A Throne for the Forgotten

She had survived whispers, but this was humiliation wrapped in diamonds.

Talia Wynne stood beneath a ceiling strung with chandeliers, their glitter too sharp, too white, exposing every cruel smile around her. The Valderran Council Gala was the kind of event she was supposed to be grateful to attend — the kind of room where lineage whispered louder than names.

She stood in the dress they hadn’t yet mocked to her face, one hand folded politely against the other, willing her shoulders not to curl inward. Her husband Lucan stood beside her without touching her, a statue in finer clothing.

Talia’s mother-in-law approached with a glass in one hand and blood in her voice.

“Sweet girl,” Marion said smoothly, “did you sew this yourself?” The words landed soft, but her smile made the intent sharp.

Talia didn’t answer, didn’t need to. Her silence had been trained into her like a posture.

Marion’s daughter didn’t wait long to add her piece. “She’s brave for showing up in that,” Clarisse said with a small laugh, her eyes scanning Talia from head to toe.

Her champagne glass sparkled in the light, matching the glint in her eyes. Talia stared past her, focusing on a point above everyone’s head, the way she always did when they circled like this.

Her husband Lucan meanwhile didn’t speak — not to his mother, not to his sister. And especially not to Talia.

He stood stiff beside her, eyes forward, as if he could pretend she wasn’t there. That had become his habit in public — forget her, let her disappear, and maybe no one would question why she looked so misplaced in his shadow.