The moment Caroline returned to her chambers, her composure fell like a mask from her face. She closed her door with trembling fingers, leaned against the cool wood and allowed the weight of what she had learned from Cyrus crash down on her.
She could not believe Felix Gray had turned out to be a traitor, could not believe he had lied to her from the beginning and twisted the truth so as to appear to be her ally instead of the instigator of the rebellion that he truly was.
She could not cry, not properly. For Queens did not cry when kingdoms hung in the balance. Her breaths came out shallow, her fingers bunched her skirts, her body ached from carrying so much and holding everything together. She refused to fall apart at this time.
She moved slowly to the writing desk, her silver headpiece now resting beside a discarded goblet. Casimir. She whispered his name like a prayer, tracing her fingers along the edge of the quill.
