The holy ruler

The birth of The Queen

Queen Genevieve's screams tore through the royal wing of the castle, a haunting symphony of agony that froze every servant in their tracks. Beyond the heavy oak doors of the birthing chamber, the handmaidens stood in tense silence, their faces pale and drawn. Their traditional gowns-long, flowing garments of soft blue and white, adorned with delicate lace and silver embroidery-seemed to dull under the oppressive weight of the night. Each intricate stitch, symbolizing their sacred duty to the royal family, now felt like a futile adornment in the face of such despair.

Among them, Anna, the senior. chambermaid, stood at the forefront. Her gown, a deeper shade of blue, bore a subtle gold trim-a mark of her experience and trusted station. Yet, even her seasoned composure wavered, her hands trembling as she clutched her rosary tightly, murmuring prayers under her breath. Her mind raced with fears, though she dared not voice them aloud.
In the corridor outside, King Edward paced relentlessly. His boots struck the polished marble floor in uneven, thunderous beats, the sound echoing through the stone halls. His royal attire, typically pristine, was in disarray. His coat hung loosely from his shoulders, his cravat undone, and his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his chest. His fingers raked through his graying hair as he muttered fragments of prayers and curses. The torches lining the corridor flickered, casting wavering shadows across his strained face.
When Queen Genevieve's cries suddenly ceased, a chilling stillness fell over the corridor. The handmaidens exchanged wide-eyed glances, their breaths caught in their throats. The silence pressed down like a physical weight, broken only by the creak of the chamber door as it slowly opened. A young handmaiden stepped out, her face streaked with tears. She curtsied shakily before addressing the king.

"Your Majesty," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "the queen... she has passed."

The words hit King Edward like a blade to the chest. He froze mid-step, his face turning ashen. For a moment, he stood motionless, his lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. His shoulders sagged under the crushing weight of grief, and he stumbled to the wall for support. His hand gripped the cold stone, the tremor in his fingers betraying his anguish.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable. "And the child?"

"The prince is healthy and strong, Your Majesty," the handmaiden replied, her tone trembling.

Relief flickered briefly in Edward's eyes before they clouded with another, unspoken dread. "And the other child?" he demanded, his voice low and strained.

Anna stepped forward, cradling a bundle wrapped in soft, white linen. Her expression was a mixture of sorrow and resolve as she met the king's gaze. "The princess, Anastasia, is also healthy, Your Majesty," she said softly.

King Edward's eyes flicked toward the bundle but lingered for only a moment. His expression hardened, his grief now buried beneath a mask of cold detachment. Without acknowledging the infant further, he turned away. "See to the queen's burial preparations," he commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding. "I will attend to my son."

The handmaidens curtsied as the king strode down the corridor, his steps heavy with sorrow. Anna watched him disappear into the shadows, her arms tightening protectively around the tiny princess. The other handmaidens gathered around her, their faces etched with concern, but none dared to speak.

From the far end of the hallway came the soft rustle of silk skirts and the distinct click of jeweled heels against stone. Vivian, the king's mistress, emerged from the shadows. Draped in a gown of crimson velvet that clung to her slender frame, she exuded an aura of authority that was both commanding and unsettling. Her golden hair, piled high and adorned with a glittering ruby comb, caught the torchlight, casting her in an almost ethereal glow. But it was her eyes-sharp, calculating, and brimming with malice-that drew attention.

Anna stiffened as Vivian approached, her grip on Anastasia tightening instinctively.

"What business do you have here, Vivian?" Anna asked, her voice steady but wary. "This is a time of mourning. The queen-"

"The queen," Vivian interrupted, her lips curling into a sly smile, "is dead." She glanced at the bundle in Anna's arms, her expression shifting to one of disdain. "And what have we here? The king's spare child? A girl, no less."

Anna bristled but held her ground. "Her name is Anastasia, and she is the daughter of the king and queen. She is no 'spare.'"

Vivian let out a low, mocking laugh. "Such loyalty, Anna. But tell me, do you truly believe the king cares for this child? Or for the memory of his wife?" She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "The king is a man of ambition, not sentiment. And you-a mere servant-have no place to speak of matters above your station."

"I serve the royal family," Anna replied firmly, her voice steady despite the fear twisting in her chest. "And I will protect Princess Anastasia with my life, if need be."

Vivian's smile faltered, her gaze darkening. Rumors of her dealings with forbidden magics swirled in Anna's mind-rumors that now seemed all too believable. For a moment, Vivian's fingers twitched as if she might reach for the child, but she stopped herself.

"Careful, Anna," Vivian said softly, her voice dripping with menace. "Loyalty can be a dangerous thing in a place like this. Protect the girl if you wish-but do not expect gratitude or mercy from the court. The palace is no place for the weak."

With that, she swept past, her skirts brushing against Anna's as she disappeared into the shadows.

The infant stirred in Anna's arms, her soft cries breaking the tense silence. Anna soothed her with gentle whispers, her heart heavy