Margret stood at the grand entrance of the palace, taking in the towering stone walls and intricate golden accents. It had been years since she last walked these halls, but nothing—not the lavish decor, not the polished silver chandeliers—could distract her from what she truly cared about.

Her son.

Louis stood before her, his expression guarded, his posture stiff. Margret had barely had time to drink in the sight of him before the past came rushing back—the pain, the betrayal, the years she spent believing she had lost him forever. But this was not the time for sentiment.

The room was thick with tension. Queen Alexandria stood tall, her regal presence as commanding as ever, while Thomas hovered beside her, looking equally defensive.

"You kept my son from me," Margret hissed, her voice sharp with anger. "For years! You had no right!"

"That is a lie! We saved him," Alexandria shot back, unflinching. "We saved him from you."

Alexandria scoffed. "He was better off without you in his life! He had a perfectly happy life with his father, who had his best interests at heart and cared deeply for his own son."

"Where is that bastard then, hmm?" Margret asked. "I'd sure like to give him the warm welcome I graced you two with. It's been a long time." Margret scoffed, turning to Louis, searching his face for answers, for something that would tell her whether he resented them as much as she did. But he only stood there, looking uncertain, like a man torn between two opposing sides.

Then, Alexandria's words cut through the heated air.

"He's dead, Margret." She turned to Louis "I am sorry, dear." He only nodded. Things were tense, he knew Queen Alexandria didn't say it to hurt him.

Margret froze. Her lips parted, but no words came out. She barely noticed Louis nodding in confirmation, the weight of reality settling onto her shoulders. "How long?" she asked.

"Only a few of years. Not long after my coronation." Louis spoke up.

Her husband was gone.

A silence stretched between them all, fragile yet thick with unspoken words. Then, Margret inhaled sharply, straightened her shoulders, and schooled her face into a careful expression.

"I see…" she murmured, her mind already racing. She turned her gaze back to Alexandria and Thomas, something flickering behind her eyes. "And yet, despite his passing, the air in this palace still hums with deception." Her voice was smooth, knowing. "It seems the ghosts of the past aren't the only secrets lurking in these halls."

Louis frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Margret tilted her head, as if debating whether to reveal what she knew. Instead, she smiled—cold and triumphant. "Oh, nothing, my dear. Nothing at all."

"Why don't we move this conversation somewhere…more private?" Thomas suggested, while bringing their attention to their children's presence.

Alexandria agreed.

Margret stood in the Queen's private sitting room, her sharp gaze flicking between Alexandria and Thomas. The tension was thick, but she remained composed, her hands folded in front of her as if she were simply another guest rather than an unwelcome ghost from the past.

Alexandria sat regally in her chair, her expression unreadable, though her fingers lightly tapped against the armrest—a small tell of her irritation. Thomas stood beside her, arms crossed, his face betraying nothing but caution.

Margret let the silence linger just long enough to make them uncomfortable before she finally spoke. "I assume you've had time to consider what comes next."

Alexandria's eyes narrowed slightly. "What comes next, Margret, is that you are here, and we cannot change that. But you must understand—things are not the same as when you left."

"Oh, believe me, I can see that," Margret said smoothly, tilting her head. "But surely, as my dear son's… guardians, you wouldn't be so cruel as to send me away after so many years apart."

Thomas exhaled sharply, but Alexandria held up a hand, silencing whatever he was about to say. She studied Margret, calculating, before finally speaking.

"You may stay," Alexandria said, her voice measured. "For now."

Margret's smile was slow, victorious. "How gracious of you."

"You will be given temporary chambers," Thomas added, his voice firm. "And you will respect the rules of this palace while you are here."

Margret chuckled lightly. "Oh, of course. I would never dream of being anything but the perfect guest."

Alexandria's lips pressed into a thin line, clearly unconvinced. "Good. Then I trust you'll remember that your presence here is not an invitation to cause trouble."

Margret placed a hand over her heart in mock sincerity. "Me? Cause trouble? Perish the thought."

Neither Alexandria nor Thomas looked amused, but Margret only smiled, nodding her head in acknowledgment.

"Very well, then. I accept your… generous hospitality," she said, her tone dripping with amusement. "I do believe this will be a most enlightening stay."

She turned gracefully, heading toward the door before pausing. Glancing back over her shoulder, she added, "Oh, and do be sure to let the kitchen know—I'll be joining you for dinner tonight. It has been far too long since we last shared a meal together."

She didn't wait for a response before walking away, her smirk widening.

Let the games begin.

And so, as the palace staff guided her toward her temporary chambers, Margret allowed herself a moment of quiet calculation. If they thought she was going to sit back and let them control the narrative, they were mistaken.

She moved through the halls, her sharp gaze taking in every detail—the hushed conversations of the servants, the wary glances thrown her way. She was looking for leverage—to gain the upper hand once again. Everything could be a clue. Everything had meaning.

Margret wandered through the palace corridors with quiet purpose, her gown barely making a sound against the polished marble floors. She had always been good at slipping unnoticed into places she wasn't meant to be—an old habit she never saw fit to break.

The palace had changed since she had last walked its halls, but power remained the same. It thrived in whispers, in secrets, in the careful positioning of one's pawns. And Margret had always known how to listen.

As she approached one of the side corridors near the royal quarters, she heard voices—low, urgent. She paused, stepping just out of sight behind a grand stone pillar.

She stopped in her tracks, stepping into the shadows as she eavesdropped.

"…we have to be more careful."

It was Harry.

"Careful?" Louis' voice was barely above a whisper, but Margret could hear the emotion behind it. "You're the one who pulled me aside! What was I supposed to do? Just walk away from you?"

A pause. Then, Harry sighed. "No. But it's getting harder, Louis. The coronation is soon, and—"

"Or at least it was." Louis' voice turned bitter. "Now that my mother's here, who knows what'll happen?"

Harry exhaled sharply. "That's exactly why we need to be careful. Your mother is dangerous. If she finds out about us—"

"She won't," Louis interrupted. "She has no reason to suspect anything."

Margret's smirk deepened. 'Oh, but I do now.' She thought.

Then, she heard the unmistakable sound of movement—shuffling feet, the faint rustle of fabric. The air in the corridor shifted, growing heavier. She didn't need to see them to know what was happening. The way they spoke, the desperation in their voices… It wasn't just friendship that tethered them together.

A quiet moment passed. Then, Harry's voice, softer this time, "…Just promise me, no risks tonight."

Louis hesitated, then murmured, "I promise."

Footsteps. The sound of them leaving. Margret waited until she was sure they were gone before stepping out from her hiding place, a victorious gleam in her eye.

"Well, well," she whispered to herself, adjusting the delicate lace of her sleeve. "Isn't that interesting?"

And with that, she turned on her heel, already crafting her next move.