Chapter 341: The Queen’s Confession
Chapter 340: The Queen’s Confession
The Queen gave Lucian a long, searching look, her eyes still glistening with the remnants of tears she had hastily brushed away. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then she turned and sat upon the edge of her bed, her posture still rigid despite the vulnerability she had just displayed. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers clasped tightly together as though she were holding herself together through sheer force of will.
"It is nothing for you to worry about," she said, her voice steadier now, though still carrying a trace of the emotion she had tried to conceal. "The King is merely upset about what transpired during the elimination ball. The incident with Duke Valenridge. He was annoyed that I almost disgraced us."
Lucian remained silent for a moment, processing her words.
He knew the Queen was not telling him everything. He had known her long enough to recognise when she was deflecting, when she was offering a partial truth to mask something far more painful. But he also knew better than to press her further. Not now. Not when she was already so close to breaking.
"I apologise," he said quietly.
The Queen waved her hand dismissively, the gesture sharp and impatient.
"You need not apologise to me," she said. "After all, it was not you who hurt me. It was the King himself."
She paused, her gaze dropping to her lap.
"I should have known, of course. I always do. But he caught me off guard. It is simply that the Duke truly vexes me most of the time. He seems to derive great pleasure from provoking me, yet I cannot even touch him. He is a Duke, after all. A powerful one. And he knows it."
Lucian studied her carefully.
He had caught the Queen at a vulnerable moment. That much was clear. She was saying things she would never normally allow anyone to hear, let alone him. It was a rare glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade she had maintained for as long as he could remember.
A younger version of Lucian might have felt pity for her.
Might have seen a woman who was trapped, who was suffering, who deserved understanding.
But he was no longer that boy.
He had grown up watching her, learning her patterns, understanding the intricate web of cruelty and manipulation that defined her existence.
The Queen was both victim and perpetrator.
She was abused by the King, yes. Lucian had witnessed it himself on more than one occasion. The sharp blows for wrong words. The harsh punishments for wrong turns. The way she would flinch whenever the King raised his voice too quickly.
He remembered the first time he had walked in on the King striking her, his young body filled with such righteous fury that he had lunged at the King without thinking. He had not succeeded. There was only so much a child could do, after all.
The Queen had punished him for it, though.
At the time, he had not understood why. He had been trying to protect her, to defend her from the man who hurt her. Why would she punish him for that?
But as he grew older, the truth became clear.
The Queen was a replica of the King.
The King abused her, so she took her anger out on those around her. The maids who looked too long. The servants who stumbled. The women the King showed interest in. She redirected her pain onto others, spreading it like a disease, ensuring that she was not the only one suffering.
Lucian had given up trying to understand her.
It was simpler that way.
The Queen was obsessed with the King. She would rather see others being insolent than acknowledge that the King was being disrespectful to her. In her eyes, the King—even when he hit her, even when they fought—would always be her priority.
He came first.
Always.
Jacinta was second.
The Queen knew she could use Jacinta to achieve most of what she wanted. The girl was beautiful, charming, and utterly devoted to her mother’s approval. She was a tool, a weapon, a means to an end for the mother who birthed her. And the Queen wielded her accordingly.
Lucian doubted Jacinta was even aware of the truth.
She had no idea what her mother endured behind closed doors. She had no idea that the Queen’s cold cruelty was born from years of suffering at the hands of her own husband. She saw only the composed, regal woman who ruled the court, the one she would cry out to and who would do her bidding. The one who would rather hurt Lyria for existing than hurt her daughter when she did wrong.
The Queen cleared her throat, drawing Lucian’s attention.
"We should not focus on me," she said, her voice brisk once more. "Why are you here?"
Lucian straightened slightly, his expression shifting into something more neutral.
"I wanted more information about the competition," he said. "That is why I came. Normally, I would have received word by now, but I have received nothing from you."
The Queen waved her hand dismissively.
"You need not worry yourself about that," she said. "I know your martial prowess quite well, and I am quite certain you will pass the competition without any difficulty. You are one of the strongest candidates here. That is not in question."
Lucian’s brow furrowed slightly.
"Are the opponents already decided?" he asked carefully.
The Queen’s eyes narrowed.
She studied him with sudden intensity, her gaze sharp and probing. He knew what she was doing. She was trying to determine whether he had some hidden motive, whether his question was born from innocent curiosity or something far more calculated.
Lucian did not waver.
He had years of experience with her. Years of learning to hide his true thoughts behind a mask of careful composure. He knew that even a blink at the wrong moment could give him away.
So he stood still, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.
The Queen observed him for a long moment.
Then, at last, she spoke.
"No," she said. "The opponents are not picked yet. They will be selected through a ballot. Those with the same number will face each other."
She paused, a faint smile curving her lips.
"But you need not worry," she added. "I have already made sure who your opponent will be."