Amelia didn't kneel.
She didn't move.
Not even when her son's guards stepped forward, rifles raised in silent threat.
Her eyes remained locked on his.
Steady. Shining. Unyielding.
Like a storm behind glass—ready to break, but never begging.
"You want a queen to kneel?" Her voice sliced through the thick tension like cold steel."Then build a throne worthy of a mother's sorrow."
The boy didn't blink.
But his hands clenched behind his back—tiny knuckles turning white.
His voice remained calm, rehearsed.
"You speak of sorrow, but where were you when I cried for arms that never came?"
Amelia's chest rose and fell in jagged rhythm.
"I was locked in Ethan's lies. I thought you were dead. They stole you from me before I ever saw your face."
She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like approaching a wounded beast with a heartbeat of a bomb.
"I would've torn the world apart for you."
He looked away for a second.
Just a second.
Then back again—mask returned.
"You came too late."
The words hit like a bullet coated in frost.Her knees almost gave in—almost.But queens don't fall.
She reached out, not to touch him, but to show him her palm.A burn scar across it.Long healed, but never forgotten.
"Ethan made me choose between my life… and yours. I chose yours. I always did."
He stared at the scar like it was a relic.Sacred.But untouchable.
Then he whispered:
"Why do I still want to believe you?"
Amelia's voice cracked, not from weakness—but from the ache of years stolen:
"Because you're still my son. And your heart hasn't turned to stone—yet."
Suddenly, alarms blared.
An explosion rocked the lower chamber.
The walls trembled.
From the intercom—Damian's voice, rough with static:
"Ambush. Hostile forces inbound. Internal breach in twenty seconds—get out now!"
The guards moved to evacuate.
The boy didn't flinch.
He looked at Amelia like she was both the safest place he'd never known—and the most dangerous threat to the kingdom built around him.
"You came to save me," he said softly."Now choose: me… or your life."