Beneath the twin moons, their silver light poured softly over the garden at the back of the royal ballroom, falling softly upon the ground like a heavenward whisper.
And there, within that moonlight, a single figure stepped—glad, stately, but with an invisible weight that numbed her tread.
Her very presence had the ability to silence a room. She was dressed in an off-shoulder gown dyed in the rich color of midnight; its material embroidered with silver threads that sparkled like stars ensnared in fabric. The gown fit her elegant shape, fluttering softly as she moved, every movement a light ripple across quiet water.
Her hair—long, silver-white and wild—streamed behind her like a river of starlight, catching the moonlight in every movement. Under that moonlit gleam, her skin appeared almost otherworldly, as if she had been carved from the moonlight itself.
But it was her eyes that cried the loudest.
Icy-blue—formerly aglow with laughter, wit, and fiery pride—now muted. Their sparkle extinguished, reduced to an empty silence. The type only years of silence, duty, and hidden burdens could etch into a person. She did not weep. Queens did not weep. But something in her eyes seemed like a scream trapped behind glass, never to be heard.
With slow, measured footsteps, she wandered further into the moonlit garden—tuned in not by the beauty of the night, but by the quiet it provided.
The breeze rustled gently, bearing with it the scent of blossoming dusk-lilies and the low sweetness of silverleaf trees. Under her heels, the stone pathway sighed with each step—a whisper through a land that few had the courage to enter. Here, distant from the laughter and melody of the royal ballroom, nature held court in silence. No magical lanterns. No enchanted light. Simply the soft glow of twin moons bathing the world in silver.
The garden lay like a lost dream. Venerable flowering trees with gnarled branches towered like sentinels, their flowers wafting a fragrant scent of jasmine and night flowers. Wild roses, moonlilies, and earth filled the air with a rich fragrance. Flowers bent in her direction as if greeting a soul too burdened for the weight on her head. The shadows too, appeared to quiet in her wake.
She moved with poise, yet alone.
Her feet took her by rows of sleeping flowers and silvered stone, until the path bent slightly toward a more secluded corner—one few could recall, and even fewer knew. Here the garden changed. The air was motionless, heavy with quiet and the smell of aged earth and dropping petals.
At the edge farthest from the light, where the light of the moon grew thin and shadows were deepest, there was a fountain made of white marble—delicate in design, wing-shaped from a vase, the water dribbling in soft rhythm into a pond covered with drifting flowers. Next to it, under the heavy sag of a weeping tree, there was a bench carved from stone—half-hidden, half-swallowed by time and by nature.
She paused, as though considering something in the stillness.
Then, wordlessly, she sat down on the bench. A slow, elegant fall into stillness.
Shadows enveloped her like a funeral pall, covering her completely from the world outside. If a person had walked past, they might have gone right by her without noticing the quiet spirit hidden under leaves and moonlight.
Perhaps... that was the idea.
Her head dipped, hair spilling out ahead to hide her face. Knotted fingers curled in her lap. Her breathing shallow. Regulated.
And then, a shudder shook her shoulders.
A lone tear fell down her cheek—unheard, radiating softly in the light of the silver moon before dissolving into folds of her robe. A second followed. And a third.
Until she was sobbing—silently, wordlessly, heartache pouring from every breath.
Here, in the quiet of the garden, the queen wept.
A woman who was hailed throughout the kingdom as the benevolent queen... now nothing but a weeping and broken spirit in the shadows.
A woman who had lost all her dreams. Who had done all that was demanded of her, stifled all own desires, and smiled past every order with impeccable graciousness. And yet, what had it gotten for her?
"Why...?" the thought welled in her chest.
"What did I do wrong?"
"Why no room for my wishes... in this world?"
Tears dripped into the delicate material of her dress as her hands were tightly clenched, knuckles white from years of suppressed anguish. Her body shook—not out of frailty, but out of the sheer heaviness of shouldering too much for too many years.
She’d become the ideal queen. The perfect wife. A diplomatic vessel. A political puppet.
But never... never had anyone ever asked her what she desired.
Never had anyone ever listened.
Just as she could descend further into that old grief, a noise cut through her desolation.
A light step across the lawn.
She halted, half-sob, a gulp caught in her throat. Her shoulders froze. Panic ignited in her chest.
She raised her tear-stained face slowly.
And there—shrouded in the cold, silvery light of the twin moons—was the man she yearned for but feared most of all.
He stood in silence, golden eyes fixed upon her. The moonlight caressed the sharp planes of his face, rendering him almost otherworldly. His face was a mask of unreadability... but in his eyes, something deeper sparked. Concern. Pain. Regret.
He had trailed her from the ballroom—seen her abrupt exit, sensed something change—and pursued her, driven not by logic but instinct. He had strolled through the garden, searching in vain for her direction, until the quiet murmur of stifled sobs guided him to this place.
And now he was standing before her.
The haughty, poised, elegant queen—now no more than a girl under a tree, shaking and naked in her sorrow.
Her shoulders shook. Her lips attempted to reform into the serene facade she wore at all times, but there were fissures. Apparent. Bleeding.
She hastily swiped at her cheeks, erasing the tears as if removing proof of her vulnerability. Displaying a smile that refused to materialize in her eyes, she breathed, "Huh... Leon. What are you doing here?"
Her voice just about remained intact, each word trembling, fighting to be suave.
Leon didn’t say anything for a beat. And then, without a word, he moved forward and knelt beside her. Close. Close enough to sense the sorrow emanating off her like warmth. The wind swirled about them, leaves rustling in hushed commiseration.
"I saw you exit the ballroom," he spoke finally, his voice level and low. He turned to her, his eyes searching hers. "I trailed. I... was concerned about you."
Sona’s heart pounded in her chest, the low earnestness in his tone hitting harder than she had anticipated. She looked at him—and he saw it. The slight shudder in her breath, the crumbling of her facade.
There was a momentary flash of warmth attempting to surface under the empty mask she bore. She tried for a gentle laugh, but it died halfway, strangling on her larynx. "I thought no one would miss it... but you saw it."
Leon did not answer with a smile. He merely regarded her—still, unblinking.
Silence clung between them for an instant, drawn tight as a wire tautly stretched.
Then, in a voice just above a whisper, she asked, "Why, Leon?"
He cocked his head slightly, brow furrowed in quiet puzzlement. "Why what?
Her voice trembled. "Why should you care?" She dropped her eyes, her eyelashes quivering as though the burden of her own question was too heavy to bear. "Why pursue me," she breathed, "when we’re merely. friends?"
A bitter smile touched her lips, fleeting and hollow. "I’m the king’s wife. I chose duty over everything else. I wear the crown, Leon." Her breath caught. "Why would someone like you still care about someone like me?"
Her next words came quieter, breaking apart like glass. "I’m a queen. You’re a Duke. And we’re not."
A single tear slid down her cheek, silent and uninvited.
Leon said nothing. He didn’t need to.
He touched her, his hand moving with a sort of subdued reverence. His fingertips caressed her tear away—soft, almost quivering with restraint. As if she were something that could be broken.
And then, a small smile creased his lips—not faked, not brilliant, just genuine.