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Weekly Contest #316
The queen’s food has grown cold by the time she takes her seat. It took longer than she wanted to leave the privacy of her rooms, to face her family again. “Coralia.” Murmured to her right—her husband, sitting at the head. Bleeding warmth from a smile. Her spine snaps to attention, straight as always. She makes herself grab the fork, presses a close-lipped grin to her face. Pretends that she can’t see the fear glazed across his irises for her, for their young son directly across. A son, the queen thinks. That’s my son. The last word echoes...
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