war has begun, and if they're not careful, a fatality will tear them down.
NO SMUT OR SEXUALIZING ━ if any of the triplets are uncomfortable with this fanfiction, it will be taken down immediately.
matt sturniolo x fem! oc x chris sturniolo (LOVE T...
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𝖝𝖑𝖛𝖎𝖎𝖎. What is Your Price?
Reva
ARCHEON WILL NEVER be Reva's home.
Not because of the location, the size of the city, the lack of shrines and temples, or even her bone-deep, inborn disdain for Nortans. None of those things weigh as much as the emptiness she feels without her family at her side.
It's a hole she tries to fill with training, prayer, and her other queenly duties, boring as some of them might be. But all are necessary. The most important is to stay in fighting shape. It would be easy to soften in her apartments of silk and velvet, waited on by Red servants tripping over themselves to bring her anything she wants. It was the same in the Lakelands, but she never wanted to find solace in food or alcohol the way she does here. Her training sessions also set a good balance, so she doesn't fall into the trap so many royals and nobles find themselves in. A trap Chris baits well. Many of the lords and ladies still supporting his reign seem more preoccupied with parties and feasts than they are with the war. Idiots.
Reva's queenly duties are the only distraction from her isolation. Today, her schedule takes her across the great bridge scanning the Capital River, to the other side of the city. As far away from Chris as she can get whilst still being within the diamondglass walls of Archeon. He appears outside the palace less and less, occupying himself with endless councils. Or long hours alone.
Reva hears the whispers of the servants. His clothes end up burned most days, charred beyond repair. It means he's losing control, or he doesn't care to keep himself in check. Reva thinks it could be both.
Today, she's attending a memorial luncheon, to honor the soldiers lost when Chris' brother and his rebels took Corvium. Her Sentinels follow as always, garish in their flaming robes. Though she wears her usual colors, a nod to her native home, her blue blouse and jacket are trimmed with Chris' black and red. She feels wrong tainting herself like this, but no one would know from looking at her.
She smiles and nods with the best, trading idle conversation with the many lords and ladies who wish to favor their new queen. No one says anything of any real use. It's all for show, even with the families of those who died. They clearly don't want to be here, preferring to face their grief alone. Instead, they're trotted out like actors in a performance, put on display. One after the other explains how their loved ones died, all murdered by some Red terrorist or Montfort freak. A few are barely able to finish their sentences.
A clever tactic, one Reva is sure her husband is behind. Anyone who might oppose this war, or even prefer Chris' brother on the throne, would have a difficult time holding to their convictions after such a show. And she plays her part in it well enough.
