CHAPTER 523: ’THE FIRE IS BRIGHT.’

"Queen Anastasia?" Florian mumbled, the name slipping past his lips before he could stop it.

His feet shifted backward, boots scraping softly against the polished floor as if some instinct urged him to put distance between himself and Elara.

She only smiled in return, calm and poised, her hands folding neatly before her.

The sound of the ballroom shifted around them. The air grew colder, brushing over Florian’s skin like a draft.

The gold-lit chandeliers suddenly seemed too bright, their glow clashing with the sudden heaviness pressing on his chest.

Laughter and chatter rose in a strange swell, louder than before, until the music and voices blurred into a ringing hum that made his head ache.

The name itself carried weight.

Anastasia.

The late queen.

Heinz’s mother.

A figure carved into history with whispers, half-truths, and fragments of scandal.

To many, she was remembered as little more than a tragic queen who spent her life chasing after a king’s fading affection, and then killed herself when she couldn’t.

But to others... perhaps something else.

"Why..." he began slowly, blinking as though to clear the fog from his thoughts. "...are you giving me a task that I assume you also gave to the late queen?"

The edge in his voice startled even him. It sounded sharper, colder—more challenging than he intended. His lips pressed into a grimace. ’That was too harsh. I shouldn’t have said it like that.’

But Elara didn’t so much as flinch.

"Don’t misunderstand," she replied evenly. "I didn’t give her the task because she was queen, nor even because she was a friend."

Her smile softened, though her eyes gleamed with something deeper, something unreadable. "What history says of her, what rumors linger, what even her son speaks of... that is not all Anastasia was."

Florian’s brows furrowed. He remembered Heinz’s scattered stories of Anastasia and Delilah—tales of rivalry, tragedy, passion.

But how much of that was truth? How much had Heinz reshaped in the telling?

Elara’s voice drew him back.

"Anastasia was a woman who stood for business. She fought for those weaker than herself. She valued women, their rights, their voices—because in our youth, women were worth little more than marriage and childbirth."

Her chuckle was quiet, though edged with bitterness. "Unlike your kingdom, which has long revered women and placed them in power, ours silenced them. She refused to stay silent."

Florian’s throat tightened. There was nothing he could say to that. Not now.

Elara continued, her tone smoothing into reminiscence. "I’ll spare you the details, but Anastasia always fought for what was right—though not always in the way others approved. She was willing to use any method to ensure justice was served. She was headstrong, unyielding. Nothing like her elder brother, Alaric."

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the far side of the ballroom. Florian followed her gaze.

Alaric stood with Alexandrius, both men surrounded by their sons, laughing and conversing with Heinz as if nothing in the world could shake their ease.

"If she had not become queen," Elara murmured, her eyes softening with the ghost of memory, "I believe she would have fought beside me for our house’s dukedom. It was Anastasia who encouraged me to seize this position from my elder brother."

’She had an older brother? And she... took the title by force?’ Florian’s eyes widened a fraction. ’Now that seems like an interesting story.’

When Elara’s gaze returned to him, it was sharp enough to hold him still.

"I see that same fire in you," she said, her voice carrying quiet conviction. "You are kind, yes—but also firm. You are humble, yet unafraid to use your place to remind others of theirs. You carry the same blaze in your eyes that she once did."

Her words lingered between them like smoke, curling and heavy, refusing to disperse.

Florian’s face warmed, his ears threatening to burn. He knew it was a compliment—Elara wasn’t mocking him, she was genuinely praising him—and that only made the heat worse.

His tongue stumbled in his mouth before he managed, "I’m honored you think of me that way, Your Grace."

Elara’s chuckle was soft but edged with amusement, as though she saw through every flicker of his nerves. "Come now, you’ve earned it. My respect is not something I hand out lightly. It is reserved for those who prove themselves, Your Highness."

’She... respects me?’ The thought alone made his pulse quicken. For a duke of her standing—cold, unreadable, feared even by other nobles—to say such a thing, it rattled him more than he cared to admit.

He shifted, fingers brushing the hem of his sleeve as if to ground himself. The curiosity that had been simmering in him since she first brought up the task was now burning hotter, insistent.

He wanted to take it, if only to peel back the layers of mystery surrounding it. Yet one thought gnawed at him, sharp and unrelenting.

"If..." His voice wavered before he steadied it, lifting his chin. "If Queen Anastasia failed the task... someone as great as her, someone you clearly admired—then how do you expect me to succeed where she could not? How can I possibly do what she couldn’t?"

The question hung heavy between them, almost daring.

Elara tilted her head, eyes glinting, as though she’d been waiting for him to ask that very thing. A low hum escaped her lips, thoughtful, before she spoke.

"Mhm. That is a wonderful question."

She paused—not to look at him, but past him.

Her gaze slipped over his shoulder, scanning the crowd behind him with sharp precision.

Florian resisted the urge to glance back, unsettled by the way her eyes narrowed slightly, as though she were measuring the shadows themselves.

’Why is she looking behind me?’

"The answer," she finally said, returning her attention to him, "is quite simple, really."

’Simple?’

Her smile softened, but the weight of her words pressed into him like iron.

"I made the mistake of asking her to take on this task when her light had already begun to dim." Her sigh was quiet, but the sorrow in it seemed too real, too raw to be mere performance.

"I should have known better—that she was already fading, that she did not have the strength left to carry it through."

Her gaze sharpened on him now, steady and unwavering, as if she were looking past his face and directly into his very being.

"But you..." She let the words linger, her voice low, almost reverent. "Your light still burns bright. Strong. Unyielding. And I have no doubt in my mind that you will do wonderfully."

Florian’s brows pinched faintly as Elara’s words settled over him like an unfinished riddle.

’Bright light? Unyielding? What does she even mean by that?’

He opened his mouth, breath catching, ready to press her for clarity—

But Elara’s hand lifted gracefully, halting him before a word could escape.

"As much as I would like to speak more with you, Your Highness," she said, her voice smooth yet edged with finality, "it seems... someone else is waiting to speak with you."

Her tone wasn’t dismissive—it was deliberate. Almost protective.

"Someone else?" Florian echoed, blinking, confusion tugging at his voice.

Elara’s smile curved, quiet and knowing, before she inclined her head toward the space behind him. "Yes. In fact... they’ve been waiting for some time."

She lifted a slender finger and pointed.

Florian’s brows furrowed. He hesitated before slowly turning, his boots sliding softly against the polished marble.

And then his breath hitched.

His eyes widened, the sight slamming into him with the force of recognition and disbelief colliding all at once.

"Oh."