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brunchable · 3 months ago

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Winter King, Chapter 7: Look What You Made Me Do

Pairings: King AU Bucky Barnes x Queen Reader Words: 11.5K Themes: Royaltycore AU, love and power, arranged Marriage, georgian/regency era misogyny, profanity. Warning: Acts of Violence. Attempted Murder. Summary: Y/N defies tradition by joining the equinox fetivities. Fitten in equestrian attire, she draws onlookers, including Thor, Loki and Pietro, while Bucky watches with visible frustration as others practically undress her with their eyes. Despite the tension, Y/N remains focused on the race.

Flashback: Edges of the Country

Isaac stood at the edge of the crowd, blending seamlessly with the common folk. His cloak was pulled low over his head, obscuring his features, and his eyes scanned the scene. The town was one of many far from the heart of the kingdom, and it had been growing increasingly restless. Isaac could feel the tension in the air, the unease that crackled like a storm ready to break.

In the middle of the square, Brock Rumlow stood tall and imposing, his voice carrying over the crowd with the confidence of a man who knew how to stoke a fire. The townspeople, desperate and angry, gathered around him, hanging on his every word. Isaac's lips pressed into a thin line as he watched Rumlow incite the crowd, his eyes sharp and calculating.

“This kingdom has grown weak!” Rumlow’s voice boomed, his fists clenched at his sides. “Your king—your so-called leader—has been absent in his duties! While you starve, he is nowhere to be found. Where is he? Where is his protection for you?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. The townspeople, many of them gaunt from hunger and weary from constant struggle, nodded, their faces hardened by the truth in Rumlow’s words.

“The shipments of food, of supplies, have been blocked for weeks now!” Rumlow continued, his voice growing louder, more fervent. “And what has your king done? He ignores your plight! He lets you suffer while he plays the royal game in his palace, far removed from your reality!”

Isaac shifted slightly, his jaw tightening. He knew that this was exactly what those pulling the strings behind the scenes wanted—doubt, unrest, rebellion. Rumlow was merely a tool in a larger plan, but the power of his words was undeniable.

“And what of your queen?” Rumlow spat, his lips curling into a sneer. “She cannot bear a child, cannot provide an heir! Your king is absent, your queen is barren—is this not a sign from the gods? A sign that the crown has fallen out of favor?”

The crowd grew restless, some nodding, others muttering in agreement. Rumlow raised his arms, his voice dripping with venom. “The gods have turned their backs on us! This kingdom, this weak, crumbling kingdom, is on the verge of collapse! We cannot wait for the royalty to save us, because they won’t! They do not care about you!”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. Rumlow was riling them up, feeding their fear and their anger. It was dangerous—more dangerous than Isaac had initially thought. His hand twitched toward the dagger hidden beneath his cloak, but he stayed his impulse. There was more to learn here, more to uncover.

Few days before: at The Siren’s Song

The tavern was dim with the faint scent of smoke and ale filling the air. Isaac sat at a corner table, his back to the wall as he watched the room carefully. Across from him sat Clint Barton, one of his most trusted spies, his face hidden beneath the brim of a hood.

Clint leaned forward, his voice low and serious. “Unrests are growing in the towns on the edges of the country.”

Isaac's brow furrowed slightly, though his face remained impassive. “How so?”

“There’s been talk of shipments being blocked,” Clint explained, glancing around the room before meeting Isaac's gaze again. “Food, supplies—everything’s being cut off. Rumlow’s been making speeches, stirring up dissent. People are starting to lose faith in the crown.”

Isaac's expression darkened. “Do we know who’s behind it?”

Clint hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. “Not yet. But it’s coordinated. Too many towns are being hit at once for this to be random.”

Isaac nodded slowly, his mind already working through the possibilities. “Keep an eye on him,” he said quietly. “And on the lords. We need to know who’s pulling the strings.”

Clint tipped his head in agreement, his eyes sharp as ever. “I’ll keep you informed.”

Back in the Square: Rumlow’s Speech

“The king has abandoned you!” Rumlow shouted, his voice ringing out across the square. “He is absent, lost in the games of royalty while you starve. And your queen—she cannot bear the weight of an heir, much less the weight of this kingdom. The gods have shown us the signs—this is a bad omen—that they don’t want the line to continue. The crown has failed.”

The crowd erupted into murmurs and shouts, anger and desperation filling the air. Isaac’s eyes swept over the faces of the people, their pain and hopelessness. Rumlow had them in the palm of his hand, and Isaac knew that this was only the beginning.

Rumlow raised his fist in the air, his voice growing louder with every word. “We deserve better! We deserve a ruler who will fight for us, who will not abandon us in our time of need! The kingdom is failing, and if we do nothing, we will fail with it!”

Isaac’s jaw clenched as he turned, slipping silently away from the crowd. He had heard enough. This unrest was spreading, and it was no longer just whispers in the dark—it was becoming a movement. He would have to act swiftly, but for now, he had to report back to Bucky.

Private Meeting in Annecy

The small council assembled in Annecy was tense, the weight of Isaac’s words hanging heavily in the air. Bucky sat at the head of the table, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood as he processed what had just been shared. Beside him, Steve, Sam, and Tony sat in silence, their faces grim, while Isaac stood at the opposite end, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

Isaac leaned forward slightly, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “The unrest is growing faster than we anticipated. They're targeting the outer towns first, cutting off supplies and causing desperation. Once they have destabilized the edges of the kingdom, they'll start working their way inward, toward the capital.”

Bucky's brow furrowed as he considered the gravity of the situation. His jaw clenched, and his eyes flicked over to Tony, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meeting.

“Tony, have you heard anything? Any whispers in your network?”

Tony, who had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, straightened at the question. His expression was serious, his usual wit subdued.

“Nothing concrete,” he admitted, his voice low. “But there’s been some chatter—rumors about shipments being delayed, and certain noble families getting nervous. It didn’t seem like anything at first, but now that Isaac’s mentioned the unrest, it’s starting to make sense.”

Sam, who had been sitting quietly next to Steve, leaned forward, his voice filled with concern. “So they’re trying to isolate the kingdom? Make the people suffer so they turn against the crown?”

Isaac nodded grimly. “That’s the idea. They’re creating chaos on the outskirts, hoping it’ll spread like wildfire. The longer it takes, the worse it’ll get. The people are desperate, and Rumlow is feeding that desperation. He’s giving them someone to blame.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, his hand forming a fist on the table. “And the lords? Do we know who’s supporting him?”

Isaac shook his head. “Not yet. But there are whispers—some of the more ambitious lords might be backing him, quietly of course. They want the crown weakened, but they’re too cowardly to show their hand until the time is right.”

Bucky’s gaze shifted back to Tony, his voice steady but filled with an underlying tension. “Keep listening, Tony. We need to know if anyone on the council is involved.”

Tony nodded, his face darkening. “I’ll keep my ears open.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the gravity of the situation sinking in. They were not just facing external threats but the possibility of betrayal from within their own court. Bucky leaned back in his chair, his eyes hard as he looked around at the men gathered.

“We need to stop this before it spreads any further,” Bucky said, his voice quiet but firm. “We can’t afford to let them destabilize the kingdom from the outside in.”

Isaac’s expression was unreadable as he met Bucky’s gaze. “I’ll head back to the border towns. Rumlow’s stirring up trouble there, and I can follow the trail from him.”

Bucky nodded, a determined set to his jaw. “Be careful. If Rumlow’s got backers, they won’t hesitate to strike if they know we’re onto them.”

“I’ll watch my back,” Isaac replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Sam looked between them, his brow furrowed. “And what about the people? They need to know we haven’t abandoned them.”

“We’ll send relief,” Steve interjected, his voice steady. “Food, supplies, whatever we can spare. But we’ll need to be strategic—if the shipments are being blocked, we’ll have to find new routes.”

Tony leaned back again, his eyes narrowing as he considered the logistics. “I can work with the traders, see if there are any alternative routes we haven’t thought of. But it’s going to be tricky.”

Bucky’s gaze hardened, his eyes dark with determination. “Do whatever it takes. We’re not losing this kingdom.”

The Dungeons (Back at the Palace, a few days after.)

The dim, flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the cold stone walls of the dungeon. The air was thick, damp, and heavy with the scent of mold. The guard they had kept alive, now shackled to a chair in the center of the room, sat trembling under the weight of what was to come. His eyes darted between the two brothers—Isaac, leaning casually against the far wall, watching silently with a cold smirk, and Bucky, standing directly in front of him, radiating a dangerous calm.

Bucky held a rolled-up piece of parchment in his hand, his gaze hard as steel as he unrolled it slowly. The detailed portrait of Rumlow came into view, the artist’s precision capturing the man’s scarred face and cruel sneer with chilling accuracy.

Bucky’s voice was low, almost too calm, but the threat within it was unmistakable. “Do you recognize this man?”

The guard swallowed hard, his eyes widening as they fixed on the portrait. His breath quickened, his lips trembling as he hesitated to answer. Bucky took a slow step forward, the measured sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing ominously in the small chamber.

“I asked you a question,” Bucky said, his tone cold. He leaned down, bringing his face closer to the guard’s, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

The guard’s breath hitched, and he looked away, trying to steady himself. “I—I’ve seen him,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “At the docks… several times.”

Bucky straightened, his arms crossed, his eyes never leaving the guard’s face. “And what was he doing there?”

The man swallowed again, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill of the room. “He… he seemed to be overseeing things. Shipments, deliveries… but it wasn’t normal work. He was careful and quiet. And he always had men with him—dangerous men.”

Bucky’s gaze darkened, and he took another step forward, looming over the guard. “Go on.”

The guard’s voice shook as he continued, his eyes darting between Bucky and Isaac. “I overheard something once. I—I wasn’t supposed to hear it, but they didn’t see me. Rumlow was talking to one of his men, and he mentioned someone on the council.”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the council, his casual posture stiffening slightly. Bucky leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Who?”

“I—I don’t know,” the guard stammered, his voice trembling with fear. His gaze darted around the room, avoiding Bucky’s cold, relentless stare.

Bucky’s patience snapped, he grabbed the guard by the collar, yanking him upright and slamming him back against the stone wall. The sound echoed through the room, and the guard let out a whimper, his breath hitching in panic.

“Who?” Bucky growled, his face inches from the guard’s, his grip tightening until the man could barely breathe.

The guard gasped, eyes wide with terror. “Alexander!” he sputtered, his voice barely audible. “He said the name Alexander.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as the name sank in. Alexander Pierce. He released the guard with a forceful shove, and the man collapsed back into the chair, wheezing as he clutched his chest.

Isaac, who had been watching in cold silence, exchanged a knowing glance with his brother. Pierce—one of the most influential and cunning members of the council. It wasn’t entirely surprising, but it confirmed their suspicions that the conspiracy ran deeper than just Rumlow’s schemes.

Bucky paced for a moment, his hands flexing at his sides as the information settled on him. He could feel the anger boiling under the surface, the urge to act immediate and violent.

Isaac’s voice broke the tense silence, his tone low and thoughtful. “It's Mother's birthday tomorrow. Then the Autumn Equinox the day after.” He glanced at Bucky, his expression calculating. “We can’t act on this right now. The court’s eyes will be on us the entire time.”

Bucky paced for a moment longer, his mind racing, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The revelation of Pierce's name added a dangerous layer to the already delicate situation, and every instinct in him wanted to act now, to confront Pierce head-on. But Isaac had a point—they couldn’t afford to make a scene with the queen's birthday tomorrow and the Autumn Equinox celebration right after. Too many eyes would be watching.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think clearly, before turning to Isaac. “Is Tony sending any relief to the affected towns?”

Isaac gave a curt nod, his expression steady. “It’s already in motion. Tony's rerouting the supplies through alternate routes—ones Pierce doesn’t control. Shipments are bypassing the docks and moving overland. The towns should start seeing relief soon.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened with a mix of relief and lingering tension. “Good. We can’t let them suffer while those bastards play their games. The people are losing faith in the crown.”

Isaac’s voice remained calm but firm. “The relief will help ease the unrest. But we can’t act too soon, not until we have Pierce cornered. If he suspects we’re onto him before we’ve gathered enough evidence, he’ll slip through our fingers.”

“No, we cannot wait! Our people are being forced to starve! We have waited long enough. The longer we wait, the stronger they get, and the more our people suffer.”

Isaac watched him intently, the wheels in his head turning. “Then I guess it’s time to spill more blood,” he said, his voice calm yet filled with dark intent. “I’ll start with their positions at the docks.”

Bucky’s gaze locked onto Isaac, his chest still heaving from the force of his anger, but there was a grim satisfaction in his brother’s words. Isaac, ever calculated and precise, had already started strategizing another plan.

“This time, don’t be clean,” Bucky advised, his voice lower now but laced with menace. “I want to see how Pierce would react.”

Isaac’s smirk widened ever so slightly, a flicker of dangerous excitement passing through his eyes.

“As you wish, brother.”

× × × ×

Present

The Autumn Equinox Celebration was in full swing, and the town square buzzed with excitement. Lanterns in warm hues of gold, red, and orange illuminated the cobbled streets, casting a soft glow over the vendors selling hot cider, roasted chestnuts, and the season’s bountiful harvest. The air was crisp with the early bite of fall, a perfect contrast to the warmth of the bonfires that flickered in the distance. The people, dressed in their finest autumn attire, gathered in celebration of the changing season, their faces alight with joy.

It was a time-honored tradition, one that the royal family always attended. In previous years, their presence had been more symbolic—watching from elevated platforms or giving formal addresses before retreating to private dinners. But this year felt different.

You stood beside Bucky and the Queen Dowager, your eyes scanning the lively crowd that filled the bustling festival square. There was something in the air tonight, something electric, pulling you away from the suffocating formality that had become your life. The weight of the crown, the title of "queen," had forced a distance between you and the very people you had vowed to serve.

You were tired of it.

Tired of watching from afar, tired of being on the sidelines. Tonight, you had decided that things would be different.

“I shall participate,” you declared suddenly, your voice cutting through the gentle murmur of conversation between Bucky, Isaac and the Queen Dowager.

All three of them froze. Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise, while the Queen Dowager blinked, clearly caught off guard by your unexpected declaration.

Even Isaac turned his head sharply, his eyebrows raised as if to say, Did I hear that right?

You didn’t wait for them to respond. You had already made up your mind, your heart pounding with a mixture of defiance and exhilaration. With a firm nod, you began descending the steps from the royal platform, your gown flowing behind you as you moved purposefully toward the festival grounds. Your decision was final, your stride unwavering.

Scott hurried after you, “Your Majesty,” he began, his tone gentle but insistent. “I must advise against participating in the horse race… or the archery competition. You’ve been… frail as of late, and these are not activities usually undertaken by—"

"Women?" you interrupted, raising a brow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

Scott shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that, Your Majesty, it’s just that—"

You shook your head, cutting him off again. “Scott, enough. The people need to know who their queen is, and standing on some platform like a distant figurehead isn’t going to do that.”

Before Scott could protest further, you turned to the Queen Dowager and Bucky, your eyes steady as you made your case.

“May I?”

The Queen Dowager hesitated for only a moment, her sharp eyes assessing you.

"Well..." she began, her voice laced with curiosity. She turned to her son, raising a brow, waiting for his response.

Bucky, who had remained quiet until now, felt a weight settle in his chest. He studied you, the determination in your eyes unmistakable. His initial instinct was to say no—to protect you from what could easily become reckless.

But he could see it, the fire burning in you, the need to connect with the people in a way that felt real. The weight of upcoming events—the ceremony, the consort issue—still hung between you, and he knew this wasn’t just about tradition. This was about you asserting your place, your own strength.

He let out a soft sigh, reluctant but understanding.

“Fine,” he said quietly, though his voice carried a hint of tension. After a pause, he added, “But I shall be joining you.”

Your lips tugged into a grateful smile, though you could see the concern lingering in his eyes. You nodded, your resolve only strengthening.

Without another word, you turned and strode toward the festival grounds, the sounds of the bustling town filling the air around you as you prepared to show them exactly who their queen was.

"Scott, why don’t you fetch me some riding attire?" you called over your shoulder.

Scott, still flustered by the sudden turn of events, stammered, "B-but, Your Majesty, the attire is only for men."

You arched a brow, a glint of defiance in your eyes. "Even better. Find me a size that would fit, then."

Bucky chuckled softly, shaking his head as he watched you walk away with a newfound fire in your step.

As Scott hurried off to fulfill your unusual request, you glanced back at Bucky, who was now following your lead toward the race track. Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice calm but with a teasing edge as he walked beside you.

“You are angry,” he repeated, though there was a hint of playfulness in his tone.

You tilted your head, lips curving into a faint smirk as you feigned innocence. “Hm? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You are. I can tell.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, though your expression betrayed you. The defiance in your stance, the way you had commanded Scott to fetch the riding attire—it all spoke volumes, and Bucky knew you too well to miss it.

“You are,” he said again, this time with more certainty, stepping closer until you were walking side by side. His voice softened, but there was still that lingering humor. “You’re upset about something.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, trying to hold onto your composure, but the warmth in his gaze made it difficult. He was giving you that look—the one that always made you feel like he could see right through you.

Bucky’s smirk deepened, but he raised his eyebrows as if to prove a point.

“I see,” he said, his tone light but with that knowing edge that always managed to get under your skin. “So you're not mad. You’re just… a little defensive.”

You felt your pulse quicken, your composure slipping for just a second.

“I said I’m not,” you repeated, but the sharpness in your voice betrayed the calm facade you were trying to maintain.

Bucky raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he said with a chuckle, though the amusement never left his eyes. “But you know you’re only proving my point, right?”

A huff escaped you, your gaze flicking forward as you quickened your pace slightly.

"It is because you keep insisting that I am mad." The words came out faster than you'd intended, the frustration bubbling with you.

Bucky didn’t miss a beat, falling into step beside you again. He shot you a sidelong glance, his smile softening into something more understanding.

"Perhaps... but I know you, Y/N. There’s something you’re not telling.”

You kept your eyes ahead, unwilling to meet his gaze, knowing that if you did, the wall you were trying so hard to keep up would crumble completely.

Of course, you were mad—mad about tonight, mad about the expectations, mad about the fact that after everything, you’d be left to bear the weight of it while Bucky... while Bucky would have to fulfill the duties that came with naming a consort. But you weren’t about to admit that. You couldn’t.

Instead, you bit back your real thoughts, holding your chin high. “I just want to win this race,” you said with forced resolve, brushing past the truth and focusing on the task at hand.

Bucky chuckled softly, shaking his head, but there was no teasing left in his tone when he finally spoke again. "If it’s about the upcoming ceremony and the consummation, you know it doesn’t mea—"

“Don’t,” you cut him off quickly, your voice quieter this time but firm. You didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to discuss it—you knew you made this decision for him—but still.

Bucky hesitated, studying your face for a moment, then sighed softly. He didn't push further, though you could sense the tension still lingering between you both. Even though he didn't say it, you knew he understood. The heaviness of the night ahead pressed on you both, but for now, neither of you would speak it aloud.

You had an image to maintain, after all.

× × × ×

The field was abuzz with excitement as the riders gathered for the horse race, the energy palpable in the crisp afternoon air. Townspeople and nobles alike lined the track, eager to witness the festivities of the equinox. The usual banter of the crowd was suddenly replaced by hushed murmurs, the kind that always followed when something—or someone—unexpected made an entrance.

You stepped onto the field, your figure commanding attention in a way that immediately silenced those around you. Dressed in a fitted equestrian outfit that hugged every curve, the tailored trousers marked the first time people saw a woman in pants—let alone their queen. The absence of a helmet left your hair loose, a deliberate choice that only amplified the boldness of your appearance. The cut of the clothing emphasized your form in ways your royal gowns never had—every inch of you exuding confidence and power.

“This is blasphemy, how could he allow this?” Lord Carter muttered toward the other lords, shaking his head in disgust as he watched you stride confidently across the field, dressed in your fitted equestrian attire.

Tony Stark, overhearing Lord Carter’s complaint, raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Blasphemy, Lord Carter?” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “I’d call it bold. A queen who knows how to make an impression. You should try it sometime.” He nudged Pepper, who was standing beside him, her expression calm but approving.

Pepper glanced at you, a smile tugging at her lips. “It doesn't just suit her—she’s setting a new standard,” she added, her tone firm. “If anyone can’t handle it, that’s their problem.”

Tony chuckled, giving Lord Carter a pointed look. “Quite right, let them grumble. She’s not just ruling—she’s rewriting the rulebook. You might want to take notes.”

Lord Carter scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “A queen rewriting the rulebook? That’s not how tradition works, Stark,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.

Before Tony could respond, Lord Pierce chimed in, his voice smooth and calculated.

“Tradition has its place, Tony,” Pierce said, his gaze flickering between the queen and the lords. “But there’s a fine line between boldness and rebellion. And I’m not sure which side of that line our queen is walking right now.”

Tony, ever unflappable, raised an eyebrow. “Boldness, rebellion—call it what you want. But progress doesn’t happen without shaking things up.” He leaned closer to Pepper, adding with a smirk, “And she’s shaking things up in the best way possible.”

Wanda, standing near the edge of the crowd, watched with a mixture of quiet awe and tension. Her eyes flickered with admiration for your boldness, but there was a shadow of concern in her expression, knowing the stir it would cause among the more traditional members of the court.

Beside her, Natasha smirked, crossing her arms with a knowing glance toward Wanda. “She’s always known how to make an entrance,” Natasha murmured, her voice low, though the pride in her tone was unmistakable.

Wanda’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as she tried to stifle a smile, her gaze briefly shifting to the far end of the gathering. Her fingers brushed absently over a simple ring she wore—small and unadorned, hidden in plain sight yet easily overlooked. It was not a royal symbol, but one with personal significance.

Natasha’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the movement, and her smirk deepened knowingly. “I’d wager there’s more than one reason you’re watching so closely,” she said in an even quieter tone, her eyes flickering toward Isaac, who stood further back, observing the crowd with his usual intensity.

Wanda’s expression faltered for just a moment, the barest flicker of something unspoken passing between her and Natasha. She quickly composed herself, her voice soft but firm.

“You know the court likes a good spectacle,” she replied, deflecting with a grace that only someone well-versed in keeping secrets could muster.

Across the field, Isaac’s gaze briefly locked onto Wanda’s, and for the faintest second, his lips curled into a smirk—a fleeting gesture, but one that carried a world of meaning between the two of them.

As you made your way toward your horse, the whispers grew louder, though no one dared to speak directly to you. But you could feel their gazes on you—on your legs, your hips, the way the trousers clung to your body as you moved to mount your horse.

Beside you, Steve adjusted his reins, giving you a knowing glance. “So, is this your plan tonight? To cause a stir?”

You smirked at him, your eyes glinting with a mixture of challenge and mischief. “Don’t tell me you’re going to lecture me too, Captain.”

Steve chuckled, his eyes sweeping over the crowd briefly before returning to you.

"Not my place. Besides," he added with a wry grin, "I don’t think anyone’s in a position to lecture you right now."

Your gaze flickered to Bucky, standing just beyond the track, his eyes dark as they followed your every movement. His posture was calm, but the way his jaw clenched and his hands tightened at his sides told a different story—he looked unimpressed. It was the way the majority are practically undressing you with their eyes, their curiosity and barely concealed admiration not going unnoticed by him.

Thor, ever the blunt one, muttered something under his breath that earned him a sharp elbow from Loki. Pietro, catching Thor’s comment, snickered and leaned over to nudge one of the nearby riders, clearly enjoying the stir you were causing.

“Sons of. . .” Bucky muttered under his breath.

You stole a glance at Bucky from your peripheral vision, noticing the sharp way he mounted his horse. His movements were precise, but the tightness in his jaw and the simmering anger behind his eyes were impossible to miss. He looked like a man barely holding back.

Steve also caught sight of him, his brow furrowing slightly. “Looks like the king’s decided to join,” Steve muttered, his tone neutral but observant.

You kept your eyes forward, not wanting to give Bucky the satisfaction of your attention. Your grip tightened around the reins, frustration still simmering inside you, unresolved and heavy.

Bucky maneuvered his horse next to yours, his presence imposing. He said nothing at first, but you could feel the intensity radiating off him, a storm waiting to break.

“Are you really joining the race now, Your Majesty?” you said, your voice tight, lacking the usual teasing tone. It wasn’t a playful question—it was a challenge.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you, his eyes dark with frustration of his own. “Someone needs to keep an eye on things,” he muttered under his breath, though you knew his words carried a double meaning.

You didn’t respond, your jaw clenched as you stared ahead, trying to keep your emotions in check. Steve, noticing the tension between the two of you, stayed quiet, though you could sense he felt uneasy.

As the starting horn blared, signaling the beginning of the race, your heart pounded not just from the anticipation of the race, but from the unresolved tension hanging thick in the air between you and Bucky.

The horn blasted through the crisp evening air, sending a jolt of adrenaline through your veins. You nudge your horse forward, feeling the powerful surge of muscle beneath you as the mare shoots ahead. The pounding of hooves echoed all around, the cheers of the crowd turning into a muffled roar as you focused on the track ahead.

Beside you, Steve was a steady presence, his horse galloping in sync with yours. His gaze remained forward, his focus razor-sharp, but you could sense his concern, even in the midst of the race. To your left, Bucky pushed his stallion hard, his frustration clearly feeding into his determination to win.

You leaned forward, your grip tightening on the reins as the wind whipped through your hair. The scent of the earth beneath you, the thundering of hooves, and the rush of the competition were all-consuming. For a moment, the weight of the palace, the consort ceremony, and your own personal turmoil faded away.

Bucky drew closer, his horse nearly neck-and-neck with yours. You could feel his presence beside you, the unspoken tension between you thick in the air. You didn't look at him, your focus entirely on the path ahead. But you knew he was pushing just as hard, if not harder, trying to overtake you.

Steve, on your other side, matched your pace, his horse galloping fiercely as the three of you tore down the track. The crowd was a blur, their cheers blending into one cacophonous sound. You couldn’t focus on anything but the finish line, your heart pounding as you urged your horse forward.

The ground flew by beneath you, the wind tugging at your clothes as you edged ahead, your mare responding to your commands with every ounce of strength she had. Bucky’s stallion was right beside you, his breaths coming hard, his eyes locked on the finish line just as yours were.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a dark blur shot past both you and Bucky, startling the horses. You blinked, barely able to process what had just happened as a familiar figure streaked ahead of the pack—Isaac. His horse, sleek and black as night, thundered down the track with blinding speed, leaving dust in his wake.

Isaac, of all people, had appeared out of thin air.

“What the—” Steve muttered under his breath, his eyes widening in surprise as he watched Isaac speed toward the finish line, his usual smirk plastered on his face.

You and Bucky exchanged brief glances, both of you equally shocked by the sudden intrusion. But Isaac’s horse was too fast, and within moments, he had crossed the finish line first, the crowd erupting into wild cheers and laughter.

Isaac slowed his horse, turning it around with effortless grace, a smug grin spreading across his face as he trotted back toward the rest of the riders.

“Well, well,” Isaac drawled, his tone smug. “It seems I’ve beaten the king and the queen at their own race.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but a small smirk tugged at your lips despite the tension still lingering inside you. Isaac, always the showman, had once again stolen the spotlight.

Bucky, however, was less amused. His jaw was clenched tightly, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins. He gave Isaac a look that could melt steel, but Isaac only laughed, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

“Better luck next time, brother,” Isaac said, his tone teasing as he dismounted with ease, handing the reins of his horse to one of the stable boys.

You dismounted as well, patting your mare’s side appreciatively. Steve shook his head, still catching his breath, a bemused smile playing on his lips as he watched Isaac bask in the attention of the crowd.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Steve remarked dryly, glancing at you with raised eyebrows.

“Nothing’s ever simple when Isaac’s involved,” you replied with a sigh, though a small part of you was relieved. At least, for a brief moment, the focus had shifted away from the simmering tension between you and Bucky.

× × × ×

The archery field was abuzz with excitement, the tension thick in the air as the nobles gathered to watch the competition. It was a favored event of the equinox festival, where skill, precision, and a bit of bravado were put on display. You stood at the edge of the range, the familiar weight of the bow in your hands calming your nerves. The festival had drawn in many of the lords, and though this was meant to be a lighthearted competition, you felt the eyes of the court upon you.

Across the field, Lord Carter stood with his usual haughty air, his gaze flicking toward you with thinly veiled disdain. He held a small scroll in his hand, one that he had been waving around during conversations, clearly making a point to anyone who would listen. The sight of him only fueled the fire that had been smoldering in you all day.

You took a steadying breath, narrowing your gaze at the target in front of you. Initially, your focus was sharp on the bullseye—your bow raised, the arrow nocked perfectly. The tension in the string built, the anticipation thickening in the air.

But then something shifted.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Pierce—his face pale and tight with frustration. He looked as though he had just received dire news, and his entire posture screamed of someone desperately trying to leave unnoticed.

Isaac, however, stood in his way, blocking his path with a casual but firm presence, his lips curled into an amused smirk as he conversed with the clearly flustered councilman.

Your lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Carter had initially been your target, but this new opportunity was far too tempting. With a subtle adjustment to your aim, you set your sights on Pierce instead.

Beside you, Steve stood still, his sharp gaze catching the subtle shift in your movements. He didn’t speak, but you felt the weight of his attention on you, ever steady and watchful.

“Are you ready, Your Majesty?” the official called out, waiting for your signal to begin the round.

You gave a slight nod, your eyes never leaving Pierce now. The bow raised, string pulled taut, the arrow perfectly nocked and ready to fly.

The arrow sliced through the air with deadly precision, the sound of it cutting through the stillness of the field. A collective gasp echoed through the crowd as the arrow veered away from the intended target—a bullseye—and instead found its mark: Pierce’s coat, pinning it cleanly to the wooden post behind him.

Pierce froze mid-step, his eyes wide as he looked down at the arrow now securing him in place. His face flushed with a mixture of shock and fury, but before he could fully react, another arrow swiftly followed the first, pinning the opposite side of his coat, effectively trapping him.

Isaac, who had been standing beside Pierce, took a startled step back, his usual composure briefly faltering as he flinched when the arrow thudded into the post. His eyes widened for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sudden display of your boldness.

But as quickly as the surprise came, Isaac’s face shifted into a toothy grin. He leaned against the post casually, the smirk deepening as he locked eyes with you from across the field. Pierce, now quite literally stuck, looked from the arrows to you, his face a mask of barely contained rage. But even he knew better than to cause a scene now.

The nobles, too, were silent, eyes wide as they processed what had just happened. The message was unmistakable.

You lowered your bow with the same calm, collected grace, turning away from the target as if you hadn’t just sent the boldest statement of the day.

Steve, mounted on his horse nearby, chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, I’d say that hit the mark.”

You smirked, glancing up at him. “I was aiming for something a little more symbolic.”

Across the field, Pierce’s face burned with fury, but the message had already been sent. The crowd had seen it, and no words could undo the statement you had just made. Isaac, though momentarily caught off guard, seemed to enjoy the chaos you had stirred, his smirk never leaving his face.

Isaac’s grin widened as he watched Pierce struggle, the councilman’s face contorting in frustration as he tugged at his coat, trying to free himself from the arrows that had pinned him to the wooden post. The crowd had already started to murmur, but no one dared move to assist Pierce, unsure of how to handle the situation.

Isaac leaned casually against the post, his arms crossed, an air of mock amusement hanging around him. He glanced down at Pierce, his tone light but dripping with playful malice.

"Having some trouble there, Lord Pierce?"

Pierce grunted, his hands desperately trying to pull one of the arrows from the wood. His face reddened further with each futile attempt.

“Get these off, now,” he growled through gritted teeth, his voice low but seething with rage.

Isaac chuckled softly, making no move to help.

“You seem perfectly capable,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “But if you insist, I’m sure one of the guards could lend a hand. Then again,” he added with a smirk, “it’s quite the spectacle. I’d hate to rob the court of such entertainment.”

Pierce shot him a venomous glare, his anger only deepening as Isaac remained where he was, clearly enjoying the moment far too much. With a final grunt of frustration, Pierce yanked harder at one of the arrows, but the force only caused him to stumble slightly, his coat still firmly attached to the post.

Isaac raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing wider. "Perhaps you should have a bit more practice at the archery field, my lord. It appears those arrows are giving you quite the challenge."

Pierce was panting now, his hands trembling slightly from the exertion, but Isaac only took a step back, waving his hand dismissively.

"I’ll leave you to it," he said lazily, as if this were all just a game to him. "Good luck, Lord Pierce."

With that, Isaac turned on his heel and strolled away, his posture relaxed as if he hadn’t just left one of the most powerful members of the council humiliated and trapped in front of half the court. As he walked, he glanced back briefly, catching your eye from across the field. The knowing glint in his gaze spoke volumes.

Meanwhile, Pierce, still pinned to the post, continued his struggle, his pride preventing him from calling for help, even as the sweat beaded on his brow. The scene played out before the gathered nobles, each one pretending not to notice but clearly watching with bated breath as one of their own remained stuck, while Isaac walked away with an easy swagger.

× × × ×

The evening had descended into something almost ethereal. The soft glow of lanterns cast a warm, golden light across the festival grounds, the crackle of bonfires filling the air with the scent of woodsmoke. Along the shore, people gathered with lanterns in hand, preparing to send their wishes into the sky. The vast expanse of the ocean reflected the flickering lights, making it seem as though the heavens and the sea were one.

People gathered in clusters, their faces illuminated by the soft flicker of flames as they prepared their lanterns—small, delicate paper structures painted with wishes for the coming winter.

All around you, there was a quiet anticipation, a sense of magic in the air as families, couples, and children alike whispered their hopes and dreams into the night, preparing to send them into the sky.

You stood at the edge of the bonfires, the glow of the flames casting shadows across your face. Despite the crowd, you felt a strange sense of solitude, as though the weight of the night had draped itself over your shoulders, keeping you apart from the festivities.

The murmurs of the crowd fell into a soft lull, the crackle of the fire becoming the only sound as you watched people begin to release their lanterns into the sky. The first few floated up gently, their soft light flickering against the dark canvas of the night. One by one, they began to rise, slowly at first, then with more purpose, as though they were being drawn toward the heavens.

It was breathtaking, a moment that felt almost too perfect for the reality of the world you had come to know. The lanterns drifted higher, the soft glow creating a shimmering constellation of hopes and wishes above.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Bucky’s voice came softly from behind you, and you turned to find him standing there, his face partially illuminated by the flickering light of the bonfire. His eyes, however, were trained on the sky, watching the lanterns rise like tiny stars escaping into the night.

You hadn’t expected him to find you—not tonight. You hadn’t expected him to break away from the formalities of his role. And yet, here he was, his presence grounding you in a way that only he could.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The lanterns were already rising, drifting gently into the night sky, their soft light like stars scattered against the darkness. It was breathtaking, but the beauty of it only heightened the sense of longing that had settled deep within you.

“It feels like the whole world is wishing for something,” you said softly, your gaze returning to the sky. “. . . better. Something brighter.”

Bucky moved closer, his hand brushing against yours. It was such a simple gesture, but it was enough to ground you in the moment. His fingers curled around yours, warm and securing. You didn’t pull away.

“I’ve been wishing too,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost in the sound of the waves gently lapping at the shore.

You hesitated, your chest tightening as you turned to face him more fully. “And what is it that you wish for, James?”

His eyes met yours, and in that moment, the world seemed to slow. There was a vulnerability you rarely saw in him—one that he only ever revealed to you.

“For you,” he murmured. “to be genuinely happy.”

Bucky's hand tightened around yours, his eyes, so full of unspoken love and longing, held yours with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

“What did you wish for?” Bucky asked.

Your gaze dropped to your intertwined hands, your fingers still gripping his as though letting go might cause the world to crumble around you.

"I wished for peace," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "For all of this—the chaos, the pressure—to end."

Bucky’s thumb brushed softly over your knuckles, a silent reassurance. “And for yourself?”

You looked up, meeting his gaze once more. His blue eyes were filled with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. You swallowed hard, searching for the right words.

“I wished for…” you trailed off, the truth threatening to spill over. But you stopped yourself, the weight of duty pressing on you again. You forced a smile instead, your fingers tightening around his. “I wished for the kingdom to thrive.”

“That’s not for yourself. . .”

Bucky’s gaze softened, but he didn’t push further. He simply nodded, his expression unreadable as he turned his head back toward the lanterns drifting higher into the sky. His silence was deafening, but the way his fingers held yours told you he understood what you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

Around you, the lanterns continued to rise, hundreds of them now, filling the sky with their soft, golden light. The bonfires crackled softly in the distance, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the world felt peaceful. The magic of the moment lingered in the air, and in that quiet space, you allowed yourself to believe—just for a little while—that the wishes drifting into the sky might actually come true.

Bucky’s hand slipped from yours, but only for a moment. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, unlit lantern, holding it out to you.

“One more,” he said softly, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “For us.”

Your fingers brushed his as you accepted the lantern, a quiet understanding passing between you. Together, you lit it, the warm glow illuminating both of your faces as the flame flickered to life. Slowly, you both lifted it, ready to release it into the sky.

Just as you were about to let go, Bucky’s voice, soft and full of longing, stopped you. Your breath stilled as his fingers brushed against yours, his eyes locking with yours in a way that made the world around you fade. The noise of the festival, the glow of the lanterns, everything melted away until there was only him.

“I wish…” he began, his voice barely more than a whisper, his gaze unwavering. “I wish that one day, we’ll have a child of our own. A piece of you and me, together.”

The warmth of the lantern’s flame flickered between you, casting a soft glow on his face, illuminating every detail—the way his lips parted slightly, the gentle curve of his jaw, the unspoken promise in his eyes.

And then, without another word, you both released the lantern together, you watched it rise into the night sky, carrying his wish—your shared wish—into the heavens.

Bucky’s gaze never left your face, even as the lantern disappeared into the sea of lights above.

× × × ×

It was the day of officializing the Consort.

The towering oak tree stood at the edge of the palace gardens, its massive branches stretching out like protective arms. You had always found solace here, the leaves whispering in the breeze, the rough bark grounding you when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.

Scott stood at the base of the tree, his arms crossed casually as he looked up at you. By now, he had grown used to your need for solitude, often finding you up in the branches after difficult moments. He had long stopped trying to convince you to come down, knowing that this was where you found some measure of peace.

“They’ve sedated Lady Monica,” Scott said, his voice carrying up to you. “She had a mild wrist fracture, but the physician said she’ll recover quickly. You can visit her once she’s awake.”

You nodded from your perch, though your mind was still far from the present.

“I’ll visit her before the Ceremony.”

The world felt muted, your emotions dulled by today’s event. You had wanted to visit Monica earlier but duty had held you back. Now, there was nothing to do but wait.

The sound of footsteps on the grass drew both you and Scott’s attention. Steve approached quietly, his usual careful, measured strides carrying him toward the oak tree. His gaze flicked up to you, concern written plainly on his face. You knew he’d come to check on you.

Scott glanced at Steve, then back at you.

"I'll give you two a moment," he said, his voice gentle. With a nod, Scott stepped back, disappearing into the distance to give you some space.

Steve stood at the base of the tree, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his gaze soft. He tilted his head back slightly, looking up at you with an expression you had come to recognize—gentle concern mingled with adoration that seemed to grow more obvious.

“Good Morning,” Steve called up quietly, his voice carrying up to your branch. “I figured I’d find you here.”

You glanced down, the feel of his presence tugging at the edges of your solitude.

“I needed some air,” you replied softly, your voice carrying down to him.

Steve nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Understandable. It’s been... a long couple of days."

For a moment, there was only the rustling of the leaves and the distant sounds of the palace. Steve remained silent, giving you the space to speak if you wanted to—but you didn’t. Instead, you closed your eyes briefly, letting the wind play with your hair, trying to push the ache in your chest deeper down.

But Steve, ever patient, didn’t press. He simply waited, knowing that being there was enough.

After a long silence, you opened your eyes to find Steve studying the branches above him, calculating something. Then, he lifted his arms up, he grabbed hold of the lowest branch and began to climb.

Your brow lifted as you watched him pull himself up, his movements a bit more confident than the last time he attempted this.

“Your climbing skills have improved,” you teased, leaning back against the trunk as he hoisted himself onto the branch across from you.

Steve let out a breath, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he settled himself on the branch, facing you.

“Not like a schoolboy anymore, huh?”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Not quite.”

There was a brief silence between you as Steve adjusted his position, leaning his back against the trunk. He watched you for a moment, his usual guarded demeanor softening just a touch. It was clear he wasn’t here simply to check on you—there was something else in his expression, something deeper that he hadn’t yet found the words for.

“I figured I’d come see how you were holding up,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. His eyes never left your face.

You gave a small shrug, trying to keep your tone light. “I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

Steve’s gaze lingered on you a little longer than usual. He could see right through the façade you were trying to keep up—he always could. “Thinking about the ceremony?”

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers idly tracing the bark of the branch beneath you. “Among other things.”

Steve nodded, his expression thoughtful. He shifted slightly, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he turned his gaze out toward the horizon.

“You don’t have to be fine, you know. Not with me.”

Something in his voice made you pause. There was a gentleness there that you hadn’t expected, a quiet invitation to drop the mask you wore for everyone else. For a moment, the walls you had built around yourself wavered.

“I know,” you said softly, your eyes dropping to the space between you. “It’s just… complicated.”

“It usually is.” Steve let out a small breath, nodding in understanding.

There was a brief silence between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt as though the two of you were suspended in time, the weight of the palace, the crown, the duties all falling away for just a moment.

Steve shifted again, this time leaning in a little closer, his voice quieter, almost conspiratorial. “You know, I was half expecting you to climb even higher. Maybe hide out completely.”

“And what would you have done if I did?” You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Probably tried to climb higher too,” he said with a shrug, his lips quirking into a playful grin. “Though I’m not sure how well that would’ve gone.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “I think you’d manage.”

The lighthearted exchange brought some relief, but your thoughts quickly drifted back to the heavier matters weighing on your mind. You shifted slightly, drawing a deep breath before speaking again, though this time, you found it harder to meet Steve’s gaze.

“Steve,” you began slowly, almost cautiously. “What… will happen after?”

Steve’s brow furrowed slightly, sensing the shift in your tone. “With… what, exactly?”

“The things that happen after the ceremony... I heard it’s a two-day ritual? Consorts weren’t a tradition in Zienna.”

Steve let out a quiet breath, clearly understanding the underlying tension in your question. He shifted a little closer, his voice soft yet steady.

“Yeah, the council has their way of doing things, stretching it all out. There’s usually some symbolic rites for the consort to cement their place. A formality, really.”

You nodded, but your eyes stayed focused on the ground. “And then… after all that?”

Steve could see through your hesitation, the way your words trailed off as if you were too afraid to say what you were truly thinking. His heart clenched, knowing what weighed on your mind but not wanting to cause you more pain.

“You’re wondering about the heir,” he said, gently pulling the words from your silence.

You didn’t answer, but the slight tension in your shoulders spoke volumes.

Steve’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his voice filled with the quiet confidence you had always relied on.

“Look, Y/N… I know the council will push for an heir, but don’t get caught up in their expectations. Bucky’s heart? It’s yours. No matter what they want or what they say… he’s yours.”

You lifted your eyes to meet his, and for the first time in a while, you felt a small sense of relief. Steve’s words held a warmth that wrapped around you like a protective shield, something solid to hold on to amidst the uncertainty.

“But... what if…” you trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Steve’s expression softened, his gaze unwavering. “It will not change his feelings toward you,” he said firmly, his tone steady and assured.

You let out a quiet breath, but the unease still lingered. “Really? I cannot help but think feelings do shift as one spends more time with another.” Your eyes held him with a knowing look, one that hinted at a deeper understanding of what lay beneath the surface.

Steve’s jaw tensed slightly, his composure faltering for a fraction of a second as your words hit their mark. His gaze flickered away, just briefly, before he composed himself once more, his voice low and measured when he spoke again.

"You should stop now, Captain, before it gets deeper."

Steve chuckled softly, the sound tinged with a hint of resignation, as though he'd been caught red-handed. His tongue briefly swiped across his teeth, a small, reflexive gesture that gave away more than he intended. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his eyes briefly meeting yours again, but this time, there was something lighter in his gaze—something that spoke of a truth he'd been holding onto for too long.

“Hm,” he said quietly, his smile faint but genuine. “Guess I’ve been found out, huh?”

You tilted your head slightly, a teasing glint in your eyes. “You’re really obvious.”

Steve’s gaze flickered with amusement, though there was a trace of something deeper behind his expression. “Maybe I wasn’t trying too hard to hide it from you.”

But then Steve’s expression softened, the playfulness fading into something more sincere. His hand dropped from his neck, resting on his knee as he leaned forward, his tone quiet but resolute.

“But you don’t have to worry. I won’t act on it. I won’t pursue you—because I can’t.” He hesitated, his eyes searching yours, as if wanting to make sure you understood. “You’ve got enough on your shoulders as it is. I won’t add to it.”

There was a steady resolve in his voice, a reassurance that he wouldn’t let his feelings complicate things further. Yet, even as he spoke the words, you both knew that the tension between you would remain.

His smile returned, softer this time, though tinged with a hint of sadness. “Just know… wherever you go, that's where I follow. Always.”

× × × ×

You walked slowly down the corridor, Isaac at your side, his silent presence a steadying force, though unease curled deep in your chest. The weight of guilt gnawed at you, but you forced it down. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart.

Isaac's eyes were sharp, ever watchful, as you neared Monica's bedside. He hadn’t said much since he insisted on coming along, and though a part of you wondered why, Steve's lack of resistance made you push the thought aside. Isaac always carried that quiet intensity, a storm kept at bay but ready to break if needed.

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a habit he never quite lost, even when no danger was immediately present. His demeanor was far from relaxed, his presence reminding you of the subtle tensions that still ran through the palace.

“Are you sure about this?” Isaac asked in a low voice, his eyes scanning the corridor ahead.

You nodded, keeping your face neutral despite the knot tightening in your stomach. “I should have come sooner.”

Isaac gave a curt nod but said nothing more, pushing open the door to the infirmary. He stepped aside, allowing you to enter first, though his sharp gaze never left you.

Monica lay in the bed by the window, her complexion still pale, but her eyes open. When the door creaked, she glanced over, her lips curling into a faint smile upon seeing you.

“Your Majesty,” Monica greeted, her voice strained as she tried to sit up.

You moved quickly to her bedside, gently motioning for her to lie back. “Don’t strain yourself,” you said, keeping your tone as stern as possible.

Monica gave you a small smile, her hand reaching out weakly toward you. You took it, her skin cold against yours.

“It’s good to see you,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, your mind racing. The guilt was there, gnawing at you, but you refused to let it show. “I should have been here sooner, Monica. I should have known something was wrong.”

Monica squeezed your hand, though her grip was feeble. “Don’t… blame yourself.”

Your jaw clenched. “But I can’t help feeling responsible. I should have been more vigilant—I’ve been too focused on my own self pity.”

Monica shook her head weakly, her gaze steady despite her weakened state. “No, your majesty… this is not on you. They’re targeting you… you know that. But this… this wasn’t your fault.”

You took a breath, glancing toward the window. “It still feels like I missed something. I should’ve been paying attention to the signs.”

Monica’s gaze softened. “You’re doing your best, my Queen. Don’t carry a weight that isn’t yours.”

Isaac, who had been standing silently near the door, his arms crossed as he observed the exchange, let his gaze drift between the two women, his face impassive but his mind already calculating. His fingers drummed lightly against his arm, betraying the restlessness stirring beneath his calm exterior.

A long silence stretched between them before Monica’s expression shifted. Her gaze became more serious, a glint of worry creeping into her eyes.

“Your Majesty… are you still drinking tea?”

You blinked as confusion crossed your features.

“Tea? Y-yes, but not often why?”

“Any tea,” Monica pressed, her voice a little stronger now. “Not just the tea Lady Sharon brought you… have you been drinking anything else?”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed sharply. He took a step forward, his voice low and measured, though his tone carried an unmistakable edge.

“Why do you ask?”

Monica hesitated, glancing between you and Isaac, her lips pressing into a thin line before she spoke. “Because… I ran a test on the tea that was brought to you—I believe you saw me. . .Prince Isaac?”

Isaac recalled and nodded twice.

“What do you mean?”

Monica’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, her voice grave. “It wasn’t just tea. It was tainted with Silphium.”

Your brow furrowed. “Silphium?” The name meant little to you; you had never studied such herbs in detail. “What is that?”

Isaac’s gaze darkened, a flicker of recognition passing through his eyes, though his expression remained inscrutable.

He spoke, his voice a shade colder now. “Silphium is a contraceptive, Your Majesty. Highly effective… and not something that should have been anywhere near your cup.”

Monica nodded grimly. “And worse than that… it wasn’t only Silphium. There was also a small amount of wolfsbane mixed in.”

Isaac’s face hardened, his fists clenching at his sides. He stepped forward, his posture predatory, a dark storm cloud on the verge of eruption.

“Wolfsbane? Poison?” His voice was dangerously quiet, simmering with a lethal calm.

Monica shook her head, her face clouded with concern. “The combination is dangerous. It could have harmed her far more than just preventing an heir. Silphium alone is potent, but adding wolfsbane could… well, it could weaken her considerably.”

Isaac’s lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile, though an ounce of humor was absent. He turned toward you, his eyes flashing with barely-contained fury. Isaac scoffed under his breath, shaking his head as if disgusted by the messiness of the situation.

“Huh. I see now,” he muttered, his voice low. He met your gaze, his eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity.

The tension in the room mounted, the implications of what had been revealed settling heavily in the air. You felt your stomach twist, a cold realization sweeping over you—someone wants you dead.

Isaac’s voice cut through the charged air, dark and commanding. “This is an attack.”

Monica’s voice broke through the charged air, her tone still soft but filled with caution. “Please, Your Majesty, you must be careful. Whoever is behind this. . . have something against the royal family.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest, but a steely resolve building within you.

Isaac stood by your side, his presence a silent vow of protection, his demeanor now cold and calculating, ready to do whatever was necessary. As you glanced at him, you could see the fire in his eyes.

× × × ×

As you left Monica’s chambers, the weight of the revelation pressed down on you like a physical burden. The air felt colder, the hallways stretching endlessly ahead as you walked side by side with Isaac. Each step seemed heavier, your thoughts racing as the full implication of the situation crashed over you. Silphium. Wolfsbane. Someone had ordered to poison your tea—someone who wanted to weaken you, perhaps even kill you.

Your breath quickened, coming in shallow bursts, your chest tight as anger and fear swirled within you, threatening to spill over. The rage—it was too much to contain. Hot tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you tried to hold it together, to keep the storm of emotions from escaping. But it was no use. Your breathing became frantic, fast and shallow, and you could feel the tingling in your fingers and toes as the lack of oxygen spread through your body.

Isaac’s sharp gaze flickered toward you. He sensed the shift immediately, the way your steps faltered, the way your shoulders trembled. Without a word, he moved closer, his hand resting firmly at the small of your back, guiding you forward, keeping you upright as your legs threatened to give way beneath you.

“Steady,” he murmured, his voice low but filled with a surprising gentleness, one that cut through the storm in your mind. “Breathe.”

But you couldn’t. The air wouldn’t come. Your chest tightened further, your vision darkening at the edges as the tears spilled over. You tried to focus, to ground yourself, but it was like drowning in your own fury and helplessness.

Isaac’s grip tightened around you as your legs buckled. His arm looped around your waist, pulling you against him with swift, protective force. He held you up effortlessly, his expression hardening with concern as he watched you struggle for breath.

“You’re not collapsing here,” Isaac said, his voice firm, steady, but not unkind. His grip on your shoulders tightened just slightly, “Y/N. . . Y/N! Slow your breathing. Breathe with me.”

His voice, deep and commanding, cut through the haze of your panic, pulling you back. You were barely aware of your surroundings, but Isaac’s presence was solid. His breath was slow, deliberate, and he leaned in closer, bringing his face level with yours.

“Look at me,” he said softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of urgency. You forced your eyes to meet his, and the intensity of his gaze almost made you falter. But you held on, your breaths coming in short, sharp exhales, your chest tight with anger and frustration.

“Breathe with me,” he repeated, his eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, he inhaled, his chest rising and falling in a controlled rhythm. You tried to follow his lead, matching his breaths, but the rage inside you made it difficult.

Tears welled up in your eyes, your vision blurring once more. Isaac’s expression softened, just slightly, as if he could see the storm raging inside you. His hands moved from your shoulders to gently cup your face, his fingers cool against your heated skin.

His gaze held yours, intense and searching. The world around you seemed to come back, his attention pulling you back to the present.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice low but firm, his eyes locked onto yours.

Your breath began to slow, your body responding to his calm, but your heart still raced, not from fear but from the intensity of the moment. His eyes never wavered, holding you there, steady and secure, until you felt yourself coming back into control.

“You need to pull yourself together,” Isaac whispered, his voice barely audible but sharp with purpose. His hands remained firm against your skin, grounding you. “Just a bit longer. The ceremony is coming, and everyone is there. You need to be ready.”

His words sliced through the haze clouding your mind, a harsh reminder of the responsibilities that awaited you. His eyes never left yours, as if willing you to find the strength within yourself. Despite the rage and the panic, you knew he was right.

With a deep, shaky breath, you nodded, feeling the last remnants of panic begin to ease. Isaac nodded, his expression softening just slightly as he saw the determination return to your eyes.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly but firmly, releasing your arm and stepping back, giving you a moment to gather yourself fully.

You straightened, your heart still pounding but your mind now clearer, sharper. Without another word, you and Isaac turned and began walking toward the Great Hall.

The ceremony took place in the Great Hall where the council members stood in a semi-circle, watching closely, their faces impassive—except Pietro Maximoff who now seemed to be getting weird looks from other council members. The Queen Dowager sat quietly at the head of the hall, her expression indecipherable. Steve stood by the entrance, arms crossed, his gaze never leaving the center of the room. But Isaac who you swore was there mere seconds ago was gone.

× × × ×

The infirmary was eerily quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the nearby fire in the hearth. Shadows danced across the room, casting a faint glow over Monica’s resting figure. The heavy scent of medicinal herbs lingered in the air, and the soft rustle of linen was the only other sound.

Sharon stood by Monica's bedside, her eyes narrowing as she watched the stillness of her body. Her heart pounded, her mind racing with the grim task she had come to finish. With a steady hand, she reached for the pillow beside Monica’s head, her fingers tightening around the fabric.

Without hesitation, she lifted the pillow, bringing it close, her breath quickening as she hovered over Monica's face, prepared to snuff out the last remnants of life As Sharon pressed the pillow down, Monica's body jolted awake, her hands flailing wildly, clawing at the fabric with desperate panic. Her legs kicked beneath the blanket, trying to fight for air, her eyes wide with fear.

But before Monica's struggling could fully register, Sharon was suddenly ripped away from the bed. A powerful hand clamped around her throat, yanking her back with such force that she slammed into the stone wall behind her.

Isaac stood over her, his expression dark and commanding, his hand still wrapped tightly around her neck. His eyes gleamed with a cold, dangerous intensity, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he held her against the wall. The casual, almost predatory ease in his posture made her blood run cold.

“You’re really becoming quite the nuisance, aren’t you?” Isaac’s voice was low, dripping with dark amusement. His thumb brushed lightly over her throat, sending a shiver through her, though there was no mercy in his eyes. His grip tightened slightly, making her gasp.

Behind them, Monica's hands were still weakly reaching toward her throat, gasping for breath, but Isaac's focus remained solely on Sharon.

Sharon struggled in his hold, her eyes wide with shock as she grasped at his wrist, but Isaac didn’t budge. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin, his gaze never leaving hers.

“You should have known better than to try something like this under my watch,” he murmured, his voice a soft, lethal purr. “Now, tell me… was this your own idea, or are you following someone else’s orders?”

Sharon’s chest heaved, her breath shallow, jaw clenched as she refused to answer. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening.

“No? Well then, perhaps I’ll give you a moment to reconsider before I lose my patience,” he added, his voice like silk, though there was a lethal promise hidden beneath the surface.

For a moment, Sharon struggled to breathe, her eyes darting between Isaac and the doorway, her mind racing for an escape. But Isaac’s hold didn’t falter—he was in complete control, and he knew it.

Finally, after a few tense seconds, Isaac loosened his grip just slightly, enough for her to gasp for air. He raised an eyebrow, watching her intently, waiting for her to speak.

"You have a choice here, Sharon," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with barely contained menace. "Answer me… or I can make this much worse for you.”

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