A Week of Waiting

The city is quieter than usual, the hum of its daily bustle subdued in the days leading up to Persephone’s coronation and birthday. From your chambers, high in the men’s quarters of the palace, you can just make out the distant sounds of preparations: the clatter of workers assembling grand stages, the faint strains of musicians rehearsing, the rhythmic chants of soldiers drilling for the ceremonial guard. The air is thick with anticipation, the kind that settles over a city holding its breath before a storm.

Yet, for all the activity outside, your world has shrunk to these rooms and the three looming guards who shadow your every move. Even without questions about your escape to the city or the disappearance of your guard, the constraints imposed on you are unspoken but absolute. The walls feel closer than ever, the silence oppressive.

You can’t help but replay Viola’s words in your mind. The way her hand pressed to her stomach—it was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you noticed. Was she implying she was carrying your child? And if she was... what did that mean for the future? You’d chosen to stay, to tie yourself to Persephone’s fate and that of the queendom, but had you made the right decision?

Your thoughts churn as the week drags on, the monotony only broken by fleeting moments of interaction. One such moment comes when you catch a glimpse of Anora.

She walks the corridors now without a hint of fear, her chin held high and her stride confident. She has earned Persephone’s trust, it seems, a far cry from the broken figure you’d last seen in the dungeon. She greets you with a smile, her expression warm despite everything that’s happened.

“Anora,” you say, your voice heavy with guilt. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you. In the dungeon, I—”

Her laughter cuts you off, light and melodic. “Stop treating me like some delicate male,” she says, placing a hand on your arm. “I survived, didn’t I? And it was... incredible, in its own way. You don’t owe me an apology for that.”

Her words leave you momentarily speechless. As she turns slightly, your eyes flick to her midsection. Her movements are careful, her hand hovering near her belly in a way that makes your breath catch. Could she...?

But you don’t ask. The words die in your throat, and you simply nod, swallowing the knot of questions and doubts that threaten to rise.

The days crawl by, your isolation broken only by Katarina’s occasional visits. On the eve of Persephone’s coronation, she strides into your chamber with her usual confidence, the sharp click of her heels on the stone floor announcing her arrival.

“Checking in on me again?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder from the window where you’ve been staring out at the city.

Katarina chuckles and claps you on the back with surprising ****. “Oh, don’t sulk. Tomorrow is a momentous occasion. Persephone’s coronation, her birthday... and your chance to sow your seed in the most fertile field this queendom has to offer.”

Her crassness earns a grunt from you, though you can’t entirely suppress the heat that stirs within you at the thought. Still, you turn back to the window, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a reply.

“Come now, walk with me,” she says, grabbing your arm and practically hauling you from your seat.

“Where are we going?”

“Mariana and I need to finalize a few details with you before tomorrow,” she replies, leading you down the twisting corridors of the palace.

The path takes you through the women’s wing, where opulent tapestries hang from the walls and the air smells faintly of lavender and beeswax. You can’t help but feel a pang of memory as you step into Viola’s old antechamber, the same room where you’d once taken both her and Cassandra.

Mariana waits for you there, seated at the long table draped in rich velvet. She gestures for you to sit as Katarina takes her place beside her.

“The plan is simple,” Mariana begins, her tone brisk. “But there are risks.”

“Such as?” you ask, leaning forward.

“If Persephone catches wind of our intentions before Katarina makes her request, she could choose someone else entirely,” Mariana says. “We must ensure she doesn’t expect a thing.”

You nod, understanding the delicacy of the situation. “Anything else?”

The two women exchange a glance. Mariana hesitates before speaking again. “There is a loophole,” she admits. “A precedent that allows a Duchess to pass a marriage obligation to a close relative. In Persephone’s case, that would be me.”

Your brow furrows. “So I’d be **** to marry you instead?”

“Yes,” Mariana replies, “but it’s unlikely. The law was designed to help a Duchess avoid marrying a weak or unsuitable male. If Persephone invoked it against you, it would be seen as a sign of her weakness, which her pride would never allow.”

“Still,” she adds, “you must keep her calm. Let her feel in control of the situation. If she panics before the marriage is consummated, she might act out of fear.”

You smirk faintly. “I’ll be gentle.”

Mariana claps her hands, satisfied. “Good. Remember, once the marriage is consummated, the contract is binding. Let her set the pace. Show the queendom that House Alecton’s scions are strong despite our diminutive stature.”

With that, Katarina calls for a guard to escort you back to your chambers.

The evening stretches on, heavy with anticipation. From your window, you watch the city’s lights flicker like stars against the deepening night. Tomorrow will be historic, not just for the queendom, but for you. The weight of your choices presses down on you as you climb into bed, your thoughts swirling until sleep finally takes you.