"And if the delegation demands your release? If they threaten war over it?"
The thought of being separated from him, of the bond going dormant again, sends panic through my system. But underneath the fear is something else—anger at being treated like property to be negotiated over.
"Then they'll have to deal with me, not just you," I say, surprised by the steel in my own voice. "I'm not a child to be rescued against my will."
The funeral preparations consume the entire palace, and I get my first real taste of what being queen means.
I stand in front of a mirror while servants debate the proper attire for a queen mourning her predecessor. Black silk or midnight blue? Frost patterns or crystalline embroidery? Every decision carries political weight I'm only beginning to understand.
"The blue," I decide finally. "With silver thread. Kieran deserves to be honored, not overshadowed."
The head seamstress nods approvingly, and I realize I've passed some kind of test. Small victories in a world where everything feels impossibly complex.
Aratus finds me an hour later, struggling with the delicate balance of authority and deference required to manage palace staff. They want direction but resist orders, need guidance but resent interference.
"How do you make them listen without making them hate you?" I ask, frustrated after a particularly difficult conversation about funeral flowers.
"You don't," he says simply. "Some will always hate you for having power they don't. The key is making sure the right people respect you."
"And how do I know who the right people are?"
"Time. Experience. Making mistakes and learning from them." He moves behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders. "You're doing better than you think."
The comfort of his touch wars with my need to prove I can handle this alone. "Am I? Because I feel like I'm drowning in protocols I don't understand."
"Kieran felt the same way when he became king. So did I when I realized I'd inherit after him." His fingers work at the tension in my shoulders. "Power is a skill like any other. It takes practice."
That evening, we have our first real fight as king and queen.
It starts over something small—the guest list for the funeral reception. I suggest including some of the human dignitaries who've maintained relationships with the Frost Court, thinking it might help our political situation.
"Absolutely not," Aratus says, his tone carrying the authority of centuries. "Kieran's funeral isn't a diplomatic opportunity."
"I'm not suggesting we turn it into a negotiation," I reply, trying to keep my voice level. "But showing respect for human-Fae relations might?—"
"No." The word cuts through the air like a blade. "This is a Fae ceremony for Fae mourning. Humans wouldn't understand the significance, and their presence would be inappropriate."
The dismissal stings, but it's his certainty that makes my temper flare. "So you're just going to decide? Without even considering?—"
"I'm deciding because it's my decision to make," he interrupts. "Some things aren't up for debate."
"And who decides what those things are? You?"
"When it comes to court protocol and Fae tradition, yes."
The conversation spirals from there, both of us saying things we don't mean. He accuses me of not understanding Fae culture. I accuse him of treating me like a decorative accessory. The argument escalates until we're both shouting, weeks of stress and grief pouring out in harsh words.
"This isn't working," I finally say when we're both breathless with anger. "We can't keep fighting about everything."
"No," he agrees, running his hands through his hair. "We can't. But we also can't pretend I'm not going to have opinions about how things should be done."
"And I can't pretend I'm going to just smile and agree when those opinions exclude me from decision-making."
We stare at each other across the chamber, both recognizing the fundamental problem we're facing. His instincts toward control, my instincts toward independence. Both necessary for who we are, both potentially destructive to what we're trying to build.
"We need rules," I say finally. "Boundaries. Ways to handle disagreement that don't involve screaming matches."
"Agreed. But what kind of rules?"
