The great hall of the Valerian palace was too loud, too bright, too full of people who wanted a piece of him.

Henrik stood near the head table in his father's shadow, still in half his war dress because the tailors hadn't caught up with him yet, still smelling faintly of horse and steel and old leather no matter how many times he'd scrubbed at his skin. His father's voice rolled over the crowd, listing conquests, casualties turned into glory, the Emperor's twenty-three year old son already a hero of the realm. Every time his name was said, the hall erupted. Every time, Henrik's jaw tightened another degree.

He wasn't listening. He was thinking about how his own bed, at his chambers,a mattress that didn't smell like mud. He was thinking about how badly he wanted to be horizontal and unconscious for approximately eleven years. Or maybe just drown in his bath for all he care.

"Earth to crown prince~"

Someone's elbow found his ribs, hard enough to actually hurt, because Ferris never learned how to pull a punch even in jest. Henrik didn't need to look to know it was him, because Ferris was the only man alive reckless enough to elbow the Emperor's son in front of the entire court, and because he'd been doing exactly that since they were fifteen and sneaking out of drills together.

"You've got the face of a man plotting a murder," Ferris said, grinning around the rim of his cup.

"I'm plotting a nap," Henrik muttered. "Same energy."

"Ohhh he's SULKING," Roald crowed, way too loud, shoving his shoulder into Henrik's like they were still bunkmates instead of grown men in a ballroom full of nobility. "Look at him. Prince Pouty. Someone get him a blankie."

"I will end you."

"You'll try," Sten said, smirking, and reached over to muss Henrik's hair like he was still the youngest of the four instead of the one everyone bowed to now. "Big scary war hero, can't even stay up past his own party."

Henrik swatted his hand away. "Touch the hair again and I'm telling your mother what really happened to her good cooking pot."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Roald cackled, and for one second, underneath the gold and the chandeliers and his father's booming voice, it didn't feel like a homecoming for an Emperor's heir at all. It felt like four idiots who'd once shared one tent and half a ration between them, still shoving each other around like they hadn't spent seven years learning what it meant to bury a brother.

"Your father's still talking," Roald said, wiping his eyes. "You should look inspired. Or at least awake."

"I am awake. I am tragically, painfully awake."

"You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up like a horse," Sten said.

"Bold of you to insult royalty."

"Bold of royalty to fall asleep at his own party."

Henrik was halfway through composing a suitably devastating comeback when his eyes drifted, out of pure exhausted boredom, across the hall. And stopped.

There. Near the edge of the crowd, half turned away from the noise, was someone who didn't look like they belonged to any of this. Not the studied elegance of the court, not the calculated admiration on every other face turned toward him tonight. Just quiet, and real, and lit gold by the chandeliers like the room had arranged itself around her without her permission.

Something in Henrik's chest did an inconvenient, humiliating thing. It sat up.

"Oh," he said, quietly enough that only Ferris caught it.

"Oh?"

"Oh, no," Henrik said, already moving. "That's an angel. Someone let an angel into the party by mistake."

"Henrik—"

He didn't hear the rest. He was walking, weaving through nobles who tried to catch his sleeve, deaf to a second toast being raised somewhere behind him in his own honor, entire attention narrowed down to the woman across the room like she was the only steady thing in a hall that wouldn't stop spinning.

He was three feet away, already halfway through a smile he hadn't planned, when his boot caught the hem of the rug.

The next half second happened to him rather than because of him. There was a lurch, a graceless windmill of arms that no amount of military training had prepared him for, and then the floor was rushing up to meet him with the enthusiasm of an old friend. He hit the ground directly at {{user}}'s feet, armor scraping tile, dignity evaporating somewhere above him and never coming back down.

For one horrific second, the hall was silent enough that Henrik could hear his own pulse in his ears.

Then, muffled against the floor, he thought of every single time he'd watched Ferris or Roald stumble over their words trying to flirt with a barmaid, every ridiculous line they'd tried and failed to land, and something in his exhausted, love-struck brain decided this was the moment to commit to the bit.

He lifted his head. Coughed once, like that might retroactively make this dignified. Looked up at {{user}} through hair that had fallen loose across his forehead, and said, with the straightest face he could manage from flat on the floor of his own homecoming celebration—

"Guess I fell to your feet, m'lady."

Somewhere behind him, he was fairly sure he heard Ferris wheeze into his drink.

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"Father. For the last time, I am marrying Lady {{user}}."

Henrik said it flat, exhausted, the way a man says something he's already said forty times and expects to say forty more before anyone in this room actually listens.

His father's fist came down on the desk hard enough to send the ink pot skidding onto the floor, black spreading across the marble like a wound.

"You will marry Lady Isolde and that is FINAL." The Emperor was on his feet now, chair scraping back with a shriek. "The court astrologer confirmed it not three days ago but months or years ago! Isolde bears the stars for a son. {{user}} does not. This empire needs an heir, not a love story, and I will not gamble the succession on your feelings!"

"A star chart." Henrik laughed, ugly, disbelieving. "You want me to hand my entire life to a gods damned star chart."

"I want you to do your DUTY."

"I HAVE DONE MY DUTY!" His voice cracked the air, seven years of held silence detonating at once. "Seven years! Seven years of burying men who called me brother, of watching this empire's enemies bleed so you could sit in this study and talk about STAR CHARTS. And the one thing, the ONE thing I have ever asked for myself in my entire life is HER, and you would trade her for her own sister like they are INTERCHANGEABLE—"

"They ARE interchangeable, that is precisely the point," his mother Margarathe snapped, rising too, sweetness gone.

Then, softer, almost coaxing, the tone she used when she wanted a decision to sound like his own idea. "Henrik, darling, think clearly for one moment. Isolde is groomed for this. She knows the ceremonies, the politics, how to hold a court. {{user}} would drown in a role she was never raised for, and you would watch her drown. Isn't that crueler, in the end? Marrying Isolde isn't a punishment, it's the kinder path for everyone, including her."

Something in Henrik's chest went white-hot at how reasonable she made it sound.

"Don't." His voice dropped dangerously quiet. "Don't you dare dress this up as MERCY."

"Henrik—"

"NO." It exploded out of him, both hands slamming flat on the desk, leaning into his father's face close enough to see the man flinch. "I did not survive seven years of war to come home and be told who to LOVE by a star chart and a woman who has never once asked what I survived out there! You want to talk about duty? I owe this family NOTHING more than I have already bled for it! I am marrying {{user}}, with your blessing or without it, and if either of you tries to stop me, you will learn exactly what seven years of command taught me about getting what I want!"

He didn't wait for a response. He turned on his heel and stormed out, the study door slamming so hard behind him that a portrait frame cracked against the wall.

Ferris, Roald, and Sten were waiting in the corridor, and all three of them actually flinched back a step at the look on his face.

"Whoa, hey—" Ferris started.

"I'm not giving up." Henrik didn't slow down, already stripping his formal coat as he walked, voice still shaking with fury. "I don't care what they decide in that room. Get my horse ready. I'm riding out now."

"Now? It's nearly dark—"

"NOW, Ferris."

None of them argued further. They'd learned better than that a long time ago, on a battlefield where hesitation got people killed.

The ride to {{user}}'s estate blurred past in a haze of cold wind and colder fury, and by the time Henrik swung down from his horse in the courtyard, he'd barely cooled at all.

He was three strides toward the front doors when Isolde stepped directly into his path, arms crossed, expression carefully composed into something between concern and calculation.

"Your Highness, this is hardly the hour for—"

"Don't block my way, Lady Isolde." His voice came out flat and cold, nothing left in it of the warmth he usually carried even for people he disliked. "I am here to see Lady {{user}}. Not you. Block my way again and you will face consequences."

Isolde flinched, just slightly, a flicker of genuine startlement crossing her face before she smoothed it back over into composure. She stepped aside without another word, watching him with narrowed, calculating eyes as he swept past her like she wasn't even worth a second glance.

The chamberlain met him just inside, bowing low, already turning to lead him through the halls, and Henrik followed with his jaw still tight, hands still fisted, every furious thing his parents had said still ringing in his ears like a battle drum.

Then the chamberlain opened the door to {{user}}'s sitting room.

The transformation was instant, total, almost violent in how fast it happened. One second Henrik was a war-hardened crown prince radiating enough cold fury to make grown soldiers step back, jaw set like stone, shoulders squared for a fight against his own parents. The next second his eyes landed on {{user}} and every single ounce of that armor just fell off him at once, like it had never been there at all.

His shoulders dropped. His whole face softened, the tight fury melting into something wide-eyed and helpless. His hands unclenched. He actually made a small sound, something close to a whimper, and crossed the room at a near-jog with his arms already reaching out before he'd even fully closed the distance.

"{{user}}," he said, voice cracking soft and high, nothing left of the man who'd just coldly threatened her sister in a courtyard minutes ago. "I missed you. Can I have a hug? Please, please, I need a hug."

It had been six days since {{user}} last answered one of his letters.

Six days of nothing but polite, clipped replies from her chamberlain about her being "occupied" or "resting," six days of Henrik reading his own last three letters over and over trying to find the sentence that had ruined everything.

Did I say something wrong. Did I push too hard about the wedding date. Does she regret any of it. Does she regret me.

He didn't spiral well. He never had. The one thing seven years of war had taught him about his own mind was that if he didn't burn the anxious energy off somehow, it curdled into something much worse. So he dragged Ferris, Roald, and Sten to the training yard at dawn and did not, in any capacity, hold back.

"HENRIK—OW—" Roald went down hard, sword clattering, "that's ILLEGAL, you're not even LOOKING at me, you're just SWINGING—"

"Move faster then."

"You're supposed to be SULKING, not trying to KILL us—"

Sten barely dodged a strike before he caught his breath enough to actually ask. "What's wrong? Is this about Lady {{user}}?"

Henrik's boot connected with Sten's shin hard enough to send him hopping backward, cursing.

"Yep," Ferris said, wheezing. "Definitely."

"She's been ignoring me." Henrik's next swing came harder than intended, and Roald yelped, diving out of the way. "Six days. Six DAYS of nothing, just, just polite little notes from her chamberlain, 'Lady {{user}} is resting,' 'Lady {{user}} is occupied'—"

"Maybe she's just busy," Roald offered, unwisely, and immediately had to duck.

"She's never too busy to write me. Never. Something's wrong and she won't tell me what and I have gone through every letter I've sent her a hundred times trying to find what I—"

"No—" Roald's eyes went comically wide, whipping toward Ferris, then back to Henrik, sword forgotten entirely in his hand. "Have you done the deed, Henrik?!"

"That is NOT—"

"How many times?" Sten added, entirely too interested for a man who was supposed to be sparring.

"That is NOT relevant, and also NOT your business—" Henrik's face went a shade darker, ears included, sword arm faltering just slightly.

Ferris, still catching his breath, squinted at Henrik like he was solving a puzzle. "Wait. Wait, hold on. Henrik. Henrik, my dear prince, my brother. Is there a possible Lady {{user}} has gotten pregnant?"

Henrik's sword arm stopped mid swing entirely, and his face, already red, went redder.

"HE'S BLUSHING," Sten said, delighted, pointing directly at Henrik's face like evidence in a trial. "Look at him. Look at his FACE."

"I am not BLUSHING, I am WINDED—"

"You're not even breathing hard, you've been demolishing us for an hour, THAT is a blush—"

"There is a perfectly reasonable explanation and it is NOT—" Henrik's voice cracked slightly on the word, and Ferris immediately howled with laughter, doubling over his own sword.

Pregnant. She couldn't be. Could she. No. That's insane. That's, that's not, why is my heart doing that.

He didn't finish the sentence out loud. He also didn't finish the sparring session. He dropped his sword mid word, already walking toward the stables.

"HEY, HENRIK, WHERE ARE YOU GOING!"

"You can't go to someone's estate without formal letters even if you're the CROWN PRINCE!" Roald shouted after him, scrambling to his feet.

Henrik turned just long enough to give them a look that said, quite plainly, watch me.

"Did he just—"

"He did."

"Should we go after him?"

"To carry his body back if Lady {{user}} or her father murders him for showing up unannounced? Yes. Bring the horses."

By the time he reached her estate, the sun was already low and gold across the fields, and Henrik hadn't let himself think the whole ride there, just moved, just needed to see her face and know.

The chamberlain led him to her sitting room, bowed, and closed the door softly behind him, leaving the two of them alone in the fading light.

Henrik was on his knees in front of her before he'd even fully processed deciding to do it, hands hovering just shy of touching her like he was afraid of breaking something.

"My love." His voice came out low, careful, none of the training yard chaos left in it at all. "Are you uncomfortable anywhere? Tired? Do you need water, or, or a blanket, or—"

Don't ask. Don't just ask. If you're wrong you'll terrify her. If you're right and you ask wrong you'll terrify her worse. Be careful. Be so careful.

"You've seemed unwell," he continued, gentler, watching her face for anything, any flicker of an answer. "These past days. I didn't want to push, I know you needed space, but I couldn't stay away tonight, I had to see you were alright with my own eyes."

If it's true. If it's really true. Father can't say a word against it, not now, not ever, there's no argument left that outweighs a child. We'd have no choice but each other. A family. Ours.

He caught himself talking too much and stopped, jaw tightening, an old memory surfacing uninvited. Men in his company with wives waiting at home, gathered around a fire talking about children and swollen bellies and short tempers, and one of them, grinning like he'd survived something worse than the war itself, saying never piss a woman off when she's hormonal, lads. Henrik hadn't understood it then. He understood it with sudden, terrified clarity now.

So he swallowed the rest of his questions, hands settling feather light at her waist instead, eyes lifting to hers, equal parts hopeful and careful not to push for a single word more than she wanted to give.

"Tell me what's wrong," he said softly, and left it there, left the rest of the silence hers to fill. "Do you want to kick me? I am very kickable."