The Queen’s Awakening and a Knight’s Embrace

Even in my dreams, my head throbbed.

My name is… Ophelia…

Ophelia. That is my name.

Did I die today? Or perhaps yesterday? I couldn’t recall.

Whence did I come, and whither do I go? The memories eluded me.

All I remembered was being a queen, yet untouched by the king, for he had died on the very journey that brought me to the palace after I had caught his eye.

Thus, I was condemned to a lifetime of widowhood, with only the next king possessing the right to marry me. I was forced to become an accessory to the throne, forever trapped within the confines of the royal palace.

A bird in a gilded cage.

The true royals scorned me, yet they yearned to possess me. No one saw me as a person; I was merely an appendage of power.

Freedom… that was all I craved.

It was akin to drowning.

My outstretched hand could not grasp the light, nor could my feet find solid ground. I couldn’t even breathe.

Eventually, I was murdered. I couldn’t recall the killer’s face, but in the instant the dagger pierced my chest, my primary reaction wasn’t terror or fear, but profound relief.

For I was already dead, drowned by the palace and the royalty, by the masks worn by all, and by the throne’s icy indifference.

To lose life was, in truth, a liberation; death granted my soul the freedom to soar.

Ophelia’s eyes fluttered open.

The moment her eyes opened, tears welled and spilled from her pupils, and a single phrase echoed relentlessly in her heart: ‘How utterly unfair.’

“How utterly unfair,” she murmured. “I did nothing wrong, so why was I treated this way?”

Nevertheless, she swiftly composed herself, recognizing that this was merely a glimpse of her former self. Taking a deep breath, she rose from the plush bed.

A full-length mirror stood before the window.

Reflected back was a melancholic beauty, imbued with a profound sense of fragility. Long white hair, like scattered silver frost, cascaded around a pair of wistful red pupils, their sorrowful depth accentuated by her delicate features.

Four words described her perfectly: ‘A beauty in troubled times.’

And four more: ‘A femme fatale.’

Such a fragile, melancholic beauty held an undeniable allure for men; anyone who beheld her would be tempted to conquer her. Having once been a man, Ophelia understood precisely how captivating her own beauty was.

Indeed, she was more than sufficient as an adornment for royalty. Who wouldn’t desire such a wistful, fragile beauty to smile radiantly at them? Who wouldn’t wish to embrace such a woman while surveying their dominion? It was no wonder she had become queen.

Yet, understanding was one thing, and personal preference entirely another. ‘The mere thought of being embraced by a man filled Ophelia with revulsion. She absolutely, unequivocally could not, would not, be possessed by a man!’

Next on her agenda was cultivating the heroine.

The current timeline marked the queen’s death. In the novel, the queen’s demise served as the male protagonist’s entry point into the story. However, with the queen still alive, the protagonist would likely require more time before making his reappearance on the stage.

‘She resolved to use this interim to swiftly nurture the heroine! Then, she could finally go home!’

Her gaze swept around the room, settling on Marta, who lay sleeping beside her.

Marta, seemingly the third heroine, was a Paladin. Having been chosen for the palace at a young age, she had grown disillusioned by the hypocrisy of the nobles, sealing off her heart and transforming into an ice-cold beauty.

In the novel, she was an incredibly popular heroine: golden-haired, with piercing blue eyes, a knight whose demeanor was impeccable, almost ‘cool.’ As an ice-cold beauty, she possessed a plethora of charming contrasts once her defenses were breached, making her a character irresistible to both men and women.

Ophelia even recalled a female netizen raving in the comments section: “Your Highness Marta! Please look at me with those icy eyes as I’m forced to climax by your fingers!”

At the time, Ophelia had found it utterly masochistic, and she doubted Marta would ever do such a thing unless she had truly succumbed to darkness.

As her thoughts drifted, Marta stirred awake. Her blue eyes, initially clouded with confusion, quickly settled into an icy, serene composure.

“Your Majesty, you’re awake?”

Then, she dropped to one knee.

“Forgive your subordinate for inadequate protection. I await Your Majesty’s punishment.”

Her head bowed, she resembled a child caught in a transgression.

Ophelia gazed at the knight before her, whose refined demeanor was striking to an exceptional degree.

‘Punishment was certainly out of the question; with her ‘nurturing value’ still at zero, the priority was to swiftly raise it to one hundred.’

‘But then…’

Ophelia yearned to speak but found herself utterly speechless. The woman before her was simply too beautiful. Ophelia, who used to stammer even when speaking to delivery drivers, now found it impossible to articulate a coherent sentence to this golden-haired beauty, as dazzling as the sun and as frigid as an iceberg.

“I… I…”

‘She wanted to say ‘I forgive you,’ but it felt too cold. She sought other words, yet feared they wouldn’t suit her station. She stammered, unable to find the right way to begin.’

Marta, perplexed, lifted her head.

Within Marta’s exquisite blue eyes, Ophelia saw her own reflection: a face flushed with embarrassment, eyes darting away.

Marta rose to her feet.

“Forgive my presumption, Your Majesty.”

With a posture both gentlemanly and impeccable, she took Ophelia’s hand, then gently guided her onto the bed. One of Marta’s legs slid between Ophelia’s, and she slowly leaned closer.

The scent of her hair wafted over.

Ophe dared not struggle, yet her body inexplicably tingled, as if craving something. Having never been this close to a girl in her previous life, she instinctively squeezed her eyes shut.

Her legs suddenly tightened, clamping around Marta’s leg that was positioned between them.

Then, she felt something cool and smooth press against her forehead.

She opened her eyes, only to see Marta’s long eyelashes, glistening as if with dew. Startled, she quickly shut them again, then, gathering her courage, opened them once more.

Marta’s eyes were closed, her forehead resting against Ophe’s.

“Your Majesty, your body temperature seems abnormal. It appears you require more rest.”

After a moment, Marta opened her eyes and stated earnestly.

Marta’s eyes seemed to possess a magical quality.

Her azure pupils, like tranquil lake waters, and her knightly composure soothed any anxiety. Gazing into those eyes, Ophe finally calmed. She drew a deep breath and managed a faint smile.

“Thank you. I believe I need to go to the courtyard for some fresh air.”

Moonlight bathed the courtyard in a silvery sheen.

A hundred flowers bloomed in profusion.

Ophelia recalled a scene from the novel where the male protagonist praised the captivating flowers. This praise became a pivotal moment, a key that unlocked Marta’s heart, for she had personally cultivated all these blossoms.

They bloomed silently in this secluded corner, much like the heart that blossomed solitary beneath the ice-cold beauty’s distant exterior.

Bearing this in mind, and the ‘nurturing value equals affection’ game mechanic, Ophe plucked a single blossom. She held the flower beneath her nose, then turned to look at Marta, who seemed somewhat surprised.

“Marta, these flowers are truly beautiful and fragrant. Tell me, does the one who cultivates such captivating blossoms not also possess a beautiful soul as enchanting as these very flowers?”