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wistfulwanderingone · 3 days ago

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"The Hollow Queen"

- Lady Michel and Chevalier

Bloodstained Roses: Ikemen Prince Lore Series

Fandom: Ikemen Prince

Characters: Lady Michel, Chevalier Michel

Genre: Angst, Tragedy

Content Tags: angst heavy, psychological trauma, emotional neglect, loveless marriage, parental neglect/mild child abuse, maternal breakdown, self-destruction, blood image, violence (non-graphic), tragedy.

Word Count: ~2600

Summary:

She was groomed for perfection. A crown was her reward. But perfection cannot soften a heart grown cold.

The King is distant. The court is suffocating. And no amount of poise or perfection can thaw the silence he leaves behind. She tells herself to endure. To be patient. To become the queen they all expect.

But rejection cuts deeper than duty. And monsters are not born—they are made. Especially when the mirror begins to show one staring back.

SPOILER WARNING: There are spoilers in this fic for Chevalier's route. So if you have not read his route and do not want spoiler's please do NOT keep reading.

The palace halls gleamed beneath the warm glow of candlelight, golden embellishments shimmering like molten metal as Lady Michel followed the minister through the corridor. The air carried the clean scent of polished wood mingled with the soft floral perfume of roses arranged along the walls. Each step she took was measured, her silken slippers whispering against the marble floor, though inside, her heart thudded so loudly she wondered if the minister could hear it.

She lifted her chin, her gloved hands clasped delicately before her, careful to maintain the posture her governess had drilled into her since childhood. A lady must always be graceful, always composed.

And today, of all days, she needed to be perfect.

The soft rustle of her gown followed her as she walked, the fabric brushing against her skin like a whisper of expectation. Every nerve in her body was strung tight, her pulse a frantic thing beneath her calm exterior.

This was the day she would meet her betrothed.

The King.

Her father had spoken highly of him—a young ruler with a sharp mind, a capable leader chosen by fate itself, selected through tradition by the one of pure heart. Your future is secure, my dear. You will be queen.

Queen.

The word sent a shiver through her, though the warmth of the palace should have kept it at bay. The most powerful woman in Rhodolite. And she would have a husband—a strong, noble king to stand beside. Perhaps love would come later, as it often did in arranged marriages. She had prepared herself for that.

But love would come…wouldn’t it?

She imagined kindness. A warm smile, a voice softened by curiosity, perhaps even a flicker of nerves—because surely, he would feel the weight of this moment too.

Instead, when she entered the grand study, she was met with a man who barely lifted his head from the documents before him.

A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a flickering glow over the vast room. The scent of ink, parchment, and aged leather filled the air, mixing with the faint smokiness of the burning wood. But there was no warmth here—not in the golden light reflecting off the shelves of books, nor in the presence of the man who would be her husband.

The King sat behind a massive desk, his posture poised, his reddish hair slightly unkempt from running his fingers through it. He had the air of someone carrying the weight of a thousand responsibilities, the expression of a man who had no time to waste.

She lingered at the doorway, the pounding in her chest nearly unbearable now, waiting for him to look at her.

He didn’t.

The minister beside her cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the still air. “Your Majesty,” he announced. “This is Lady Michel of House Michel, your betrothed.”

The King’s pen stilled, but he still he did not look up.

The silence stretched on, long and suffocating.

Her hands, still clasped, tightened against the delicate lace of her gloves, nails pressing into the fabric. This was not how she imagined it.

Then, finally, his gaze lifted.

Cold.

Distant.

His burgundy eyes flickered over her in the briefest of glances, polite but dismissive, as if assessing a piece of furniture he had no interest in.

“Lady Michel,” he said, smooth be devoid of warmth. “A pleasure.”

She forced a smile, though her cheeks felt stiff, unnatural, as if the expression belonged to someone else entirely. “It is an honor, Your Majesty.” She dipped into a curtsy, but her legs felt wooden, the movement rehearsed yet hollow, her knees threatening to lock beneath her.

A silence followed, heavier this time. Pressing down on her like the weight of the crown she had not yet worn.

She waited. Waited for him to say something more—to ask her something, to acknowledge her beyond a mere formality.

He did not.

Instead, he returned to his papers.

The faint scratch of his quill against parchment was the only sound in the room, save for the distinct crackling of the fire.

The minister, perhaps sensing the unbearable tension, stepped in smoothly. “His Majesty has had a demanding day, my lady. As you know, the kingdom requires much of him.”

Of course. That made sense, didn’t it? He was the ruler of an entire kingdom. She had been foolish to expect affection right away.

She folded her hands neatly in front of her, the fabric of her gown suddenly itching against her skin. She had dressed so carefully for this. The finest silks, jewels in her hair. But standing there, she felt strangely small, like a girl playing dress up in a world that had already decided she did not matter.

“I understand, Your Majesty.” Her voice remained steady, as she had trained it to. “I only hope to serve you and the kingdom well.”

“Mm.”

Another distracted reply.

She glanced toward the minister, searching for guidance, but his polite expression was unreadable, as though this exchange was exactly as he had expected.

After a moment, the King sighed and set his quill aside. His gaze flickered to the minister. “Is that all?”

It was a dismissal.

She felt it in her bones.

A sharp, sinking feeling in her stomach, like stepping onto solid ground only to find it crumbling beneath her feet.

Her throat tightened, and for the briefest moment, her fingers twitched against her skirts—barely perceptible, but there. A faltering note in an otherwise practiced performance. She forced herself to curtsy with grace. “I shall not take any more of your time.”

He did not stop her as she turned to leave.

Later that evening, the scent of rose water and fresh linens filled her new chamber, a stark contrast to the heaviness in her chest. The room was warm, well-lit by the golden glow of candlelight reflecting off the polished wood furnishings. A queen’s chamber. Her new home.

And yet, Lady Michel felt as though she were a guest in someone else’s life.

Leticia stood near the fireplace, a delicate crystal goblet of wine in her hand, the ruby liquid swirling with the softest tilt of her wrist. She looked perfectly happy, as she always did—dusty rose water curls falling effortlessly over one shoulder, golden eyes bright beneath the candlelight.

At the sight of her, Leticia smiled, the kind that hinted at amusement and something almost knowing. “And how was the King…your future husband?” she giggled lightly, extending the prepared goblet toward her.

Lady Michel accepted it, fingers curling around the cool glass as if to ground herself. “He was…” She hesitated, smoothing her skirts, the familiar motion suddenly feeling mechanical. The weight of the meeting clung to her like damp cloth. The words seemed hard to find, not because she didn’t know what to say—but because she didn’t want to speak them aloud. “…distracted.”

Leticia lifted a brow, tipping her head thoughtfully. “He is the King. That much is to be expected.”

“Yes, of course.” Lady Michel forced a smile, though it felt thin, brittle, like a piece of fine porcelain she knew might crack if handled too roughly. She brought the wine to her lips, letting the warmth slide down her throat, as if it might settle the tightness coiled in her chest. “But I believe he will be a good husband. He is strong, dutiful. I know love does not always come first, The words felt foreign. Too rehearsed. Too hollow.

Leticia studied her, golden gaze sharp despite her easy posture, the firelight catching in her eyes. She was silent for a breath too long, weighing something unspoken.

“And did he respect you?” she asked, her tone light, almost teasing—but something colder threaded beneath it. Something careful.

Lady Michel’s stomach twisted.

The memory of his brief, dismissive glance flickered in her mind, the cold weight of his presence, the way he had looked through her rather than at her. The way he had spoken as though he had already forgotten her name.

She took another sip of wine, careful to steady her breath. “He is the ruler of an entire kingdom. He has many concerns.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

The quiet between them stretched, the fire crackling softly in the background, filling the space where her voice faltered.

Lady Michel set down her goblet, smoothing her skirts again—not out of habit this time, but to give her restless hands something to do, to hide the unease creeping beneath her skin. “It doesn’t matter,” she murmured. “These things take time.”

Leticia leaned back against the chaise, her expression unreadable. “Yes. I suppose they do.”

But Lady Michel did not miss the flicker of something else—something cautious, something wary—behind her gaze.

And for the first time, Lady Michel wondered if that flicker hadn’t already begun in herself.

The mirror reflected a woman she did not recognize.

Her skin, once luminous, was sallow and pale, almost translucent beneath the low candlelight. Hollowed cheeks, cracked lips pressed into a permanent frown. Shadows clung beneath her eyes, so deep they seemed bruised. Her golden hair—her pride—now hung limp, dull, and frayed, slipping from its pins like a forgotten crown. Her gown felt heavy on her shoulders, as if its embroidery were made of iron, weighing her down.

She had been beautiful once.

Before.

Before the court’s jealousy, the whispered barbs disguised as pleasantries. Before the King's cold glances and dismissals. Before she had learned that being queen meant ruling over nothing but empty rooms and colder nights.

You will be Queen.

Her father’s words echoed like a curse in her mind.

Queen.

What a joke. A queen with no power, no respect. A queen who ruled over nothing but dust and silence. A queen who rotted within these golden walls while the real power sat at his desk, dismissing her as he did every other irrelevant matter in his life.

She gripped the edge of the vanity, nails digging into the polished wood until her knuckles burned. The faint scent of rose water hung in the air, cloying now, sickening—a desperate attempt to cling to whatever composure she had left.

Then, she felt it.

A shift in the air.

Cold.

Stifling.

Yes, she felt it before she heard it—the faintest creak of the door.

Her pulse lurched painfully. Her fingers tightened until she thought the wood might splinter beneath her grip. A terrible dread coiled in her stomach, sinking deep, settling heavy in her ribs. It was such an unnatural thing—the way the very temperature of the room seemed to drop. The breath lodged in her throat, shallow and uneven. Her skin prickled, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

She did not turn. She did not need to.

His presence was something to be felt before it was seen. Like a shadow slipping beneath the doorframe, crawling over the walls.

Chevalier.

She could feel his eyes on her, hollow and lifeless, as if he weren’t a boy at all but some specter of fate sent to haunt her.

The boy who bore the King’s blood.

Her eyes locked onto his reflection in the mirror.

The pale glow of his skin caught the candlelight, his features so eerily sharp they looked as though they had been carved from ice. His expressionless blue eyes locked onto her, unreadable. Emotionless. Lifeless.

Her throat closed.

A child should not look like that.

A child should not feel like that.

She did not see the boy she had carried, the boy she had birthed.

No.

She saw the king.

That same cold, dispassionate stare. That same silence stretched too tight, like a noose around her throat. The cruel joke fate had played on her—forcing her to bear the child of a man who had never even looked at her.

A mistake. A punishment.

The scent of burning wax from the candles suddenly felt suffocating.

He stepped forward..

Her chest constricted violently. Every muscle screamed for her to move, but she stood frozen, held captive by those hollow eyes.

She should not be afraid. She was his mother. He was just a boy. Just a boy.

But he wasn’t.

Murderer.

The word slithered into her mind, unbidden, poisonous and undeniable.

She had not seen it, but she had heard the hushed conversations of the servants. She knew of the blood that had been scrubbed from the floors.

An assassin had crept into the royal wing.

It was not the guards who had stopped him.

No. It was Chevalier.

A child.

A child who had stared down death, unmoved, unshaken, and sent it back to the grave without so much as a flicker of emotion.

Her breath stuttered, ragged. Her heart thundered against her ribs, too loud in the silence.

This thing before her was not a boy. Not her son.

He was something colder, crueler.

A mirror of the King’s rejection.

A mirror of her failure.

Her reflection wavered in the glass, gaunt and hollow, eyes wide with something frantic and broken.

She wanted him gone. She wanted everything gone.

The scrape of her chair against the floor was deafening as she shoved it back, standing abruptly, blood pounding in her ears.

“GET OUT!”

Her voice cracked, splintered under the weight of years of bitterness, of loneliness, of being unwanted.

The boy didn’t flinch.

Instead, that cold gaze held hers, unblinking. As if he were assessing her, peering straight through her skin and into the hollow ruin she had become.

Her stomach twisted viciously.

Move.

Move, damn you!

Rage flooded her veins.

“MONSTER!”

She snatched the porcelain vase from the vanity—hands trembling, grip white-knuckled—before hurling it with all the force she had left in her shaking body.

The sound of shattering ceramic exploded through the room. Shards scattered across the marble, sharp and glinting like broken teeth.

A jagged fragment sliced across his cheek, cutting into beautiful porcelain skin.

Still, he did not move. Did not react.

Just stood there, a specter in a child’s body.

A single drop of crimson slipped down the pale canvas of his face, vivid and stark against the white of his skin.

And for the first time—she saw it. The blood. Not his.

The assassin’s.

She could see it now, pooling beneath his feet, soaking his hands.

She could see it now. She could see him standing over a dying man, blade in hand, unshaken, covered in blood.

A murderer.

Her legs buckled, nausea clawing at her throat.

The candlelight flickered against the slow trickle of red sliding down his cheek, its path unhurried, indifferent.

He reached up, brushing a single finger across the cut. He looked at the blood. Then, he looked back at her.

Not with anger. Not with hurt.

With nothing.

And that, more than anything, made her stomach turn.

He turned without a word, stepping over the fractured mess.

The door clicked shut.

Gone.

Her breath came in shallow gasps, each inhale scraping against her ribs like glass. Her heart pounded, frantic, unsteady.

Her gaze dropped to the remnants of china scattered across the marble, still gleaming faintly in the candlelight. The blood—his blood—streaked across one of the sharpest pieces.

Her stomach twisted violently.

Slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes catching on the mirror once more.

Her reflection stared back at her—distorted, warped by the flickering light and her trembling frame. Hollow eyes. Gaunt cheeks. The wildness still clinging to her expression.

And she realized—

She could no longer tell where the monster ended, and she began.

Was it his blood staining the floor, or her own ruin?

Did the coldness belong to the boy…or the woman who had brought him into the world?

Or perhaps was it her? Had she become twisted and imparted it to him?

Could it be that the real monster was the one staring back at her?

Tag List:

@rjthirsty @ithseem @chirp-a-chirp @aquagirl1978 @queengiuliettafirstlady

@nyxthepixystick @ikeprinces-stuff @kaizoku-musume @candiedcoffeedrops @missaengg

@ike-garden2024 @writingwhimsey @reborn-elven-spirit @elixirofubik @william-rex @avellanas-nutty-empire @notjonahclemence

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#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen prince chevalier #ikepri chevalier #chevalier michel