CHAPTER 435: THE GOLDEN JUBILEE: GHOST OF THE PALACE

Queen Helga turned from the balcony, but a glimmer of color on the far wall caught her eye.

Her wedding portrait.

She stared at it—the painted likeness of herself and Heimdal, young and solemn beneath their crowns. The artist had captured his strength, his stoic composure, but not the truth that Helga could never forget: the absence of love from his eyes.

It was funny that they were married for long. But he never kissed her on the lips even when they were intimate.

Then she remembered the first time he kissed her. The weight of his gaze was heavy with grief rather than desire. Even in their most intimate moments, she had felt the weight of his sorrow pressing heavier than his body, as though Astrid lay between them still.

She had thought time would heal him, that her devotion and cunning would eventually drive Astrid from his heart.

For a while, it seemed to work. He smiled at her. He shared her bed. He gave her power. But his heart always returned to Astrid, unfailingly, unshakably.

It was in the small things she saw it: the way his eyes drifted to Astrid’s portrait when they walked the corridor to the dining hall, the way he would fall silent at festivals Astrid had once cherished, the way he had neglected Alaric not out of cruelty, but because looking at him was like staring into Astrid’s eyes.

Helga had seized that weakness, of course. She had turned Heimdal’s neglect of his firstborn into her son’s advantage. Reuben was loved, favored, and trusted with responsibilities Alaric would never see. That was her triumph, her victory over a rival long buried.

And yet... every time the setting sun bathed Astrid’s chambers in molten light, every birthday and anniversary, it was Helga who felt defeated. Astrid was still here, etched into the very stones of the palace, unyielding, untouchable.

Helga’s chest tightened as memory sharpened to pain. She remembered the first moment Heimdal’s eyes had fallen upon Astrid. How they had brightened with a light Helga had never—and would never—draw from him. Astrid had not sought power, yet power bent to her. She had not craved loyalty, yet loyalty followed her like a tide.

She knew Heimdal first, and was betrothed to him first, but when he saw Astrid, he was willing to give up the throne just to marry her. She was the legitimate daughter and the eldest one, and yet Heimdal refused her.

She remembered, with venomous clarity, how Astrid had been adored. The court had swarmed around her like bees to nectar, dazzled by her beauty, soothed by her gentleness. Astrid’s smile had disarmed warriors, her laughter had drawn the loyalty of the people without effort. Even when Helga had first entered Savadra, all eyes had compared her to her sister, the elder one, the clever one, but not the shining one.

It was unbearable, that effortless grace. Helga had clawed and schemed for every inch of ground she held, yet Astrid had glided through life as though the gods themselves parted her path.

And what did she do with it?

Astrid died and abandoned Heimdal, her people, her son, all by the simple failure of breath and bone. And yet even in death she triumphed—immortalized in marble, eternal in Heimdal’s memory. A dead queen commanding more love than Helga ever had while living.

The queen closed her eyes and inhaled, steadying herself. The late afternoon breeze carried scents of roasted meat, spiced wine, and polished steel—reminders of the banquet that would soon commence. The air was heavy with expectation. Tonight, masks would be worn, and daggers hidden beneath silk. Allies would drink together while weighing how soon they might betray one another. It was a game Helga knew well.

But jealousy was a harder poison to master.

She opened her eyes again, fixing her stare on Balai Hamili, luminous in the afternoon glow. To anyone else, it was a monument of love, of mourning. To Helga, it was a rival’s laughter frozen in stone, a constant reminder that no matter her crown, no matter her victories, she remained second in Heimdal’s heart.

She thought of those nights when Heimdal had turned cold, retreating into silence. Helga had tried everything—fury, seduction, loyalty, tenderness. None of it pierced the armor of grief Astrid had left him wrapped in. And each time she watched him retreat into Balai Hamili, each time she knew he carried his heart into that house and left her behind, the resentment festered deeper.

Helga touched the necklace at her throat, a heavy chain of gold studded with rubies. It was exquisite, priceless, a gift from Heimdal himself. But what use was gold and ruby against a memory? Jewels glittered for a season, then dulled.

Her chest tightened with the old jealousy, the gnawing truth she dared not speak aloud: that even as queen, she was merely a placeholder, never the woman Heimdal had chosen first, never the one his heart had crowned.

Her voice slipped out in a whisper, bitter as ash. "You mock me even now, sister. You rest in marble and memory, while I must claw for every scrap of loyalty. But remember this—only one of us wears the crown. And it is not you."

The great bronze bells of the palace tolled then, their deep voices carrying across the courtyards and corridors, summoning nobles and lords to the banquet hall. Torches flared to life, painting the palace in firelight.

Helga straightened her back, smoothing the folds of her gown. Whatever ghosts haunted these walls, they would find no weakness in her tonight.

Tonight, she would let go. She would let Heimdal join Astrid in their eternal love.

The bells’ echoes faded, swallowed by the vastness of the palace. For a moment, Queen Helga did not move. She stood rooted, staring at Balai Hamili, at the rapidly descending ball of fire beyond. But before it could hide, it exuded one radiant glow, framing Balai Hamili in an ethereal, soft, glowing light, enveloping Astrid’s house in a blend of blush pink and orange.

Then she thought she saw an illusion of Astrid peering back at her through the glowing marble.

She blinked, and the vision was gone.

The torches outside flared brighter, their flames dancing across the balcony. In the distance, she heard the growing murmur of nobles gathering in the banquet hall, voices mingling with the faint strains of harp and drum. The palace, magnificent and alive, was preparing to witness her triumph tonight.

Helga lifted her chin, drawing a steady breath. She could not banish Astrid’s ghost. But she could bury her deeper—with politics, with power, with blood.

She had decided.

At the end of all things, it would be her, Helga, who sat enthroned, and it would be her son who inherited Northem—not Astrid’s pale shadow of a child.

I will not be mocked by the dead, she told herself. Not while I still draw breath.

She turned from the balcony at last, her gown sweeping behind her like a trail of fire.