, eyes lowered, waiting for direction, waiting for acknowledgment.
I close my eyes briefly, swallowing hard. The word escapes me before I can stop it: “Wow.”
When I open my eyes, it’s out loud. I inhale slowly, letting the reality sink in. “So… I’m really… queen?” My voice trembles slightly, and I don’t even care that it does. The word feels heavy, and light, and utterly impossible all at once.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the head servant says, as if reading my thoughts. “Congratulations. Everything has been prepared for your comfort.”
I glance around the room again, taking in the immaculate care, the subtle efficiency, the devotion of those who serve. And yet… I feel dizzy. Not from the grandeur, not from the attention, but from the enormity of it all. Queen. Me. Iris.
A small laugh escapes me, soft, almost disbelieving. “This… this is… I don’t even know how to process this,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.
“You need not process it all at once, Your Grace,” the head servant says gently, though still formal. “Your position is recognized. Your authority is absolute. We will support you in every way.”
The words are comforting, and yet I feel the surreal quality of it all pressing against my mind like water. Everything I knew, everything I thought I understood about my life, has shifted overnight. The world has changed. And I… I am expected to step into it fully, immediately.
I walk slowly to the nearest chair at the table, hesitating before sitting. The servants pause, as if awaiting permission, though no words have been spoken. My hands tremble slightly as I rest them on the polished surface, fingertips tracing the grain.
I close my eyes, inhaling the faint scent of flowers arranged in delicate vases along the table. There’s lavender, rose, and something woody beneath it, grounding and subtle. The scent anchors me in the present, helps me breathe through the storm inside.
One of the younger servants steps forward, holding a silver tray. “Your Grace, breakfast has been prepared. Please, may we serve you?”
I blink. Breakfast. As if… as if life continues. As if the world moves forward, despite everything that has happened. I nod slowly, unsure if I’m ready to eat, yet feeling the absurd comfort of being tended to.
“Yes,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
As the tray is set before me, I let my hands rest in my lap, watching the servants move. Every gesture, every careful placement of cutlery, every bowed head—it is a rhythm, a choreography of deference and care. And I feel it acutely. The weight of it, the responsibility, the strange, intoxicating power of being recognized as queen.
Iris. Queen. The name lingers on my lips, tasting of awe and fear and disbelief. Kelvin’s sacrifice echoes in my mind, a bittersweet undertone to the surreal wonder I am experiencing. He made this possible. His choice, his courage, his love, it allowed this moment, allowed life to continue, allowed Darian and me to breathe, to survive.
A shiver runs through me, not from cold but from the magnitude of it all. I look down at the tray again. Simple foods, carefully prepared, yet in this context, even the simplest things feel ceremonial. Every bite, every sip, will now carry the weight of expectation, responsibility, and legacy.
I breathe deeply, letting the air fill my lungs, letting the reality of being queen settle slowly into my bones. It’s not just a title. It’s a presence, a force, a reminder that life goes on, that the world continues, and that I… am part of it in a way I never imagined.
I glance toward the doorway, half-expecting Darian to appear, to ground me in the shared chaos of the past night. But he is not here. For now, it is just me, the room, the servants, and the quiet hum of the morning.
I whisper again, softly, almost reverently, “Wow. So I’m really queen…”
The words feel like a promise, a question, a declaration. And in the stillness of the dining hall, I let myself believe it. Let myself be swept by the surreal, the impossible, the beautiful reality of life moving forward.
Because it is real.
Because I am here.
Because I am queen.