Queen Rosalyn stepped into the palace gardens, her silk gown flowing like cascading blood, the nobles turned to watch.
Eyes widened and whispers spread as for the first time in history, all of the king's concubines trailed behind the queen, not as jewels in the king's crown, but as her servants.
With Diane there, among them, her face pale, her eyes hollow, and her spirit crushed.
A former mistress, a fallen star, reduced to nothing more than a woman carrying the queen's shawl.
The concubines burned with humiliation. The nobles watched in awe. Some with respect, some with fear but none dared to speak against what they saw.
The queen had tamed the king. She had bent the court to her will and she had turned the very women who once mocked her into symbols of her absolute victory.
The morning sun broke through the lingering storm clouds, casting a glow over the palace gardens.
The roses, a thousand of them, gifted by the king stood in full bloom, their scent thick in the air.
