The crowd erupted in applause as the performers bowed and left the stage, their expressions elated from a flawless delivery. Queen Garnet stood stiffly among the cheers, her lips pressed into a thin line as her people around her celebrated the spectacle. She tried to keep her face composed, regal, but she couldn't shake the hollowness twisting deep within her chest. Tantalus had closed their curtains after the finale of "I Want To Be Your Canary", but for her, the curtain felt like it had just risen—only this time, the stage was her life, and she was the fool.
Her fingers brushed the railing before her, the stone cold and unyielding, like the future ahead. She clutched it tighter, willing the rigidity to anchor her thoughts, to calm the chaos brewing in her mind. Garnet's gaze flickered back to the scene below—her subjects, merry and distracted. They reveled in joy of the evening, blissfully unaware that their Queen had been pierced by her fate. No airship would arrive to save her. No cloaked figure would ever whisk her away to freedom. No gentle smile or laughter would breathe life back into her aching soul.
As the party dwindled into the night, Garnet avoided most of the visitors, including those she had considered close friends. Before long, she found herself in her chambers, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her crown glinted mockingly under the flickering candlelight. It symbolized her life now… her duty. Her destiny. Her prison.
Slowly, her knees gave out, and she crumpled onto the floor in the silence of her room, her porcelain face streaked with tears as she sobbed. She would marry Lord Damian, she decided. She would honor her title, fulfill her duty, and perhaps even pacify Adviser Remington. Yet the decision carved a wound so deep in her heart she feared she wouldn't survive its depth. As the first crack formed in her resolve, she whispered into the void, "I'm nothing more than a pawn… Aren't I?"
The applause still echoed faintly in her ears as Garnet sat alone in her chambers, staring blankly at the jewelry box atop her vanity. The ceramic figure within—its spinning halted, its melody silent—seemed frozen in time, like her own shattered hopes. Zidane wasn't coming back, she realized. The thought settled over her like a weight, crushing yet strangely liberating. It was the end of wishing, of waiting, of clinging to dreams that never had any place in her reality. And with that, something within her shifted.
She wasn't angry anymore… not at Remington, not at Damian, not even at herself. Instead, there was nothing. The fire that had fueled her defiance was reduced to cold embers, and she sat quietly as the evening light faded, letting the stillness seep into her soul. For the first time in years, Garnet thought of the crown not just as a burden but as a cage—a gilded prison she had resigned herself to. She would wear it, marry Damian, and do as expected. She would become Alexandria's Queen, not because she wanted it, but because it was the only thing left to do.
Her maids entered softly, their murmured praises of the evening's success barely registering in Garnet's ears. They moved efficiently, their hands gentle as they eased her into a nightgown and smoothed her hair for rest. The warm glow of candlelight danced across the walls, but it did nothing to chase away the chill that had settled deep within her. When the maids finally left, their departure was accompanied by a respectful bow and a quiet click of the door.
Garnet lay motionless on the bed, her eyes fixed on the canopy above her. The flicker of moonlight through the balcony doors cast shifting patterns across her face, but her expression remained unchanged. Her body was still, almost serene, yet her mind churned ceaselessly with thoughts she could no longer outrun. Hours passed without sleep, and the stillness in her chamber grew more and more oppressive. When a single tear slid down her cheek, it wasn't born of grief or rage… it was something quieter. It was the kind of tear that fell when there was nothing left to feel.
…
Morning arrived, and with it, the soft knock of Adviser Remington outside her chamber. His knuckles hovered just before the door, hesitating for a fraction longer than he intended. He had replayed their exchange from the prior day countless times through the night, unsettled by the calmness she had displayed—a calmness that had felt unnatural, as though it masked something far more turbulent. Her quietness was all together unlike the defiant fervor he had come to expect from her.
With a sharp breath, he finally knocked, the sound echoing faintly in the corridor. The soft creak of the door opening met him—not the voice bidding him to enter as he had anticipated. His brow furrowed as he peered into the dimly lit chamber, the Queen was already seated at her vanity, dressed impeccably in a deep emerald gown, her dark hair swept back and pinned with delicate precision. The maids worked silently, brushing the last stray strands into place before retreating, as if Dagger's presence alone demanded reverence. She dismissed them with a subtle tilt of her head, her gaze locked on her own reflection.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," Remington began, stepping cautiously inside and closing the door behind him. "I hope I am not intruding."
"No," she said simply, her voice cool and measured, devoid of its usual fire. "not at all."
Her response caught him off guard. He stood rigid for a moment, unsure whether to interpret this as progress or something more troubling. "I trust you slept well?" he ventured.
She turned toward him then, her expression composed but unreadable. "As well as I can, given the circumstances," she replied. Her hands rested delicately in her lap, but there was a stillness to her that unnerved him.
Remington cleared his throat, opening his portfolio with a practiced motion. "I wished to revisit some of the arrangements for the upcoming ball and, of course, the wedding. There are a few particulars that require your input."
Garnet gestured faintly for him to proceed, though her interest seemed absent. As he spoke of guest lists, floral arrangements, and ceremonial procedures, her responses came quickly—short, concise, and entirely agreeable. It should have been a relief, but to Remington, it felt like standing on the edge of the castle balcony.
"And the gown, Your Majesty," he said, glancing up from his notes. "I assume the seamstress has consulted with you?"
"She has." Her response was as curt as it was final, and when Remington searched her face for any hint of emotion, he found none.
For the first time in years, he didn't feel as though he was wrestling with the Queen's will, but he couldn't place why that put him on edge. Not dwelling on it, Remington closed his portfolio with a snap and offered the Queen a rare, genuine smile. "I must say, Your Majesty, your cooperation today has been... refreshing. I hope this means we can finally move forward with clarity and purpose."
Garnet tilted her head slightly, her gaze drifting toward the balcony as though she hadn't truly heard him. The spring breeze caught the edge of her gown, making it ripple softly. Remington hesitated, watching her as an uneasy feeling gnawed at the edges of his triumph. Her compliance should have felt like a victory—but instead, it felt hollow.
He cleared his throat, stepping closer. "Your Majesty, if I may... Forgive me, but I must ask directly. Is this—" he gestured vaguely at her poised demeanor "—another one of your schemes? Some elaborate ploy to discredit me or undermine the court? I have no doubt of your ingenuity, but I would rather not be made a fool of."
Garnet turned her head toward him, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, once fiery and defiant, were now dull, betraying nothing but indifference. "What do you mean?" she replied, her voice even and unremarkable, as though the question carried no weight.
Remington faltered. He had prepared for anger, for sharp retorts or wounded pride, but this? Her apathy left him standing in unfamiliar territory. "I mean," he began, choosing his words carefully, "it's unlike you to... concede so easily. Surely you have some thoughts—some objection, if not to me, then to the situation at large?"
She blinked slowly, her expression unchanged. "No," she said. "I have no objections. Will that be all?"
For the first time in his career, Remington felt the taste of doubt, sour and heavy on his tongue. Her cooperation was everything he had worked toward, yet it left him unsteady, as if he were walking into a trap he couldn't see.
Beatrix stood in the corridor, her gloved hands clasped behind her back as Remington strode past her, his pace brisk and his gaze fixed on the floor. She frowned, noting the pallor of his face and the tension in his shoulders. Something was clearly amiss.
"Master Remington," she called out, her voice steady. He slowed reluctantly, turning toward her with pursed lips. "Are you unwell?"
He hesitated, his eyes darting back toward the Queen's chamber before shaking his head. "Better not to question good fortune," he muttered, his tone strained as though forcing the words out. Without waiting for her reply, he continued down the hall, his boots muffled against the carpet as he disappeared around the corner.
Beatrix watched him leave, her frown deepening. Remington was not one for cryptic remarks, nor for rushing away from a meeting that had gone well—if it had gone well at all. Turning back to the Queen's chamber, she approached with measured steps, noting the faint scent of lavender wafting through the open door.
Inside, Queen Garnet sat by the balcony, her profile bathed in the soft light of morning. Her gown shimmered faintly in the breeze, and her hair was immaculate, pinned with precision as always. Yet something about the scene was off. Beatrix hesitated in the doorway, her hand resting lightly on the frame.
"Your Majesty," she said gently. "May I speak with you?"
Garnet turned her head toward Beatrix, her expression unreadable, as if her face were a mask carved from stone. "Of course, General," she replied, her tone measured and distant. "What is it?"
Beatrix stepped inside, her sharp eyes scanning the room for any hint of what might have transpired between the Queen and Remington. "Forgive my intrusion, but... I couldn't help but notice Master Remington seemed different than usual. Is everything well?"
Garnet's gaze drifted toward the horizon beyond the balcony, her lips curling faintly. "Everything is as it should be," she said softly. "No need for concern."
Beatrix's instincts bristled. The Queen's composure was too perfect, her words too hollow. Something was wrong, though Garnet offered no opening for inquiry. The General stepped closer, her voice firm but kind. "You have always been stronger than most, Your Majesty," she said. "But even the strongest have burdens they shouldn't bear alone. We know what you've been going through."
Garnet's gaze shifted back to Beatrix, and for a fleeting moment, her mask faltered. Her lips parted as though to speak, but no sound came. Then, as quickly as the moment appeared, it was gone, and she rose gracefully from her seat and walked to her desk brimming with unanswered letters.
"Thank you, General," Garnet said quietly, her voice steady once more. "I appreciate your concern, truly. Now, if you don't mind, I have requests to sort through."
As Beatrix stepped into the corridor, her mind still lingered on Garnet's demeanor. She had known the Queen since her adolescence, through trials and triumphs, and yet the woman she'd encountered today was unlike anything she'd ever seen. It chilled her in a way she couldn't quite articulate, and for the first time, Beatrix felt powerless to do anything about it.
Lost in thought, she turned a corner and nearly collided with her husband. Steiner's sturdy frame came to an abrupt halt as he caught her by the arms, steadying her. "Beatrix!" he exclaimed. "Are you all right?"
Beatrix nodded absentmindedly; her lips pressed into a thin line. "It's the Queen," she said finally, her voice low. "Something is off with her."
Steiner frowned, his eyes narrowing in concern. "Off? How so?"
"She's… changed," Beatrix said slowly, searching for the right words. "It's subtle, but unmistakable. She's calm—too calm."
Steiner considered this for a moment, his expression softening. "Perhaps the play brought back memories she'd rather not revisit," he suggested. "That show is always emotionally charged, and the Queen has endured more than most. She may need a few days to process it, but she'll return to herself. You'll see."
Beatrix hesitated, her arms folding as she glanced back down the corridor. "I hope you're right," she murmured, though her tone carried doubt. The Queen's behavior wasn't simply depressed or reflective—it was something deeper and far more troubling.
Steiner placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his expression warm but resolute. "She's stronger than we give her credit for," he said. "She'll find her way through this, Beatrix. Just give her time."
Beatrix nodded, though the unease in her chest refused to subside. As Steiner continued down the hall, Beatrix lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the doors to Garnet's chamber. Whatever was happening, she doubted time alone would fix it. But, for now, she would let Garnet be.
…
The day of the ball arrived with a buzz of activity throughout the castle. Staff scurried through the corridors, polishing silver trays and ensuring the floral arrangements were flawless. The gardens sparkled with vibrant color, and the sound of instruments being tuned carried faintly on the breeze. Adviser Remington strode purposefully through the halls, his portfolio clutched tightly in one hand.
His mind raced with details as he rehearsed his reminder to the Queen. Tonight was not just any ball—it was a critical event for Alexandria's political standing. Nobles, foreign dignitaries, and influential figures from neighboring nations would be in attendance. Everything had to proceed seamlessly, and the Queen's presence was paramount.
When he reached her chambers, Remington straightened his posture and cleared his throat. He knocked sharply, waiting for the familiar sound of her voice bidding him to enter. The silence stretched uncomfortably. Frowning, Remington pushed the door open, ready to launch into his prepared speech.
The sight before him stopped him cold.
The chambers were empty. Not a trace of the Queen. The vanity, always pristine, was bare save for a single comb. The bed was untouched, and the air carried no hint of lavender or other perfumes as it usually did. Remington's grip on the doorframe tightened as he scanned the room, his pulse quickening.
He stepped further inside, his boots muted against the carpet, his mind racing with questions. Where had she gone!? Why had the maids not informed him of her movements!? And, most troubling of all—was this some act of rebellion or defiance, or something far more ominous?
Remington paced furiously outside the Queen's chambers, the door swinging slightly on its hinges as if mocking him. His mind raced, combing through every interaction he'd had with her in recent days. He cursed himself for believing her compliance was genuine. Of course, this was her game all along—a ploy to humiliate him, to ruin everything he had worked tirelessly to preserve. How could he have been so foolish, so blind to her cunning?
His grip on his portfolio tightened until his knuckles turned white. "You've outdone yourself this time," he muttered bitterly under his breath, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "The perfect facade—obedience and poise—and I walked right into it!"
As he stormed down the corridor, staff scattered at the sight of him, their eyes wide with unease. The castle was alive with preparations, and the first of the evening's guests were already beginning to arrive. Dignitaries and nobles, some of the most influential figures in the region, were gathering in the great hall, their expectations soaring for the glittering ball ahead. Yet the centerpiece of the night—the Queen herself—was nowhere to be found.
Remington strode into the main hall, scanning the room for any sign of General Beatrix. Surely, she would know where Garnet had gone. But his search turned up nothing. The General was absent as well, her usual commanding presence replaced by a void that only deepened his unease.
His pulse quickened as frustration mingled with the flickers of panic gnawing at the edges of his resolve. Without the Queen, without Beatrix, Alexandria would be a laughingstock tonight—a crumbling kingdom unable to hold itself together. The whispers of rebellion and discontent that had been quelled in recent years would rise again, emboldened by this scandal. The nation's honor and his own reputation were on the line, and he could feel both slipping through his fingers.
Remington clenched his jaw, his blood boiling as he imagined Garnet laughing to herself, reveling in her success at undermining him. "This kingdom deserves better than petulant theatrics," he growled to no one in particular, his voice low and venomous. "I will find her. I will undo this madness."
The crisp evening air prickled against Remington's face as he stepped outside the castle, his chest tight with frustration and dread. Every corner of the castle he had scoured, every corridor he had searched, had turned up nothing. To think that tonight—of all nights—Queen Garnet had vanished, leaving him to face the mounting chaos alone.
Yet, as he descended the grand staircase leading to the front gates, he froze in his tracks. The bustling scene before him was not one of disorder but of precise, almost theatrical elegance. There, at the heart of it all, stood Queen Garnet, flanked by General Beatrix.
Garnet's presence struck him like a blow. She stood at the gates, greeting each arriving guest with a serene composure that bordered on regal perfection. Her posture was impeccable, her movements fluid, her words warm but measured. Beatrix's unyielding demeanor only added an air of solemnity to the moment, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd with quiet vigilance.
But it was Garnet's attire that sent a chill racing down Remington's spine. The black gown she wore clung delicately to her frame, its fabric shimmering faintly in the twilight. Matching black earrings caught the light as she inclined her head toward a guest, a soft smile gracing her lips. The choice of color was striking—elegant and refined, yet entirely at odds with the bright hues Remington had recommended for the evening.
For a moment, all he could do was stare. Her presence wasn't just acceptable; it was beyond anything he could have expected. She exuded a calm authority, fulfilling her role with an ease that should have reassured him. And yet, something about it felt wrong.
Remington approached cautiously, his heart hammering in his chest. The dissonance between his earlier panic and the scene before him left him disoriented, his thoughts tangled. Had she been planning this all along? Was this yet another one of her games, or had he entirely misjudged her? He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat as Garnet turned her gaze toward him.
Her dark eyes, framed by the delicate contrast of her gown, met his briefly. There was no animosity in her expression, no rebellion, no overt defiance. Yet, for all her composure, there was something in her gaze that set him on edge—a faint shadow of something he couldn't quite name. She inclined her head toward him with the same grace she extended to the guests, as if daring him to comment.
Remington swallowed hard and stepped back into the shadows, his hand tightening on his portfolio. It didn't matter how flawlessly she performed tonight; the unease gnawing at him refused to be silenced. Whatever game she was playing, it wasn't over yet.
Remington hovered near the edges of the grand ballroom, watching. The scene before him was dazzling—chandeliers casting warm, golden light across the polished floors, the hum of polite laughter and conversation weaving through the melodies of a string quartet. The event was a masterpiece of coordination and elegance. Even he had to admit, it was flawless.
And that terrified him.
The Queen, adorned in her delicate black gown, moved through the crowd like a seasoned diplomat. Every word she spoke seemed to charm her guests, eliciting smiles and nods of approval. She was magnetic, her calm authority drawing people toward her in a way that left Remington both impressed and deeply unsettled. This wasn't the Garnet he knew—the fiery, defiant girl who resisted him at every turn. This was someone else entirely, and the transformation left him feeling like a man standing on unstable ground.
His unease grew with each passing moment. He had prepared himself for chaos, for rebellion, for humiliation. But instead, the Queen had delivered the exact opposite. She hadn't simply met expectations—she had exceeded them, orchestrating an event so seamless that the very absence of error felt like a taunt.
Remington's hand tightened around his portfolio again, his fingers digging into the leather. He scanned the room for General Beatrix, hoping to find some semblance of normalcy in her familiar presence. But she remained elusive, leaving him to navigate his growing paranoia alone.
A foreign dignitary approached him, offering a congratulatory smile. "A splendid affair, Adviser Remington," the man said, his tone dripping with approval. "You must be very proud."
Remington managed a tight-lipped smile, nodding politely. "Thank you," he replied, though the words tasted bitter. Pride was the furthest thing from his mind. The success of the evening only served to amplify his discomfort. Something was wrong—he could feel it in his bones.
As the dignitary moved on, Remington's gaze returned to the Queen. She was laughing softly at something one of her guests had said, her composure unshakable. But as he watched her, he couldn't shake the feeling that beneath the flawless exterior, there was something lurking—something he couldn't yet see, but which threatened to unravel everything he had worked for.
He turned on his heel, his pulse quickening as he stalked toward the balcony for air. The walls of the ballroom seemed to close in around him, the polished perfection of the event suffocating in its brilliance. Outside, the cool night breeze offered little solace. For the first time in his long career, Remington felt as though he was losing control—not to chaos, but to something far more insidious: the unknown.
Remington returned to the ballroom, his breath still uneven from his moment on the balcony. The cool night air had done little to settle the churning unease in his stomach. If anything, stepping back into the glittering spectacle only magnified his discomfort.
Remington scanned the crowd, his eyes landing once again on the Queen. Her dark gown stood out against the kaleidoscope of bright, cheerful attire surrounding her—a stark, deliberate choice that drew every eye in the room. She still greeted each guest with a soft smile, her voice low and melodic as she exchanged pleasantries. To the untrained observer, she was the picture of grace.
His eyes flickered to Beatrix, who now stood stoic at Garnet's side. Though the General's presence was a comfort to many, Remington could sense her watchfulness—an intensity behind her calm exterior that hinted at more than simple vigilance. She spoke little, her posture rigid, as though bracing for something no one else could see.
Remington's discomfort grew as he moved through the room. The guests were as enchanted by the Queen as he was unsettled. Foreign dignitaries and regional nobles praised her charm and wit, whispering among themselves about her striking attire and flawless performance. Every comment should have bolstered Remington's pride, but instead, it stoked his paranoia. The success of the ball felt far too perfect, too effortless. Garnet had exceeded his expectations, but not in a way that reassured him.
As Remington passed near the refreshment tables, he overheard a guest remark to another, "I've never seen her so composed. Queen Garnet has outdone herself tonight."
"Indeed," the other replied, his tone admiring. "That black gown—it's bold, isn't it? She's mourning something, I think. Or perhaps she's sending a message?"
Remington paused, the words lodging in his mind like a splinter. Mourning. He glanced back toward Garnet, his gaze narrowing. Was the dress meant to symbolize something? A subtle protest, or perhaps a quiet rebellion? Was she sending a message, as the guest suggested? And if so, to whom?
He turned his attention back to the event. Garnet stood near the raised platform at the head of the room, exchanging words with the esteemed Count Servino. Beatrix stood to her left, her vigilant gaze sweeping the room while she gave the faintest nod, signaling it was time for the queen's speech.
The quartet eased into silence as the murmurs of conversation dwindled. Guests began to shift their attention, heads turning toward the platform as Garnet ascended the steps with slow, measured movements. The delicate glimmer of her gown against the backdrop of Alexandria's banners made her presence magnetic, drawing every eye in the room.
Remington stiffened, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling as she reached the podium. Her silhouette was stark against the grand tapestry hanging behind her—Alexandria's crest in shimmering gold. This was her moment, and Remington could feel the anticipation hanging thick in the air. If she has something planned, this would undoubtedly be it.
The Queen stepped forward, her hands resting lightly on the sides of the podium. She let her gaze sweep across the room, meeting the eyes of nobles, dignitaries, and Alexandrian citizens alike. The quiet anticipation grew with each passing second, until finally, she began.
"Esteemed guests," she said, her gaze sweeping across the crowd, "it is an honor to welcome you all this evening. Your presence here is a testament to the enduring strength of Alexandria; a kingdom built not only upon its foundations but upon the unwavering support of its allies, its nobility, and its people. You are vital to our prosperity, and we will forever be thankful for your loyalty and dedication."
The room seemed to glow in response to her words, polite applause rippling through the gathered crowd. Garnet allowed the moment to linger before continuing, her hands resting lightly on the sides of the podium.
"I would also like to extend my gratitude to my loyal adviser, Remington," she said, her voice unwavering. "His dedication and his meticulous efforts in organizing this evening have ensured that it is nothing short of perfection. Alexandria owes much to his hard work."
At this, Garnet turned her head toward Remington, her dark eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sent a ripple down his spine. Her gaze lingered, just long enough for him to notice. For just a moment, barely an instant, he thought he saw something flash behind her composed facade. Hatred. Or was it disdain? It came and went so quickly that he couldn't be sure, but his stomach twisted all the same.
The applause swelled again, but Remington found no comfort in the praise. He stood motionless near the edge of the ballroom, watching Garnet closely as she continued. He barely heard the rest of her speech, his thoughts consumed by the flicker he was certain he'd seen—a crack in the polished veneer, a blackness that shook him to his core.