A barely audible chuckle passed through the hall – one of the junior advisors couldn't hold it in.
– Let me remind you, – her voice was even, but each syllable rang in the room, – it's not the first time I hear that demands for transparency are taken as insults, – she glanced around at those present, – when the templar emissaries came here with complaints of disaster and demands for new subsidies, I asked for reports. – She paused. – And it turned out that the scrolls had been tampered with. The amounts inflated. And with the funds that were supposed to save villages, in reality, manors were being built for the elders.
A heavy, awkward rustle passed through the hall.
Beatrice continued:
– Then, despite all the fine words about honor and care, the facts proved otherwise. Then we argued long before agreeing to unseal the scrolls. Then many tried to hide the truth under loud speeches. – She held her gaze on Count de Savre. – Today, it's the same lesson. And to those hoping to cover their past with filth thrown at me, I advise to remember: I can read not only fine reports. I can read between the lines.
Theodore gave her a barely perceptible nod from the other end of the table.
Marianna squinted.
– Bold words, Your Majesty, – she purred. – But one mustn't forget that many here have given their lives and honor in service to the throne. Such doubts may breed division.
Beatrice did not avert her gaze.
– If the truth causes division, perhaps that division was needed.
The lords stirred. Whispering grew, spreading through the hall like an encroaching wave.
Some supported Beatrice's initiative. Others, frightened, began to side with Marianna.
The treasurer flared up, slamming his palm against the table:
– We cannot allow the Queen to sow unrest without proof!
– The Queen is guarding the treasury you intend to squander! – one of the junior lords snapped.
Voices rose. The council's silence was breaking.
Marianna leaned forward, her voice laced with poisonous softness:
– Your Majesty, perhaps you should study the art of governance a little more before throwing accusations where none are needed.
It was almost an open slap.
Her silence struck harder than any shout.
The noise rose. Voices overlapped. Arguments spiraled into chaos.
And at that moment, Theodore rose.
With one sharp, furious motion, he slammed his fist down on the table.
The thud echoed through the hall like a clap of thunder.
Documents jumped on the boards. Some inkwells overturned, leaving stains on the scrolls.
Theodore stood, slowly clenching and unclenching his right hand. Blood seeped from his knuckles, but he paid it no mind.
– Enough, – he said quietly, but his voice sliced through the air. – The Council exists to serve the crown. Not to host a farce.
Everyone fell silent.
Theodore swept the room with a heavy, cold gaze. His right hand slowly clenched into a fist, a thin trickle of blood running down his knuckles, but he seemed not to notice the pain.
– The reports will be prepared, – he said softly, but with a weight that made every man in the room stiffen. – The audit will be conducted. No delays. No objections.
He straightened, as if shouldering the weight of the entire world.
– The Queen's word holds as much weight as mine. Rightful words must be accepted without debate. She is your queen, as I am your king. Your duty is to obey, not to argue.
Some lords lowered their gazes. The treasurer pressed his lips into a thin line. Even Marianna, without changing her expression, tensed slightly.
Theodore stepped forward slightly, his voice steady:
– We seek your counsel not because we are bound to, but because we wish to hear wise thoughts. But if your counsel turns to resistance, it loses its value.
He paused, his gaze lingering briefly on Beatrice. In that look was everything: support, protection, the recognition of her right to be here, not by chance, not by grace.
Beatrice felt a warmth slowly unfurl in her chest. She stood tall, calmly.
Theodore wasn't excusing her. Wasn't defending her like a weakling. He placed her beside him—as an equal.
In that moment, for the first time in many months, Beatrice allowed herself to believe: perhaps the struggle would not be a solitary one.
The corridors behind the Council chamber were dark, cool, and smelled of wax and damp stone. Here, far from prying eyes, footsteps sounded especially loud.
Beatrice walked just behind Theodore. He held himself steady, as always, but his right hand was pressed against his side with unnatural care. She noticed it immediately.
Without thinking, she quickened her pace, overtook him, and turned to intercept his gaze.
– Give me your hand, Your Majesty, – she said softly, so no one could hear.
Theodore slowed a little. His expression was surprised, as if he hadn't expected care or concern. But he obeyed.
Beatrice gently took his hand in her fingers. The skin was taut, the knuckles bloodied. Theodore flinched slightly—not from pain, more from the touch itself.
Beatrice lightly ran her fingers over his hand, checking for fractures, and for the first time in a long while, something warm, alive passed between them. She felt how his fingers tensed, how his breath paused. Theodore seemed to lean closer, without even realizing, and for a second, they were surrounded by a bubble of silence separating them from the world.
She could hear his heartbeat so close, as if it were her own.
But in the next second, another memory flared within her. The blade. The strike. Pain in her neck. The cold stone under her knees.
And this same man—the very same—with a sword in hand.
Beatrice let go of his hand, almost dropping it, as if suddenly realizing she wasn't holding an ally's hand—but an executioner's.
Not a single muscle moved on her face. Only inside, everything twisted into a tight knot.
– You need to bandage the wound, Your Majesty, – she said evenly, stepping back slightly. – And apply something cold before evening.
Theodore said nothing, looking at her as if wanting to say something important. But she didn't give him the chance. Beatrice inclined her head in a short bow, precise, formal, without a hint of closeness.
And without looking back, she walked down the corridor, leaving behind only the soft rustle of her skirts and a honey-scented trail of perfume.
In her chest trembled a strange knot: a mixture of warmth and pain, trust and betrayal that couldn't be undone by a single touch.
Too soon. Still far too soon.
Her chambers greeted her with coolness. Lynette rushed to remove the cloak from her shoulders, but Beatrice only nodded absently and walked on toward the window.
A warm breeze smelling of rain played with the heavy curtains. The palace garden below seemed gray and blurry, as if the whole world was bracing for a new storm.
Beatrice looked into that murky haze and thought about how quickly everything changes. Today she had been heard. Today Theodore stood beside her. Today she had crossed a line. And now, there would be no going back.
She could have allowed herself a few minutes of satisfaction, a few minutes of pride—but instead, a clear plan was already forming in her mind.