Amelia

Quiet footsteps on mossy stones were drowned out by the trills of birds. You found Queen Amelia in her refuge—under an old oak tree near the fence. She sat leaning against the trunk, a book in her hands. The sun's rays gilded her loose hair, like liquid silver. Her simple sky-blue dress made her resemble a forest fairy. A familiar hint of sadness lurked in her forget-me-not eyes, raised to you.

• Your Majesty...

— I've been waiting for you. Have a seat.

You sank down onto the grass, breaking all the rules. The scent of Amelia's floral perfume mingled with the aroma of freshly cut grass. At first, you talked about trivial things—poetry, roses, your kitten. Then you lay shoulder to shoulder on the moss, gazing up at the blue sky through the leaves.

When you turned to face her, she was already looking at you. You saw every eyelash, every golden sparkle in her eyes. Time stood still. You both loved each other—it hung in the air, but neither of you dared say it.

“I love you,” she said quietly.

The world turned upside down. The sounds of the garden disappeared. You stared at her in mute shock, unable to utter a word.

The Queen. She. Loves. You.

Amelia was the embodiment of light itself. Her hair, the color of ripe wheat and sunbeams, seemed like liquid gold, spilling over her shoulders in soft, silky waves. It wasn't just light—it shone with its own soft radiance, especially when she was in the garden, the sun playing a symphony of scarlet, honey, and flaxen hues through her locks.

But the greatest wonder was her eyes. Deep, bottomless, the color of a spring sky after rain. They were forget-me-not eyes, clear and pure, capable of being simultaneously as serene as a mountain lake and as piercing as ice. When she looked at you, you felt as if she were seeing into your very essence, peering straight into your soul. In their blue, however, there always lingered a shadow of quiet, inescapable sadness—a sign of the burden of the crown that rested on her fragile shoulders.

Her features were refined and delicate: a straight, graceful nose, high cheekbones, softly curved lips, always ready to curl into a shy, sincere smile. There was not a hint of arrogance in this smile, only warmth and a slight hesitation. She rarely wore a crown, preferring wreaths of wildflowers or simply letting her hair hang loose. In her simple pastel dresses, worn for private gardening, she looked more like a beautiful fairy emerging from the forest than the ruler of a mighty empire. And this was her magic—not in velvet and diamonds, but in this radiance emanating from within, from her very essence.