After that morning, everything changed. Not abruptly. Not obviously to others. But between Beatrice and Theodor, a new, delicate thread had been strung. When they met in the corridors, their eyes lingered on each other a moment longer than before. When he helped her to her seat at the table, his hand lingered for a heartbeat, almost imperceptibly. When Beatrice spoke short formal phrases, he listened a little too attentively. And yet a wall still stood between them. Not an icy one. Not hostile. But heavy, like a slab of stone.
Beatrice knew why. The body might forget. Maybe even the soul would want to forget. But memory—memory would not let go.
In every polite bow, in every lowered gaze, she saw another Theodor. The one who had stood at the scaffold. The one who had remained silent when her sentence was read. The one who had taken up the sword himself. And whatever he said now, however he looked at her, that blood still divided them.
Beatrice sat in the small receiving room, sorting scrolls with grain supply reports.
Theodor entered unannounced, as he sometimes allowed himself to do when he wanted to avoid unnecessary witnesses.
He stopped across from her, holding a thin folder in his hands.
– Your Majesty, – he said, his voice slightly hoarse. – I would like to discuss the results of the last audit.
Beatrice slowly raised her head. Their eyes met.
For a moment, sharp and painful, Beatrice saw the man behind his gaze. The one who, in another time, in another world, might have been her only one.
She blinked, breaking the gaze.
– Of course, Your Majesty, – she replied evenly, stepping back into the familiar, safe formality.
Theodor exhaled, barely noticeably. But he did.
He placed the folder on the table.
– I don't wish to impose my presence, – he added quietly. – But if you need… assistance… – he hesitated, as if surprised by his own words, – I'm here.
Beatrice looked at him for a long time. Too long for mere politeness. Inside, something clenched: the desire to accept that offered hand, to cast aside the pain and the cold voice of memory whispering about blades, about pyres, about verdicts.
She nodded slowly:
– Thank you, Your Majesty.
Formal. Cold. But at the very end of her phrase, a tiny tremor passed—too faint to be noticed.
Theodor bowed silently. And left.
When the door closed behind him, Beatrice allowed herself, for a moment, to let her head fall back against the chair. She clenched her fingers into thin fists on her lap. No. She reminded herself. She couldn't let weakness win. Not now. Not with him. Even if part of her heart beat louder against all those prohibitions.
Summer faded slowly.
Days grew shorter. The morning air chilled the skin. A faint scent of withered grass hung over the garden paths. And Beatrice felt the change with every motion. For her, summer had become a time of careful learning.
She didn't spend her days in idleness, as a queen of her standing might be expected to. She didn't sit with embroidery, didn't entertain her ladies-in-waiting.
She studied. Lists of supplies. Temple schedules. Land registers. Not in haste, not grabbing at everything at once, but as someone who knew: no one here would forgive mistakes.
Sometimes in the evenings, when the heat subsided, Theodor would invite her for brief walks through the inner courtyards. No unnecessary words, no displays. Just a slow pace along the shaded walls, discussions of affairs: border outposts, vineyard village taxes, the health of small settlements along the great road. He spoke calmly, as to an equal.
Beatrice listened attentively, sometimes asking for clarification, sometimes remaining silent.
And only in rare glances did a strange tension show through, as if both remembered how much their silent connection cost—and how heavy their shared blood weighed.
Sometimes they stayed at the table together in the small dining room.
Theodor dictated letters to the chancellor. Beatrice, her head lowered, sorted through letters from the ladies-in-waiting—mostly empty, polite, meaningless. Sometimes their fingers almost touched on the table as they sorted scrolls. And each time, they pulled back just a little too quickly.
Near the end of summer, Beatrice organized her first real dinner for the lower officials. Not for nobles, not for court ladies, but for the people whose work went unnoticed. Scribes. Gardeners. Storekeepers. Those who bore the palace on their shoulders. And Theodor approved silently.
He sat beside her at the long table in the gallery, watching as these unnoticed people, long accustomed to hiding in shadows, for the first time in many seasons ate with gratitude and lifted their eyes to their sovereigns without fear. And perhaps, in that moment, he understood: Beatrice could see what escaped his gaze.
When summer bowed to its end, and the first rains soaked the garden paths, Beatrice felt different. As autumn neared, everything became clearer. As if the mist lifted not just from the gardens and paths, but from faces as well.
Those who had stayed close to her in the summer out of courtesy or duty began to reveal their true selves.
Some looked at her with caution. Some with cold calculation. Some with timid hope. Here at court, words were worth more than swords. And Beatrice understood: from now on, her strength would be measured not just by decrees and titles. Her strength lay in the people who would choose to stay. Or leave. Gathering people was only half the work. Keeping them—an art.
This was when the real work began. She started to observe. Who spoke much but did little. Who listened more than they answered. Who brought truth unadorned, and who—only what was pleasant to hear.
She took note of Linette. Eydric. Greta. A young guard named Cedric. Not because any of them had sworn oaths. But because each, at some point, proved themselves by deed. Better to have no rumors than to build them on lies.
Her first attempts at action were cautious. Small tasks. Scroll checks. Whispered intel.
And when Linette gently suggested the name of a lady-in-waiting, Mariette—quiet, unassuming, long-time resident of the castle—Beatrice decided to test it.
She asked Mariette to find out which members of the inner council had been seen in secret talks with temple emissaries. A small request. No open accusations.
The answer came quickly. Too quickly.
Two days later, she meekly reported that Count Dorden, a longtime supporter of Theodor, was allegedly meeting in secret with temple representatives.
Beatrice paused. Her intuition said: something was off. But she gave no sign. Instead, she asked the chancellor to discreetly verify the count's movements. And learned: it had all been a lie. The count had not left the palace walls all summer. And the temple had indeed tried, through other officials, to spread false rumors of conspiracy.
Mariette had either been too naive , or, more likely, already belonged to the other side.
The decision was immediate. No scenes. No shouting.
Through Linette, Beatrice ordered Mariette's quiet dismissal. No fuss. She was sent away, leaving behind only an empty space among the servants.
That day, Beatrice understood: in these walls, any error—even the smallest—could cost her dearly. And something else became clear: trust must not be given freely. It must be built slowly, carefully.
After Mariette's case, Beatrice changed her approach. She no longer asked advice aloud. She no longer relied on others' good intentions. She was learning to wager only on what she could verify herself.
Eydric was the first she decided to test in earnest. The young scribe, who always seemed a little frightened, had a sharp, grasping mind. And most importantly, he didn't ask unnecessary questions. Beatrice suspected that the treasury supply lists contained inflated temple provisions. She gave Eydric a simple task: retrieve old registers from spring and compare them to current deliveries.
Just compare the numbers. No conclusions. No commentary.
The next day the boy brought her a scroll. No signature. No remarks.
Just rows of figures, neatly written side by side: old and new. The difference was glaring. Supposedly, they were buying twice as much wheat. Yet the stores held less than the year before.
Beatrice said nothing, looking at Eydric's frightened face. She gave no praise. No reprimand. Simply set the scroll aside and dismissed him with a nod.
But in her records, deep in her thoughts, a new mark appeared next to Eydric's name: "worthy of trust."
Next came Cedric—the young, quiet, inconspicuous guard. Through Linette, Beatrice asked him to find out who lingered most often by the western gates after curfew. Unnoticed.
Three days later, Cedric passed a short note through a nursemaid:
"Clerk Dorwain spotted twice. Secret talks with messengers. Entering through north access."
No speculation. No accusation. Just fact. And that was enough.
Then there was Greta—the quiet laundress. To all, she was a shadow among shadows: unnoticed, and that made her dangerous.
Beatrice staged a scene in one of the corridors: a loud-enough conversation with Linette, crafted for Greta's ears.
– Strange that they're storing new wine stocks in the South Tower. The season hasn't even begun…
She trailed off mid-sentence. Turned and left. Just a dropped line. Like bait.
Two days passed in silence. Beatrice waited patiently.
On the third day, rumors reached her: the senior cooks whispered of strange wine reserves for "special guests" no one had seen. The rumors reached Laimer—the storehouse master—and from him to the chancellor, who then privately hinted to Theodor: "A secret audit of the South Tower might be in order."
Beatrice listened to the ripples, like a musician hearing the water react to a cast stone. A rumor tossed into the void had spread on its own. And she knew: that was Greta. Not betrayal. But weakness. And weakness was more dangerous than lies.
That very night, Beatrice ordered a change of staff on the lower floors. No scandals. No punishments. Greta was sent "due to staffing changes"—formally, to a distant winery estate. Far from the whispers. Just another loose thread removed before it could snap.
The first tests were over. The first mistakes understood. No long hallway talks. No words spoken aloud without purpose. The people she was beginning to rely on barely realized they were now part of her game.
Eydric, the young scribe, now quietly slipped her old reports and corrected lists.
Seemingly routine paperwork—if you didn't know what to look for.
Cedric, the inner gate guard, once nearly caught for excessive interest in temple staff, now stood so he could see the faces of all who came and went, while appearing just a silent sentry.
Linette, the chambermaid, asked no questions. She simply knew who needed reminders about the old rules of decorum. Sometimes she "happened" to appear in the quarters of senior ladies-in-waiting. Sometimes in places where important conversations brewed.
Autumn arrived. Heavy, damp, smelling of rot.
The palace was preparing for new Council sessions. And Beatrice knew that, at the upcoming meetings, she would have to speak aloud, not merely as Queen by title, but as someone truly heard. There would be no room for error. Her first real trial was approaching.