The masked queen

CHAPTER 3

Chapter 3: Roman's Duty

Every step through the palace unveiled a fresh sense of wonder. Roman Miller had lived his life around wheat and soil, not marble floors and gilded columns. His existence, up until now, had been a simple one, woven from the same fibers as the golden foxtail he harvested. Before today, his hands had been more accustomed to wading through freshly spread manure than to brushing against the intricate textures of tapestries or the polished surfaces of palatial corridors.

Yet, as he moved through the palace, Roman found himself unimpressed. The grandeur seemed more gaudy than refined. The corridors were crowded with finely woven tapestries and masterful paintings, and the artwork, while exquisite, felt hollow. It lacked the personal significance he had always found in his humble home. In his world, decoration had meaning. A drawing from his son, the antlers of a deer that had kept them fed for a winter—those things held memories, connections to the people he loved. Did the royal family feel any such attachment to the statues and portraits adorning these halls? To him, they were lifeless displays, devoid of the warmth of familiarity.

He shook his head as he passed a particularly elaborate portrait of some forgotten ancestor. It felt pointless, he thought, to honor people you’d never met, and to pay artists to preserve their faces long after anyone who knew them was gone. A cold emptiness filled him as he thought of his own son. He would give anything to have that simple drawing of a stick figure boy with scribbled-out limbs and a beaming smile.

As Roman and the guard accompanying him reached the grand double doors, he felt an overwhelming sense of unease. Less than an hour ago, he’d been rotting in a cell, counting down the days to an ignoble end. Now he was standing here, clad in armor that already held a pool of his sweat, awaiting an audience with the queen. A queen who needed no protection; her mere touch was rumored to deny even the most pious their place in the afterlife. It seemed absurd, this task of guarding a woman whose power defied all logic.

As they stood outside her chambers, the guards who passed him cast sidelong glances filled with disdain. He was still a commoner, still a man whose roots and calloused hands betrayed his place in this gilded prison. Some guards looked at him with open contempt, others with mocking eyes, and none of them knew his name. It didn’t matter if he wore steel and stood among them or lay beaten on the cobblestone streets. In their eyes, he was no more than a man of dirt, unworthy and expendable. The memory of his brutal vengeance on those criminals lingered, a hollow reminder that he was both condemned and feared.

When the doors opened and he stepped into the queen’s chambers, the atmosphere changed. The room was tall, dark, and hauntingly still. The air tasted stale and thick, like breathing in curdled milk. A heavy chandelier, made of translucent crystal, dangled from chains, casting fractured light on the barren walls. The shadows seemed to pull in closer, illuminated only by a few sparse candles that flickered feebly against the encroaching gloom. The chill of the room seeped into him, a physical weight pressing against his chest.

He froze. Her silhouette was unmistakable, framed by the dim light and radiating an aura of sorrow and menace. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him into this chamber of despair. It was a dread he recognized, one that brought back memories he’d fought to bury. His throat tightened, and his breath grew shallow as fear clawed at the edges of his mind. He forced himself to move, clearing his throat as he tried to remember how one addressed royalty.

“Your—” he stammered, struggling to find words. He spread his arms in a clumsy, lopsided bow, a gesture that would make any noble scoff. “…Excellency. My name is Roman Miller. I am to serve as your new bodyguard, chosen by the council to... to protect you. It’s… an honor.”

The queen sighed, a sound almost too soft to hear, and lifted her hand with a gesture of bored disdain. “So, this is what they send me?” Her voice was bitter, each word dripping with scorn. “A fool wrapped in metal, weighed down by his own worthlessness. They send a commoner, barely fit to wield a sword, and expect him to stand watch over his queen.”

She laughed, a hollow sound that seemed to echo endlessly in the confined space. Her eyes, though veiled, appeared to glint with cruel amusement as she continued. “What can you possibly protect me from? One misstep, one moment of weakness, and you would crumble like the brittle fool you are. You’re weak, fragile, and utterly unnecessary.”

Her words struck with precision, each one a verbal blade slicing through his already fragile confidence. Roman stood there, feeling smaller than he had ever felt in his life. Despite the armor, despite the physical might that had allowed him to take down those who had wronged him, he felt exposed, vulnerable, as if his very soul lay bare.

Yet, he sensed something beneath her cruelty—a desperate, yearning emptiness. She seemed to lash out not to injure but to push away, to erect walls around herself, to keep him—and perhaps the world—at a distance. A queen who wore a mask, shutting herself off from her people, sequestered in a prison of her own making. He was here not to protect her, but to be repelled, dismissed, forgotten.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself against the tempest of her words. “I don’t intend to die by your hand,” he said, his voice shaking but firm. “In fact, I don’t intend to die at all. Weakness isn’t something I’ve had the luxury of entertaining.” He hesitated, then pressed on. “I don’t think you want to kill me, either. You speak like one who wants solitude, not blood. I think… I think you’re warning me, not threatening me.”

A silence settled between them, thick with unspoken challenges and wary curiosity. He pushed through, his words tumbling out with a mix of courage and naivety. “So, I’ll make you a promise. Or a vow, if that’s what knights do. I’ll protect you. Against what?” He paused, a rueful smile crossing his face as he remembered the councilman’s vague words. “Well, I suppose we’ll find that out together.”

The queen remained silent, and Roman wondered if his words had reached her. He was a commoner, yes, a man of wheat and soil, out of place in this world of silks and shadows. But as he looked at the woman before him, cloaked in darkness and venom, he felt a strange kinship. He, too, had suffered loss, had been battered and broken by life. And perhaps, in that shared sorrow, there was a chance—a slim, uncertain chance—that he could help her find a way back from the edge...