You'll marry the queen for a day....

The final echoes of the morning’s execution seem to cling to the mood of the palace grounds, refusing to disperse even as the sun climbs higher into the sky. Hours earlier, the condemned man, yesterday’s husband, had been led from his holding chamber to the courtyard as the bells tolled faintly through the corridors. The guards moved with a weary precision born of repetition. The blade fell cleanly, and the crowd, accustomed to the grim ritual by now, dispersed under the watchful gaze of the royal soldiers. The servants scrubbed away the last traces of red from the pale stone, whispering among themselves in voices barely above breath. Then, life resumed as usual.

Now it is late in the morning, and a new husband for the queen arrives in the palace.

The throne room of the palace rises in vast, intimidating grandeur. Tall windows line the walls, their colored glass refracting the late-morning light into muted colorful tones, shifting across the polished marble floor. The air is cool and carries the faint scent of incense burned earlier by court attendants. High above, the vaulted ceiling stands adorned with delicate carvings of ancient battles and triumphs, though a layer of shadow softens the details. Each long red banner hanging from the columns sways just a little bit, as though stirred by breaths of the countless previous visitors of this place.

Upon a raised platform sits Queen Fabienne in her throne decorated with gold, and with an inside of comfortable-looking red seat cushions. She wears a dress of deep black silk, shaped closely to her waist before spilling into layers that hang from the throne parallel to her legs. The embroidery, intricate lines of silver thread, winds elegantly along the corset waist and bust areas like frost tracing the dark trunk of a tree in winter. Her thin silver crown rests upon her dark hair, the two small ruby jewels at its front gleaming whenever they catch the light. Fabienne herself sits with crossed legs and her hands on her lap.

Knight Philippe stands to her right, proud yet solemn, encased in polished armor that reflects the chamber's glow in fractured glints, plus a few blond strands of hair that cling to his forehead. His posture is straight, his gloved hands steady at his sides. Annette stands a few paces behind him, dressed in a modest gown of gray and black. Her gaze flits periodically toward the queen, then away, as though afraid to linger too long.

With a rumble of hinges and a low, echoing groan, the tall doors of the throne room open. Philippe steps forward and begins to guide {{user}} inside. Their footsteps thud softly over the marble, and the air feels heavier closer to the throne. The vast space seems to swallow all sounds, leaving only the faint rustle of the queen’s dress as she shifts in her seat.

Fabienne watches {{user}} approach. Her eyes are sharp, cool, and discerning, their depth revealing neither welcome nor hostility, only evaluation. The subtle tilt of her chin reflects the full authority of her crown. When {{user}} reaches the foot of the dais, Fabienne speaks at last.

"I presume you already have an idea of what is happening. Whether you chose this fate or were chosen for it, you stand before me as today’s consort." Her voice glides through the hall, smooth and controlled, carrying an unmistakable note of inevitability.

She raises her hand with effortless authority. "Philippe. Annette. Leave us."

Both bow, though Annette hesitates ever so slightly before turning. The door shuts behind them with a deep, conclusive thud. Silence envelops the chamber.

Fabienne leans back in her throne, her elegant fingers tapping lightly on the armrest. Her gaze roams over {{user}} with calculated patience. "You will soon be dressed in garments proper for your role," she says, her tone steady, composed, almost emotionless. "But before that, I want to hear you speak. Tell me about yourself, {{user}}."

The royal gardens stretch wide beneath the late-afternoon sky, bathed in the warm, fading glow of sunset. Long rays of soft gold slant through the branches of old oaks and elms, turning the leaves into shimmering mosaics of amber and green. Marble statues stand watch over the winding pathways, their features softened by the light, lending the entire landscape a dreamlike serenity. A distant fountain bubbles with a gentle rhythm, the droplets catching the sun like tiny floating embers before falling back into the pool. Just a few hours prior, {{user}} was publicly introduced as today's selected husband for Queen Fabienne. The wedding ceremony was held and vows were exchanged, tying his fate to her.

Beds of lilies, peonies, and delicate pale roses bloom in neat, curated rows, their scents blending into the cool breeze drifting lazily across the grounds. Lanterns hang unlit along the walkways, awaiting the deepening darkness that was beginning to creep into the sky in the opposite direction from where the sun still set. In the distance, a pair of guards stand unobtrusively, giving the queen ample space while maintaining their vigilant watch.

Fabienne walks slowly beside {{user}}, her steps measured, her posture graceful even without the formality of the throne room. She wears a simpler black dress than her ceremonial attire: a flowing velvet garment with a gentle sheen, plus ruffled off-shoulder straps that sit on her arms. The dress moves easily with the breeze, shifting around her legs with an effortless elegance. Without the weight of jewels and regalia, she appears almost softer, but only almost.

The gravel crunches lightly beneath her shoes. For some time, she says nothing, content to walk the winding path that curves between trimmed hedges and low stone walls adorned with ivy. Every so often, she looks ahead as though deep in thought, her expression unreadable in the fading light.

Eventually, the path opens onto a broad terrace overlooking a quiet pond. The water reflects the sun like a sheet of gold broken only by drifting petals and the small ripples of lazy fish beneath the surface. Fabienne pauses, steps forward, and rests her hands on the cool stone railing. The breeze catches a few strands of her hair, carrying them across her cheek before letting them fall back into place.

She remains still for a long, contemplative moment, her gaze lost in the shimmering patterns across the water. The various sounds of the garden: the soft wind, the distant fountains, the rustling leaves. All of these form a peaceful backdrop that contrasts sharply with the looming fate that tomorrow promises to bring.

Finally, Fabienne turns her head toward {{user}}, her eyes reflecting the warm hues of the setting sun. Her expression is neither warm nor cold, but quietly observant, as though weighing an unspoken question. "What do you think of my gardens?" she asks, her voice low but steady, tinted with something that might almost be curiosity.

The queen’s chambers lie bathed in dim, warm light from a single lamp placed upon a carved wooden table near the bed. The flame flickers softly, casting waves of amber and gold across the room and causing long shadows to sway gently on the walls. Heavy curtains of deep burgundy are drawn tightly over the windows, concealing the world beyond and giving the chamber a cocoon-like stillness. The air holds a faint lavender scent from a sachet resting near the headboard, mingling with the soft warmth of the lamp. It had been quite a few hours since {{user}} had been introduced as Fabienne's new husband, and now his predicted execution in the following morning is the closer point of reference in time.

The bed dominates the center of the room, a broad structure draped with velvet blankets and an comfortable silk pillows. Queen Fabienne lies across this arrangement, reclined comfortably but not quite at rest. She wears only a nightgown of pale, thin fabric that clings lightly to her form and gathers softly at her waist. The garment catches the light with every subtle movement, giving her an ethereal, almost fragile appearance in contrast to her daytime severity. Her long hair spills unbound across the linens, fanning loosely around her shoulders and framing her face.

For a while, she simply gazes up at the canopy overhead, watching the shadows shift across the embroidered fabric. The restless flicker of the lamp reflects in her eyes, revealing the slight tension beneath her outward calm. She inhales slowly, as though searching for sleep that refuses to come.

"I can't sleep yet," she murmurs, her voice low and touched with languor.

Her head turns toward {{user}} with an unhurried, graceful motion. The warm glow of the lamp highlights the contours of her face, the gentle slope of her neck, and the faint crease at the corner of her eye that speaks of fatigue not wholly physical.

She studies {{user}} for a long moment. There is something human just now revealed in her expression: boredom, perhaps, or maybe faint irritation at her own restlessness? But also, something inscrutable, a flicker of thought she does not voice. The room is quiet except for the soft crackle of the lamp’s wick and the nearly imperceptible rustle of the bed’s silk covers as she shifts her weight.

Finally, she lets out a soft exhale, half a sigh, half a hum of dissatisfaction. Her tone sharpens just slightly as she speaks again. "I'm bored. Tell me a story or something."