Dyan stood up and placed the sheet of paper on the desk.
"I left several development plans in my council office. Perhaps one of them..."
"Go!" Eleanor shouted, unable to control herself.
"Thank you for everything, my queen. Serving by your side were years of joy."
"Go!" she repeated, with more rage. "Guards! Guards!"
The door burst open. Four armed guards entered instantly.
"I regret that it ends like this." Dyan bowed deeply. A wound opened in his soul that perhaps would never heal. "I wish you the best..."
"Get him out of here! And don't let him set foot in the palace again! Go, Dyan Halvest!"
Dyan remained bowed until the guards pulled him from his position. At first, they hesitated, out of respect or fear, but seeing that he offered no resistance, they firmly dragged him out of the room.
And as the door closed, the room fell into a terrible silence. Like the silence that reigns after a battle where everyone has fallen mortally wounded.
The door closed with a dull thud that echoed like a final judgment. Eleanor didn't move. She stood there, behind her desk, the crumpled parchment still in her hand. Her fingers trembled, and for an instant, she thought it was from rage... but it wasn't. It was from fear.
The silence that followed was absolute. Not a whisper, not the song of the birds from the garden beyond the window. Not even the sigh of the wind. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath.
The queen took a step back. Her heart pounded so hard it seemed like every beat pushed something inside her towards the abyss. She couldn't think. She didn't want to think. Because if she thought... she would have to accept that she had lost him.
She slumped into her chair with more violence than necessary. The parchment slipped from her fingers. It fell to the floor, silent as a whispered farewell.
Eleanor's face remained rigid, unmoving. Her eyes fixed on nothingness, on some point beyond the window. But inside, her soul burned like a scorched field. She had called him a traitor. She. Him. Dyan Halvest.
She clenched her teeth. That name was both an anchor and a knife.
"Damn you, Dyan..." she murmured, without rage, barely a broken echo. Her voice sounded too human to be that of a queen.
She hated him for leaving. She hated him for not staying. She hated him for not having fought, for not having given her the chance to beg him without humiliating herself. But most of all, she hated him for being right.
She had slept poorly for weeks. She had sensed it. She had seen it in his way of speaking, in the way he averted his gaze when she spoke of the future, of the kingdom, of all that they still had to build. He had begun to say goodbye even before mustering his courage.
And yet, he had dared to leave.
She brought a hand to her chest. It hurt. Not her body. Her soul. That deep part where she never allowed anyone to enter. No one... except Dyan.
She closed her eyes. For an instant, she imagined another life. One where he stayed. One where there were no crowns, no councils, no wars. One where she didn't need to hide that she trembled at the thought of losing him.
But it didn't exist. It had never existed.
She took a deep breath. The trembling stopped. The queen's face hardened again like the marble of her ancestors' statues. The pain would be buried, like so many other losses. The crown allowed no cracks.
And yet, a tear slipped down her cheek.
Only one. Alone. Silent. Irreverent.
Like him.
Eleanor didn't wipe it away.
She remained staring at the window, where the gardens bloomed with cruel indifference. The world went on. The kingdom went on. And she, as always, would have to go on too.
The silence still weighed in the study like a tombstone when the door opened unannounced. Eleanor barely looked up, her eyes still moist, but already hardened. The one who entered was not a fearful counselor nor a nervous maid.
It was Silvania.
She wore a lounging robe with gold embroidery, but held her forehead high as if she still wore a crown. A maid accompanied her, timidly, with arms extended in case her mistress faltered. But Silvania walked with a firm step, only slowed by the weight of years... and by the urgency of disappointment.
The queen mother stopped a few paces from the desk. Her eyes, once soft, were now like sharpened blades.
"Is this how it all ends?" she said, without raising her voice, but with enough tone for the wound to widen further.
Eleanor didn't respond. Silvania took another step.
"It wasn't enough to lose him... did you also have to humiliate him?"
Eleanor rose from her chair, slowly. A weaker woman would have lowered her gaze. A different daughter might have cried upon seeing her mother so hurt. But Eleanor was neither.
"He left," she said with a coldness that failed to cover the tremor in her voice. "He chose to leave."
"And you pushed him out the door," Silvania retorted. "Out of pride? For the damned crown? What was more important this time?"
The question hung between them like a broken bell. Eleanor took a deep breath, restraining herself. She had learned since childhood not to tremble in front of anyone. No one, except him. And now... also her mother.
"I owed him nothing," she finally said. But the tone was defensive. It wasn't a declaration. It was a flimsy refuge.
Silvania looked at her with sadness. Not with weakness, not with pity. With true sadness, that of a mother who understands all too well the kind of pain that doesn't heal.
"Of course you owed him something. You owed him the truth. You owed him the attempt. If you were going to break his heart, at least do it with bare hands, not with the coldness of your voice."
Eleanor stepped back half a pace. Not out of fear. But because those words were like knives that knew where to strike.
"He knew what this meant..." she whispered.
Silvania walked up to her, now without her maid, now without hesitation. She took Eleanor's face in both hands, not gently, forcing her to look at her.
"No, my daughter. He knew what you meant. And he still stayed longer than he should have. Because he loved you, Eleanor. More than you allowed yourself to love him back."
Eleanor clenched her teeth, but her eyes clouded over. The face hardened by years of power barely cracked, just enough for the queen mother to see it.
"You don't understand," Eleanor murmured. "I couldn't. I... can't. I have a kingdom to uphold. If I break... if I let myself go... everything collapses."
Silvania released her. She stepped back. Not out of anger, but because she finally understood everything.
"Then it has already collapsed. You just don't know it yet."
The queen mother turned towards the door. The maid stepped forward to support her arm, but Silvania raised her hand, her dignity intact.
Before leaving, she paused at the threshold.
"You lost the only man who looked at you and didn't see the crown. And you did it all by yourself."
And she left.
Eleanor did not stop her.
The study fell silent again. But this time, the silence held the weight of a condemnation.