It had been two days since her youngest son, Raezel, left the halls of Thaimera to live among mortals in Velmor.
Two days since his presence faded from the grand corridors, since Nihaga's silent shadow followed him into exile.
Two days since Medusa last laid eyes on her younger son.
Her palace, vast and untouched by time, remained unchanging.
The golden halls still stood. The towering statues of past victories still loomed. The ever-burning torches still flickered with their enchanted glow.
And yet—everything felt different.
Medusa sat upon her throne, draped in flowing obsidian silk. The serpents in her hair hissed softly, coiling in irritation.
She had known this day would come—Raezel had always been different, always searching for something beyond what his bloodline had given him.
She had accepted it.
She had let him go.
Then why was she so... restless?
Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the carved armrest.
Her golden eyes—once able to petrify kings—now stared, unblinking, into the distance.
A mother's instinct was not so easily silenced.
And worse still—her kingdom had not remained silent either.
***
Nyssa adjusted the sleeves of her midnight-black robes as she walked through the quiet halls of Thaimera.
She didn't care to admit that Raezel's absence affected her.
But it did.
She wasn't sentimental. She didn't wallow in feelings. But she was observant. And what she observed unsettled her.
The palace was uneasy.
The air felt heavier—not with fear, but with something unspoken.
Servants moved with stiff precision. Guards exchanged glances when they thought no one saw. Even the warriors—men who'd charge into divine warzones without hesitation—seemed... restless.
They were all thinking the same thing:
Their younger prince was gone.
And mortals were the ones looking after him.
A flicker of dry amusement curved Nyssa's lips.
Mortals. The very idea was an insult to some.
As she passed the grand dining hall, she noticed a strange stillness.
A gathering.
Or rather, a silent protest.
Caretakers. Cooks. Warriors. Standing, murmuring amongst themselves like wind before a storm.
The moment they noticed her, they straightened. Neutral expressions slid into place.
Nyssa smirked. "Are we holding a rebellion?"
A few servants flinched. But the eldest caretaker, an elderly woman who had served since Nyssa's birth, stepped forward and bowed low.
"Forgive us, Princess Nyssa," she said with aged formality. "But we... we cannot accept this."
Nyssa raised a brow. "Accept what?"
"The prince," another voice cut in—one of the chefs, arms crossed. "He is out there, living among mortals. Eating mortal food. Being cared for by mortal hands."
The horror in his voice would have been hilarious if it weren't so sincere.
A warrior stepped forward—one who had sworn his blade to Medusa's children. "Princess, we do not question Queen Medusa's will," he said solemnly. "But how could she allow our youngest prince to live among those beneath him?"
Another added, "They are weak. What if they cannot protect him?"
The oldest caretaker's voice trembled. "They do not know him. Our prince is reserved. He does not voice his needs. How can mere mortals understand him as we do?"
"And the food," the chef muttered darkly. "What if he is eating something bland?"
Nyssa stared at them.
Then she laughed.
Not cruelly. But sharply enough to make a few servants stiffen.
"Oh, so this is treason by overprotectiveness?" she mused. "How... adorable."
The caretakers looked ashamed. The warriors, indignant. The cooks? Offended by the idea of subpar cuisine.
She folded her arms. "You do realize Raezel chose this?"
Silence.
She sighed. "I won't lie—I don't like it either. But he made his choice. And if there's one thing you all should know—"
Her golden eyes glinted, her smirk sharpening.
"—Medusa's children are not so easily harmed."
A few warriors exchanged glances. Some of the caretakers hesitated.
The chef grumbled, "I still don't trust mortal food."
Nyssa chuckled. "Neither do I."
***
A line of palace staff now stood before Medusa.
Silent.
Still.
Judging.
Medusa—the Queen of Thaimera, the monster-mother of an empire feared across realms—was being silently judged by her own people.
Her fingers tapped against the throne's armrest. Slow. Rhythmic.
She exhaled. "Speak."
The head caretaker stepped forward. Her face was a map of years in service.
"My Queen," she said cautiously, "we... do not doubt you. But we are concerned."
Medusa did not blink. "Concerned."
"Yes, My Queen," a warrior said. "Prince Raezel is strong—but he is still our prince. And yet, he is out there—"
"—Among mortals," the chef finished bitterly.
Medusa's serpents stirred, sensing her faint amusement.
They spoke as if she'd tossed Raezel into the wild like an unwanted heir.
As if Raezel—her son, who could unmake kings with a whisper—was some helpless fledgling lost among wolves.
The absurdity of it almost made her smile.
Almost.
"And what," she said slowly, her voice a velvet blade, "would you have me do?"
The room tensed.
No one dared to say it aloud. None would dare defy Raezel's will. But their silence reeked of unspoken desperation.
Medusa sighed, rubbing her temple with fingers that had once gripped divine throats.
"He will return when he wishes."
A quiet voice rose from the back. "But what if he doesn't?"
Her eyes flickered with something dangerous. Ancient.
Something terrible.
"Then I shall make the heavens remember what it means to steal from Medusa—again."
But she did not say it.
Because saying it would make it real—and she still hoped she wouldn't have to.
Instead, she exhaled again. "If he does not return soon, I imagine some of you will pass out from sheer agony."
Several warriors actually nodded in grim agreement.
Medusa closed her eyes.
The Queen of Monsters, undone not by blade or betrayal—but by a child's silence.