For three days, Amira was a prisoner in her own palace. At first, it was almost pleasant, her prison a gilded cage. The apartment was well-appointed and comfortable, in keeping with its intended function as a prison for nobility. Her son, Prince Androw, was a bundle of sunshine, filling her days with innocent wonder and laughter. His presence there was a balm for her soul, easing the worrying ache for her beloved Chase.


    Beyond her most pressing concerns, the Queen''s needs were met. Meals arrived regularly, a large, well-stocked wardrobe was in the bedroom, and a maid came daily to cater to their direct needs and comfort, her aid a small mercy.


    Despite the seeming comfort, she remained a prisoner behind a locked door, her freedom and spirit subdued. Over those days, as she contemplated the Regent''s unchecked power, a growing unease settled upon her. By the third day, she was withdrawn and melancholy had set in, suppressing her usually vibrant spirit. She gave over on maternal duties, leaving them to the maid, and attempted to find solace in solitude.


    Her mind reeled, reliving past mistakes. She again lamented her former husband''s decision to exclude her from affairs of state, and the issue now haunted her. She gnawed at regret for not defying societal norms and not declaring Sir Praxton formally as her concubine when she had the power to do so. Then her thoughts turned to escape, to finding allies to aid her. Every plan she concocted was dangerous for her or her son, putting them in harm''s way. She lost hope and remained trapped.


    As the darkness of night slowly enveloped the tower, her thoughts turned to her beloved Chase. Had he escaped? Was he safe or even still alive? Kasiam''s noted absence of gloating suggested Chase still lived, but doubt gnawed at her. As a distraction from these tormenting questions, she often let her mind wander to their shared moments and sought solace in his memory.


    She recalled their past intimacies, his scent, his touch, and a sense of longing all but consumed her. As she did so, she let her hands retrace the familiar paths of his caress along her body; it responded to the sensations. She felt his embrace, his weight, and the heat of their shared passion. These sensations ignited her desire for solitary exploration. Slow and deliberate, she built a crescendo of desire, lost in the fantasy, and surrendered completely to her longing. Afterwards, she lay breathless, with her pulse racing as she drifted into an uneasy slumber.


    During the third night of her captivity, she lay abed, flushed and breathless from the surrender to her memories of Chase. A sense of shame enveloped her, shame at her mind consumed with thoughts of a man over the needs of her child. She admonished herself, ashamed of her weakness as she tried to find sleep.


    The creak of her chamber door shattered any further chance of sleep. Sitting up, she expected to find Prince Androw, perhaps suffering from a nightmare and unable to sleep himself. Her heart jumped as she recognized the ominous figure of Prince Regent Kasiam.


    "Go away, leave, " she yelled at him, her voice laced with authority. I''m neither decent for company nor want it." Her attempt to dominate Kasiam fell flat.


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    "I shall allow you to dress, Your Majesty," his response was dismissive of her demands. "I shall not, however, be leaving the tower. Please join me in the sitting room when you''re suitably attired." His casual disregard for her wants was infuriating—almost as much so as her captivity.


    True to his word, he left her to dress, closing the door behind him. She rose from the bed and pulled a gown over her head, a long nightshirt paired with a thick robe. Resigned, she put herself together. A moment later, she joined Kasiam in the sitting room.


    He''d lit a fire, which crackled in the large ornate fireplace and cast dancing shadows on the walls. He occupied a comfortable armchair in front of the fire, a second chair opposite him, and a tea service sat on a small table between them. Sitting in the empty chair, Amira declined the offer of tea.


    Her voice dripped with contempt as she asked, "What do you want, Kasiam?"


    "Your Majesty," he insisted on mocking her with her title. "I''ve come to advise you on your situation." A smug smirk played on his lips. "First, I regret to inform you that Sir Praxton is dead, killed while trying to escape the palace."


    The blood drained from her face, her heart sank, and a wave of grief washed over her. Kasiam had come to gloat. Stoically, she masked the pain and forced herself to remain calm and composed when all she wanted to do was weep. "I see," her tone was cold. "May I write to his family in Prashia?"


    "Not as of yet," he dismissed her request. "There are other more urgent matters to attend to. First being my coronation later this summer, the lords have officially declared your son illegitimate owing to his doubtful parentage."


    She had anticipated this maneuver, yet it was a bitter pill. "What of myself and my son then?" Her voice remained steady.


    "You have some limited options," he replied, the smug smirk still playing on his lips. "The one favored by many nobles is exile for you while your son remains here to assure your continued good behaviour. It means disgrace for you and shame for your family, but an end to any bloodshed."


    She saw through Kasiam''s deception that there was more to his proposal. "The other option?" She enquired in a calm voice.


    "A royal wedding to coincide with the coronation," he declared, "You wed me, willingly and legally. You retain your royal status. Additionally, out of my desire to set these matters aside, I shall declare your son my Heir and formally adopt him; Prince Androw shall retain his position until such a time as you bear me a legitimate son of my own."


    She despaired of either choice, a sinking of the heart that was difficult to bear. These were not options; instead, they were punishments, sentences designed to grant him all the power he desired. Before she could respond, Kasiam continued in a voice lowered and thick with menace. "Consider very carefully. A third possibility exists, yet one I hope to avoid. Should you refuse either choice you shall face a trial for treason. The result will be your life and Prince Androw''s forfeit."


    "I see," she replied, her voice a blend of anger and despair. "Your offers leave me with no real choice at all. Either I accept exile, leaving my son in your clutches, or I submit to a choice I would never make willingly: marriage to you. That or we both die a shared demise." The circumstances that had led to this precipice were too much to fathom.


    "Choose carefully," he admonished, evident in his impatience. "I am weary of the posturing. I will be King; you cannot hope to prevent it. I will give you three days to decide. No choice is a choice for a trial, one you will not care to face." He stood then and turned to leave her. Leaving the room and closing the door behind him, his footsteps echoed down the corridor.