The King at Work 👑

The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the king's private study, casting long golden rectangles across the sprawling mess of papers, maps, and ledgers that covered every available surface. Alphonse sat at the head of the large oak table, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, a pen in his hand, and a distinct air of a man who had been staring at trade routes for far too long. His crown sat on a nearby cushion, abandoned as usual, and his dirty-blond hair was slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it.

"I have officially decided," he announced, setting his pen down with a decisive click, "that Valeronne's grain surplus is the most boring thing I have ever been required to think about. And I once sat through a three-hour lecture on the history of gutter maintenance."

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long arms above his head with a groan that was only partially theatrical. His ice-blue eyes flicked across the table to where she sat, similarly surrounded by documents, and a grin spread across his sharp features.

"You know what I think? I think someone in the treasury is doing this on purpose. I think they're testing me. 'Let's see how much paperwork the king can endure before he starts signing things with a drawing of a duck.'" He picked up a blank parchment and held his pen over it, wiggling his eyebrows. "I'm very close to testing that theory, I'll have you know."

The tension in his shoulders eased as he watched her, genuinely enjoying the shared absurdity of the situation. He gestured vaguely at the mountain of work between them.

"We've been at this for hours. I've written so many words my hand has forgotten how to form letters. If I have to approve one more tax exemption for a noble who doesn't need it, I'm going to invent a new form of taxation just to make him pay for the paper I wasted."

A booming laugh escaped him, genuine and warm, filling the room. He dropped his head back, grinning at the ceiling, then looked back at her with a playful glint in his eyes.

"Tell me I'm not alone in this. Tell me you're also contemplating throwing all of this out the window and declaring that we solve the kingdom's problems with a series of arm-wrestling matches instead. I think I'd be very good at that. I'm very strong." He flexed his arm with exaggerated pride, still laughing.

This is good, he thought, watching her. This is what makes it bearable. She gets it. She always gets it.

The door to the study opened without a knock.

Helena swept in, her expression pinched and her eyes sharp. She was dressed beautifully, as always, but her lips were pressed into a thin line. She stopped just inside the doorway, her gaze flicking from Alphonse's relaxed posture, to his rolled sleeves, to the papers between them, and finally to the queen.

"Alphonse," she said, her voice carrying a distinct note of grievance. "I've been waiting. You said you'd join me for tea over an hour ago."

The warmth in Alphonse's expression dimmed slightly, not to coldness, but to something more guarded. He straightened in his chair, the playful king momentarily giving way to the man who had to manage expectations.

"Helena," he said, his voice still pleasant but with a layer of courtesy that hadn't been there a moment ago. "I apologize. The council's reports are demanding. I'm afraid they don't wait for tea."

Helena's eyes flicked to the queen again, a flash of something sharp and possessive crossing her face before she smoothed it into a look of wounded patience.

"Of course," she said, her tone carefully sweet, "but I thought we had an understanding. I did wait, Alphonse. Quite patiently. And I found myself wondering if perhaps you'd simply... forgotten."

Her gaze lingered on the queen just a beat too long, an unspoken question in the air.

Here it comes, Alphonse thought, the familiar weight settling in his chest. He kept his smile in place, but his eyes had turned a shade more careful.

"I haven't forgotten," he said evenly. "I'm just occupied. Would you like to sit? We can talk while we finish."

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The Balcony After Dark 🌙

The night air carried the scent of rain from earlier in the evening, cool and clean against the stone of the palace walls. The queen's balcony overlooked the eastern gardens, where the hedges had been trimmed into neat geometric shapes that were barely visible now in the darkness. Lanterns glowed faintly along the gravel paths below, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called out across the stillness.

It was late. The kind of late that blurred the edges of the day into something soft and forgiving, when the weight of the crown felt a little less heavy and the endless demands of court receded into the background. The queen stood at the wrought-iron railing, her hands resting lightly on the cool metal, her face tilted toward the open sky. The air was fresh, tinged with the green scent of the gardens and the faint smoke of distant hearths. It was peaceful. Quiet. The kind of moment she might have kept entirely to herself.

Except for the voice drifting over from the balcony beside hers.

"—and I swear to you, the man spent forty minutes explaining why the western road needs repairs using a diagram he'd drawn on a napkin. A napkin. Which he then handed to me as though it were a royal decree. I've still got it somewhere. I'm thinking of framing it. 'The Napkin Report.' It'll be a family heirloom."

Alphonse was leaning against the railing of his own balcony, close enough that if either of them reached out, their hands might have brushed. His tunic was loose, unlaced at the collar, and his hair was still faintly damp from washing his face. He held a goblet of wine loosely in one hand, gesturing with it as he spoke, his deep voice carrying easily across the small gap between their balconies.

"And the best part," he continued, clearly in the middle of a story he had no intention of abandoning, "is that after all of that—the napkin, the diagram, the forty minutes of my life I will never get back—he asked if I wanted to hear his thoughts on the eastern road. As if I hadn't already aged ten years listening to his thoughts on the western one."

He laughed, a warm, rumbling sound that seemed to echo off the stone.

I don't even remember coming out here, he thought, glancing over at her. I just... ended up here. Like always.

These moments had a way of happening without planning. He never set out to find her on the balcony. He never thought, Tonight I'll go talk to my wife until the stars fade. It simply happened. A door left open. A restless night. A glance across the adjoining rooms and then, somehow, he was on his balcony and she was on hers, and the conversation had already started before either of them remembered to greet each other properly.

It was easy. That was the thing. It was so easy that he didn't notice how much he'd said until he'd already said it.

"—and then there was the Norwood delegation. You remember the Norwood delegation. The one with the ambassador who kept calling me 'the Boy King' even though I've been on the throne for six years. Six years. I've aged a decade in six years. My father had fewer grey hairs at forty than I have at twenty-nine, and I blame the Norwood ambassador entirely."

He took a sip of his wine, then held the goblet out over the railing, offering it across the gap between their balconies in a gesture that had become habit over the years. Sometimes it was wine. Sometimes it was a piece of bread he'd stolen from the kitchen. Once it had been a small, ridiculous wooden duck he'd carved badly during a council meeting and thought she'd find funny. She had. He still remembered her laugh.

I talk too much when I'm tired, he thought, but the thought didn't bother him. It never did. Not with her. With anyone else, he was careful. Measured. The king, always. But here, on the balcony, in the dark, with the gardens stretching out below and the stars overhead, he was just... Alphonse. The one who talked too much and laughed too loud and handed over his wine without thinking about it.

"The thing is," he said, his voice dropping into something more thoughtful, less theatrical, "I don't even mind the paperwork. Or the ambassadors. Or the napkin diagrams. I just—" He paused, looking out over the gardens. "I just wish someone had told me how much of ruling is waiting. Waiting for reports. Waiting for delegations. Waiting for the treasury to finish counting grain. If I'd known, I'd have brought a book. Or learned to juggle. Something."

He glanced at her then, his ice-blue eyes catching the lamplight, and grinned. It was a tired grin, but genuine.

"You'd tell me if I was being boring, wouldn't you? You're the only one who would. Everyone else just nods and pretends to listen. You'd throw something at me."

He leaned his elbows on the railing, settling into the comfortable slouch of a man who had nowhere else to be and no one else to be with. The night stretched out around them, quiet and unhurried, and Alphonse found himself thinking—not for the first time—that this was the best part of his day.

I should go to bed, he thought. I have a council meeting at dawn.

He didn't move.

"Did you know," he said, his voice slipping back into the easy rhythm of storytelling, "that Alois has a theory that the western road is cursed? He told me this afternoon. Kept a straight face the entire time. Something about a bad harvest thirty years ago and a priest who tripped over a chicken. I couldn't tell if he was serious or if he was just trying to see how long I'd listen before I realized he was making it up."

He held the goblet out again, offering it across the gap, the wine catching the moonlight.

"It's good wine," he said. "One of the vineyards sent it as a gift. I think. I didn't actually read the card."

Painted in Red & Gold ❤️

The royal dressing chamber was already busy by the time the last details of the evening reception were being settled. Servants moved with practiced efficiency between racks of clothing and trays of jewelry, and the air carried the faint scent of pressed linen and beeswax from the polished furniture. Evening light slanted through the tall windows, catching on gold thread and polished gemstones, and the whole room hummed with the quiet urgency of people who knew that a royal reception waited for no one.

Patricia Bellamy, Alphonse's lady-in-waiting and one of the few people at court who had known him since childhood, stood behind him with the patience of a woman who had spent twenty-nine years correcting the same man's habits. She adjusted his collar, stepped back, frowned, and adjusted it again.

"Stop moving," she said, her voice laden with the authority of long habit.

"I'm not moving."

"You are breathing like a man who intends to make my job difficult."

Alphonse laughed, a low, warm sound that filled the corner of the room. At twenty-nine, King Alphonse D'Artagnan had somehow retained the particular ability to look completely at home in a room full of attendants despite being the person everyone was dressing. He was already wearing Valeronne's colors: deep royal red worked with gold embroidery, the cut formal enough for court but still unmistakably his. The tunic sat easily on his broad shoulders, and the gold thread caught the light whenever he shifted. Patricia had spent most of his life telling him to stand still, eat properly, sleep more, and stop treating expensive clothing as though it were indestructible. He listened to her more often than he admitted.

She's not wrong, he thought, watching her fuss with the same collar she'd adjusted three times already. But if I stand any stiller, I'll fall asleep standing up, and then she'll really have something to complain about.

Across the chamber, Hilda Goneril was making a much less serious affair of the Queen's preparations. As the Queen's lady-in-waiting, Hilda had become comfortable enough with her position to develop a distinctly girlish rapport with her mistress. She was all bright commentary, dramatic expressions, gossip, and the occasional piece of surprisingly sharp political insight disguised as nonsense. She had been circling the Queen's gown for the past several minutes, admiring the embroidery with the open delight of someone who genuinely loved beautiful things.

The dress was unmistakably Valeronne. Rich red fabric fell in clean, elegant layers, the colour deepening toward crimson where the folds caught the light. Gold embroidery traced the neckline and waist, with finer threadwork worked into the sleeves and hem. It was regal without being stiff, expensive without looking burdened by jewels. When she moved, the fabric caught the light in a way that made the gold seem almost liquid.

Beside Alphonse, the effect was almost absurdly cohesive. They looked like the King and Queen of Valeronne. Not merely two people who happened to occupy the same throne, but a matched set—institutional, unified, and quietly commanding.

Hilda noticed it immediately.

"Oh, this is unfair."

Patricia glanced over. "What is?"

"They match."

Alphonse looked toward the Queen. His expression changed at once—not dramatically, but completely. He simply stopped listening to Patricia. His gaze travelled over the red and gold of her gown, lingering on the embroidery before returning to her face. A pleased smile pulled at his mouth, genuine and unguarded.

"You look beautiful."

Hilda gave him a look. "Very diplomatic."

"I wasn't being diplomatic."

"Worse. You're being sincere."

Alphonse grinned, but he didn't look away from the Queen. She does look beautiful, he thought, the observation settling into him with the ease of something he didn't need to examine. She always does. But tonight—

He didn't finish the thought. Patricia tugged at his sleeve, and he let the moment pass.

"There," Patricia said, giving a final tug to the gold fastening at his shoulder. "Presentable."

"Was I not presentable before?"

"You were dressed."

"That isn't the same thing."

"Exactly."

Alphonse shook his head, smiling, and turned back toward the Queen. Near the table, Benedict Ashcombe had been quietly overseeing the household preparations. He was a young steward in the Queen's household, responsible for the practical business that kept the royal residence functioning: supplies, arrangements, servants, furnishings, deliveries, and the endless small details that somehow became emergencies if nobody noticed them in time. He was also, unfortunately for himself, rather easy to fluster around the Queen.

A small tea tray sat beside him.

"I had fresh tea brought up," Benedict said. "The kitchen also sent fruit, although I asked them to keep the sweeter varieties separate because I remembered you preferred—"

He stopped. His cheeks coloured.

"—because I remembered the household preference."

Hilda's mouth twitched. "Of course."

Benedict ignored her, fussing with the tea service despite there being nothing wrong with it. "And the reception hall has been checked. The musicians arrived half an hour ago, the eastern gallery has been cleared, and Lord Merrow's delegation has already entered through the south court. The tea is still warm. I checked."

"Twice," Hilda said.

Benedict glanced at her. "Three times."

"Ah."

He looked as though he regretted admitting it. Alphonse laughed under his breath. "You're going to wear a hole through that tray."

"I'd rather discover the tray had a hole before the Queen did."

Hilda leaned toward the Queen, lowering her voice. "He's very useful."

Benedict heard her. "I am standing right here."

"I know."

For a moment, the chamber settled into something almost comfortable. Servants moved around them. Gold caught against red whenever either royal figure shifted. Hilda adjusted one final detail at the Queen's sleeve. Benedict checked the time and then, apparently dissatisfied with the time itself, checked it again.

Then the door opened.

Helena Rochefort entered in a gown of soft rose pink, the colour deepening toward dusty rose along the skirts. Gold thread picked out delicate patterns across the bodice and sleeves, and her jewellery had been chosen with care—rubies at her throat and ears, a delicate bracelet at her wrist. She looked beautiful. She always did. The gown was expensive, finely made, and undeniably elegant.

But the difference was impossible to miss.

She wore pink. The King and Queen wore Valeronne.

Helena's eyes moved across the room. First to Alphonse. Then to the Queen. Then back to Alphonse. Something tightened around her mouth. She had not expected the sight to bother her as much as it did. The red and gold made the two of them look unified in a way that had nothing to do with affection or romance. It was political. Institutional. The colours of the crown belonged to them both now, and they looked as though they had been designed to stand beside each other.

Helena smiled anyway.

"I see I'm late."

"Only by a few minutes," Alphonse said. His tone was easy.

Helena's gaze returned to the Queen's gown. "You both look very..." She paused. "Appropriate."

Hilda's eyebrows rose. Benedict suddenly became fascinated by the tea. Alphonse, thankfully, did not take the bait. "Thank you."

Helena's smile tightened. "It is rather difficult not to notice."

Alphonse looked at her. "Notice what?"

She gestured vaguely toward the Queen. "Nothing."

Patricia made the smallest possible sound of disapproval. Alphonse knew that sound. "Helena."

She exhaled. "I simply find it amusing."

"What?"

"That I am apparently expected to attend a royal reception dressed like a guest while the two of you look as though you were painted together for a royal portrait."

Silence settled briefly over the room. Hilda looked at the ceiling. Benedict remained very still. Alphonse's expression lost some of its amusement, but not its warmth. There it is, he thought, the familiar weight settling in his chest. Not the dress. Never just the dress.

"You're dressed beautifully," he said.

Helena looked down at herself. "Pink."

"Yes."

"And she's wearing the colours of Valeronne."

"She's the Queen."

The answer was simple. That seemed to make it worse. Helena looked back at the Queen, then at Alphonse. Her eyes had begun to glisten, and her voice, when it came, cracked at the edges. "I know what she is."

Alphonse held her gaze. "Then what exactly were you expecting?"

Helena did not answer. Her lower lip trembled, and she pressed a hand to her chest as though the weight of the moment had settled physically against her ribs. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller, thinner, stripped of its earlier sharpness.

"I just wanted to feel beautiful, Alphonse."

The words hung in the air, raw and pleading. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and she looked at him with the desperate sincerity of someone who believed that if she could only make him understand, everything would change. This, she seemed to say without words, this is what I'm asking for. Not a dress. Not a color. Just to feel like I matter.

Alphonse's expression flickered—something between recognition and weariness. He opened his mouth to respond, but the pause that followed was long enough for the silence to stretch, for the room to wait, for anyone standing in it to step into the gap if they chose.

One Little Thing 🌹

The private chamber Alphonse used for his more personal affairs was cluttered with evidence of careful, deliberate planning. Swatches of fabric in Helena's favorite shade of rose lay draped over the back of a chair. A list of her preferred wines, written in his own hand, sat beside sketches of floral arrangements. A small velvet box rested at the edge of the desk, containing a brooch he'd commissioned months ago—a delicate thing of pearls and rose gold that he'd thought she would love.

Alphonse stood over the table, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a smudge of ink on his thumb from the menu he'd been revising. He'd spent the better part of the morning arranging everything himself, bypassing the usual stewards and servants. He wanted it to feel personal. He wanted her to know he'd thought of every detail.

She'll like this, he thought, a small smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted the placement of a small crystal vase. She always says I don't plan things for her anymore.

The door opened without warning, and Helena swept in, her expression thunderous. She held a crumpled parchment in her hand, and her eyes were bright with indignation.

"Alphonse," she said, her voice sharp and clipped. "I need to speak with you. Immediately."

He straightened, the smile fading from his face. He moved instinctively, his hand brushing the edge of the menu he'd been working on, sliding it beneath a stack of other papers. The gesture was smooth, practiced, almost unconscious.

"What's happened?" he asked, his voice even.

"The treasury," she said, waving the parchment in her hand. "They've rejected my proposal for the birthday ball. They say it's too extravagant. They say the budget is 'unreasonable.'" She laughed, a bitter, incredulous sound. "I am your concubine, Alphonse. I am not some minor noble's daughter. I deserve a celebration that reflects my standing."

She began pacing, her voice rising as she listed the indignities. The hall she'd requested was too grand, the number of guests too many, the decorations too costly. She spoke of crystal chandeliers and imported flowers and a feast that would be talked about for years.

Alphonse listened. His expression remained calm, but something in his eyes shifted—a quiet settling, like ash after a fire. He watched her move, watched her gesticulate, watched the way she didn't notice the small rose-colored swatches of fabric peeking out from beneath the papers on his desk.

This is how it's always been, he thought. The realization wasn't painful. It was simply... recognition. A quiet acknowledgment of a pattern he'd allowed himself not to see.

"You know," he said, his voice measured, "we don't have to do all of this. A smaller celebration can be just as meaningful. More intimate."

Helena stopped pacing, her eyes narrowing. "Meaningful?" she repeated, her tone incredulous. "Alphonse, the queen had a grand ball for her birthday. The entire court was there. There were dancers from the eastern provinces. The feast lasted until dawn." She pressed a hand to her chest, her voice trembling with wounded pride. "I don't ask for much. I really don't. But I ask for this one thing, and I'm told I'm being unreasonable?"

Alphonse opened his mouth to respond, but the door opened again.

The queen entered, a ledger tucked under her arm, her expression focused on whatever matter she'd come to discuss. She paused at the threshold, taking in the scene: Helena's flushed face, Alphonse's carefully neutral expression, the papers scattered across the desk.

Alphonse looked at her. Then, almost impulsively, a glint of something—mischief? strategy? resignation?—flickered in his ice-blue eyes.

"Ah," he said, his voice carrying a note of false lightness. "Helena, I think this is perfect timing. Perhaps you could coordinate your proposal with my wife." He gestured between them. "Work together. I'm sure she'll have valuable insight."

Helena's face went through a series of rapid, barely concealed transformations—surprise, then disbelief, then a flash of pure, undiluted outrage that she quickly smothered into something resembling composure. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, and the color drained from her cheeks before rushing back in an angry flush. For a moment, she looked as though she'd swallowed something sour, her eyes darting between Alphonse and the queen with barely contained venom.

"With... her?" Helena managed, her voice strained. The word came out like a slap.

Alphonse met her gaze evenly, his expression pleasant but his eyes carrying a quiet finality.

"Yes," he said simply. "With the queen."

After Midnight 🍷

The air in the King's office was thick with parchment dust and the faint scent of ink. Lamps burned low, casting long shadows across the massive oak table littered with scrolls, ledgers, and half-empty wine glasses. Alois Rangeld, the royal treasurer, let out a groan that seemed to originate from the depths of his soul as he slumped back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

"I swear," he muttered, his usually jovial voice strained with fatigue. "If I have to look at one more column of tax revenue from the southern barley harvest, I'm going to start calculating how many barrels of ale it would take to drown myself. And I'm not talking cheap ale, either. The good stuff."

Alphonse, seated at the head of the table with his sleeves rolled up and his crown discarded on a side table, didn't look up from the dispatch he was reading. His ice-blue eyes scanned the lines, a faint frown of concentration on his face. "You'd need at least twelve from the royal reserves," he said absently, his deep voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "And Patricia would charge you for them."

At the mention of her name, Patricia Bellamy, the king's lady-in-waiting, entered with a tray bearing a fresh pot of tea, a plate of cold meat and cheese, and several slices of dark bread. She set it down on a clear corner of the table with a practiced thump that made the nearest scrolls tremble.

"Charging him would imply he had the coin to begin with," Patricia said, her tone dry as dust. She began distributing the food, her movements efficient and unimpressed by the late hour or the royal company. "Which, given the state of the treasury reports he's been moaning about for the last three hours, seems optimistic. Eat. Both of you. You're starting to look like the ghosts of bad decisions past."

Rodrigue Fraldarius, the royal chancellor, sat opposite Alphonse, his aged fingers steepled before him. He hadn't spoken much in the last hour, his sharp eyes watching the king work. Now, he accepted a cup of tea from Patricia with a nod of thanks. "The ghosts of bad decisions past would at least have the decency to be quiet," he remarked, taking a sip. "Unlike some of us."

Alois perked up at the food, grabbing a slice of cheese. "Quiet? Me? Never. My wife says my voice is what keeps the house from feeling empty. That, and my terrible jokes." He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Speaking of wives... gods, I miss mine. She's probably asleep right now, warm in our bed, not thinking about grain tariffs or disputed border tolls. The woman has the right idea."

Patricia, leaning against the sideboard after serving, crossed her arms. "Your wife is a saint for putting up with you, Alois. And your jokes."

"That she is," Alois agreed, utterly sincere. He turned his gaze to Alphonse. "What about you, Your Majesty? Don't you ever just want to... I don't know, leave all this and go find your queen? Just... be done with it for the night?"

Alphonse finally looked up, setting the dispatch aside. He leaned back, the heavy chair creaking under his weight. He ran a hand through his disheveled dirty-blond hair. A complicated, tired expression flickered across his face—a mix of fondness, duty, and something quieter, more private.

"She's likely still up," he said, his voice softer now. "Her office light was on when I passed an hour ago. She's probably neck-deep in her own correspondence. We have that in common." He picked up a piece of bread, tearing it idly. "And no, I can't just be 'done with it.' Not until this is sorted."

Rodrigue watched him carefully. "Your father would have delegated this particular mess and gone to bed."

"My father," Alphonse said, a trace of something sharp—not quite bitterness, but close—edging his tone, "had twenty more years of experience and a chancellor who wasn't on the verge of falling asleep in his tea." He shot Rodrigue a look that was half challenge, half affectionate needling.

Rodrigue didn't flinch. "He also knew the value of a clear head in the morning. And a happy household."

The unspoken word household seemed to hang in the air, encompassing more than just the palace. Patricia broke the slight tension by turning her attention to the room's other occupant. Orias March, Captain of the Royal Guard, stood like a statue of grim endurance near the door, his massive arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't touched the food, his pale blue eyes fixed on some middle distance, watching the shadows in the hallway as much as the room.

"What about you, Orias?" Patricia asked, her bluntness leaving no room for evasion. "When are you going to find someone to go home to? Or do you plan on standing guard outside this office until you fossilize?"

Orias's gaze slid to her, unamused. "My job is here," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Not in some bed."

"Oh, come now," Alois chimed in, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes despite his exhaustion. "Even a hardened captain of the guard must get lonely. All that brooding and sharpening swords... it's not a full life, is it? You need someone to come home to, someone to share your... unique charm with."

Orias's jaw tightened. "I don't brood."

"You absolutely brood," Alphonse interjected, a faint, tired smile touching his lips. "You're brooding right now. It's your default state. 'Brooding Captain Orias, Terror of the Court and Scourge of Small Talk.'"

"I'm working," Orias ground out.

"Working on your glower," Alois said, grinning. "It's very impressive. But a wife would tell you to stop. My wife tells me to stop making jokes at least twice a day. It's a sign of affection."

"I don't want a wife," Orias stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Patricia snorted. "What do you want, then? To die alone in your armor? Very romantic. Very tragic. The balladeers would love it."

Orias's eyes flickered, just for a second, toward the general direction of the Queen's offices. It was a minuscule movement, gone almost before it registered. His expression didn't change. "I want a quiet night without idiots asking me about my personal life," he said flatly. "Seems I'm not getting that either."

Rodrigue, observing the exchange with his usual detached acuity, took another sip of tea. "The question is not entirely without merit, Captain. Stability in one's personal life often lends stability to one's professional duties. Arthur always said—"

"Arthur," Alphonse interrupted, his voice regaining its kingly timbre, cutting through the room, "is not here. And my captain's personal life is his own business." He said it firmly, but not unkindly. It was a dismissal of the topic, a shield thrown up—not necessarily for Orias's benefit, but to stop a conversation that was veering into uncomfortable territories.

Silence descended again, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Alois looked slightly chastened. Patricia simply raised an eyebrow at Alphonse, a silent communication decades in the making that said, Fine. But you're not fooling anyone. Orias gave a single, barely perceptible nod of thanks in the king's direction, then resumed his watchful stance, his face an unreadable mask of stone in the lamplight.

Alphonse picked up his quill again, the moment passing. "Now," he said, focusing back on the parchment before him. "Where were we? Ah, yes. The disputed border tolls. Alois, stop dreaming of your wife and explain this discrepancy in the Eastern Reach figures again. And try to do it without mentioning her, your children, or your dog this time."

The door to the king's office opened not with a servant's quiet deference, but with a soft, deliberate push. Helena Rochefort stood in the doorway, backlit by the torchlight in the corridor. She wore a dressing gown of deep blue silk, her hair loosely braided over one shoulder. The sweet, cloying scent of her preferred perfume—jasmine and vanilla—drifted into the room, cutting through the smell of ink and old paper.

Her expression was one of gentle concern, her eyes finding Alphonse immediately. She ignored the other occupants of the room as if they were furniture.

"Alphonse," she said, her voice a soft, melodic chide. "It's past the hour even the owls have given up. You'll ruin your eyes in this gloom, and then what good will you be to anyone tomorrow?"

She stepped inside, her slippered feet silent on the stone floor. Her gaze swept over the cluttered table, the exhausted faces, and lingered for a fraction of a second on Orias, whose posture had gone, if possible, even more rigid. A flicker of something—disdain, perhaps—passed through her eyes before she fixed her attention back on the king.

"Come to bed," she urged, moving around the table to stand beside his chair. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch possessive. "You've done enough for one night. The kingdom won't collapse if its king gets a few hours of proper sleep."

Alphonse had gone still the moment the door opened. Now, under her touch, he felt a familiar tension settle in his shoulders—a tension that had nothing to do with the border tolls. He didn't look up at her immediately, his eyes fixed on the parchment before him. The lamplight caught the sharp line of his jaw, clenched tight.

"Helena," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I'm in the middle of something."

"You're always in the middle of something," she sighed, her fingers giving his shoulder a light squeeze. "But even kings need rest. I've had your bed warmed. You'll think clearer after you've slept."

Alois shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly very interested in a loose thread on his sleeve. Patricia's lips had thinned into a tight line. Rodrigue set his teacup down with a precise click, his aged face impassive. Orias's gaze was fixed on a point on the far wall, his expression carved from granite. Only the slight flare of his nostrils betrayed his reaction to the interruption, to her perfume, to the intimate claim in her words and touch.

Alphonse finally lifted his head, looking up at Helena. The lamplight softened the usual sharpness of his ice-blue eyes, but there was no warmth in them now, only a weary resolve. "I said I'm in the middle of it. This can't wait until morning. Go back to your rooms. I'll... I'll be along when I'm finished."

He said the last part like a concession, an old habit. The words your rooms hung in the air, a subtle, deliberate correction.

Helena's sweet smile didn't waver, but her eyes hardened just a degree. She leaned down closer, her voice dropping to a murmur meant only for him, though in the quiet room, it carried. "You work too hard. Let these men handle the details. That's what they're for. Come. Let me take care of you."

Her hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, a familiar, claiming gesture. Alphonse's breath caught—a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch. He didn't pull away, but his body went taut under her touch. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked, for a moment, terribly young and terribly tired, caught between a public duty and a private, complicated history.

From his post by the door, Orias shifted his weight. The slight scrape of his boot heel on stone was loud in the silence. He didn't speak, didn't look at the king or the concubine. But his presence there, a wall of silent, disapproving vigilance, was suddenly a palpable force in the room.

Patricia was the one who broke the strained quiet. She moved forward, her steps brisk, and began clearing the empty teacups with a clatter that was just a shade too loud. "The king has work," she stated, her voice flat and final. "His bed can wait."

Helena's gaze snapped to Patricia, the sweetness evaporating from her expression like mist. "I was speaking to Alphonse," she said, her voice cool.

"And I'm speaking to the room," Patricia retorted, not looking at her. "Alois, Rodrigue—unless you've developed a sudden passion for night auditing, you should retire. Orias, you're relieved. His Majesty is perfectly safe behind a locked door with his paperwork."

It was a clear, brutal dismissal. Alois practically jumped from his chair, relief washing over his face. "Right! Yes. Of course. Goodnight, Your Majesty. Lady Helena." He scurried out, giving Orias a wide berth. Rodrigue rose more slowly, his movements stiff with age and lingering disapproval. He bowed his head slightly to Alphonse.

"We will reconvene after breakfast, sire. A fresh perspective may serve us better." His eyes, sharp and knowing, lingered on Alphonse for a beat too long before he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.

That left the four of them: Alphonse still seated, Helena standing possessively behind him, Patricia clearing the table with aggressive efficiency, and Orias, who hadn't moved an inch from his post.

"Captain," Patricia said, stacking plates. "You heard me. You're relieved."

Orias's eyes, pale and glacial, shifted from the wall to Helena's hand, which still rested on Alphonse's neck. Then they moved to Alphonse's face. He didn't acknowledge Patricia's order. He was waiting for the king's.

Alphonse finally moved. He reached up, his own hand covering Helena's, and gently, firmly, removed it from his person. He didn't let go immediately, just held her hand in his for a moment, his thumb brushing over her knuckles—an old, familiar gesture that now felt like a ritual performed by rote.

"Patricia's right," he said, his voice low. He released Helena's hand. "Go back to your rooms, Helena. I'll finish this. I'll... I'll see you tomorrow."

The dismissal was gentle, but it was a dismissal nonetheless. Helena's smile was gone now, replaced by a tight, wounded line. She looked from Alphonse to Patricia's rigid back, then to Orias's impassive stare. The air hummed with her silent fury.

"Very well," she said, her voice clipped and cold. "Don't stay up too late. You look exhausted." She turned on her heel, the silk of her dressing gown whispering against the stone. She paused at the door, glancing back, her eyes seeking one last connection, one last victory. "My door is always open for you. You know that."

Then she was gone, the scent of jasmine lingering like a ghost.

The moment the door shut, Alphonse slumped forward, elbows on the table, dragging his hands down his face. A long, weary sigh escaped him. Patricia stopped her noisy cleaning. She walked over, placed a hand briefly on his shoulder—a touch that was practical, not possessive.

"Eat the damned food, Alphonse," she muttered, then turned and left without another word, the tray in her arms.

Now it was just the king and his captain.

Alphonse didn't look up. "You too, Orias. Go. Get some rest."

Orias didn't move. "Do you want me to go?"

Alphonse lifted his head, his eyes shadowed. "I just said—"

"I heard what you said," Orias interrupted, his voice a low rumble. "I'm asking if you want me to go. Or if you'd rather have someone here who isn't going to ask you to come to bed."

The bluntness of it, the sheer, unvarnished understanding, hung between them. Alphonse stared at him, his defenses momentarily stripped away by fatigue and the night's tensions. He looked, for a second, utterly exposed. He didn't answer. He just looked back down at the parchment, his fingers tightening around his quill.

He knows, Alphonse thought, the realization settling into him with a dull, familiar weight. Of course he knows. He's been standing there all night.

Orias took that as answer enough. He shifted his stance, settling back against the wall by the door, a silent, immovable sentinel. He crossed his arms again, his gaze returning to the empty corridor outside, standing guard over a king who was, for tonight, determined to be alone with his work.

The Boy King ⚔️

The Great Hall of Valeronne was alive with the hum of conversation and the soft strains of a string quartet tucked into the gallery above. Candles burned in every sconce, casting a warm, golden glow over the assembled nobility, foreign dignitaries, and their attendants. The long tables had been cleared after the feast, replaced by smaller clusters of chairs and standing groups where wine flowed freely and alliances were forged in quiet murmurs.

Alphonse stood near the center of the hall, his deep blue tunic embroidered with silver thread catching the candlelight. He had been holding court for nearly three hours now, moving from group to group with the easy, practiced charm that had become his hallmark as king. He laughed at the right moments. He asked the right questions. He remembered names, titles, the small personal details that made people feel seen.

But his head was beginning to ache.

Just a few more hours, he told himself, accepting a goblet of wine from a passing servant. You've done this before. You'll do it again. Just keep moving.

Across the hall, he caught glimpses of his wife—the queen—surrounded by a cluster of nobles and foreign delegates. She was handling them with the same grace she always did, her composure unshaken, her smile perfectly calibrated. A diplomat from the northern provinces was speaking animatedly to her, gesturing with both hands, and she nodded along with the kind of focused attention that made people feel important.

She's better at this than I am, Alphonse thought, not for the first time. She makes it look effortless.

He turned back to the group before him—a cluster of minor lords from the eastern reaches—and forced his attention back to their conversation about grain tariffs. Or was it border disputes? He'd lost track somewhere between the second and third goblet of wine.

And then he heard it.

"—the Boy King of Valeronne. Can you believe it? Six years on the throne and he still—"

The voice came from somewhere behind him, low enough that it might have been meant only for the speaker's companion. But Alphonse heard it. His shoulders tensed, a fraction of an inch, before he forced them to relax. He kept his expression pleasant, his eyes fixed on the lord before him who was still droning on about something.

Ignore it, he told himself. You've heard worse. You've heard it a hundred times. It doesn't matter.

But his heart was pulsing now, a heavy, uncomfortable rhythm against his ribs. His head throbbed. He took a slow breath, then another, and smiled at the lord who was waiting for a response.

"Forgive me," he said, his voice steady. "You were saying something about the eastern road?"

Near the wall, Orias March stood like a statue carved from granite. His pale blue eyes had tracked the voice the moment it spoke, and his expression had hardened into something cold and watchful. He didn't move, didn't speak, but his presence was a silent warning—a reminder that the King of Valeronne was not without defenders.

Alphonse was about to continue, to bury the insult under another layer of kingly performance, when a voice cut through the hall like a knife.

"Who said that?"

The room went quiet. Conversations faltered. Heads turned.

Helena Rochefort stood near the edge of the crowd, her rose-pink gown catching the candlelight, her face flushed with indignation. She was staring at a man near the refreshment table—a middle-aged lord with a goblet in his hand and a look of mild alarm on his face.

"Who called the King a boy?" Helena demanded, her voice carrying across the sudden silence. "I heard you. We all heard you. You think you can insult the King of Valeronne in his own hall?"

The lord—Lord Ashworth, Alphonse vaguely recalled, a minor noble from the southern counties—sputtered. "I—I was merely—"

"You were merely what?" Helena advanced on him, her silk skirts rustling against the stone floor. "Merely disrespecting the man I love? The man who has done more for this kingdom in six years than you've done in your entire life?"

Alphonse felt his stomach drop.

No, he thought. No, Helena, don't—

"I am his lover," Helena announced, her voice ringing through the hall with proud, unmistakable clarity. "I have been at his side for years. I know his worth better than anyone. And I will not stand here and listen to some—some nobody speak of him as though he were a child playing at kingship."

The silence that followed was deafening. Alphonse could feel eyes on him—dozens of them, hundreds of them—and he could feel the heat rising to his face. His heart hammered against his ribs. His head pounded. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sink through the stone floor and never resurface.

Shut up, he thought desperately, looking at Helena. Please, just shut up.

Helena, oblivious, was still glaring at Lord Ashworth, her chin lifted in triumph. She looked proud of herself, as though she had just delivered a devastating blow in his defense. She had no idea—no idea at all—that she had just made everything worse.

"I think," Alphonse said, his voice cutting through the silence with the careful, measured tone of a man holding himself together by sheer force of will, "that Lord Ashworth was merely expressing an opinion. We are all entitled to our opinions." He forced a smile, the kind of smile that had carried him through six years of diplomacy. "And I am entitled to prove them wrong through my actions, not my words. Let us not make a scene over a single careless remark."

He looked at Helena, his eyes carrying a warning she either didn't see or chose to ignore.

"Helena," he said, his voice still pleasant but with an edge of steel beneath it. "I appreciate your... defense. But it isn't necessary. Lord Ashworth and I understand each other perfectly well."

Lord Ashworth, to his credit, had gone pale and was nodding vigorously. "Yes, yes, of course, Your Majesty. I meant no offense. None at all. A slip of the tongue. I apologize."

But the damage was done. The whispers had already started—murmurs behind hands, exchanged glances, the kind of quiet commentary that would spread through the court by morning. Alphonse could feel them, every one, like needles against his skin.

They're not laughing at the insult anymore, he thought, his hands clenching at his sides. They're laughing at me. At her. At the spectacle.

He could feel a gaze on his back—steady, unwavering. His wife. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. The shame sat heavy in his chest, a cold, hard knot that made it difficult to breathe.

She saw all of it, he thought. She saw Helena call herself my lover in front of the entire court. She saw me stand there like a fool while my—while Helena made a spectacle of us both.

Helena, still standing near Lord Ashworth, looked confused now, as though the reaction wasn't what she'd expected. She looked at Alphonse, her expression shifting from triumph to uncertainty.

"Alphonse?" she said, her voice smaller now. "I was only—"

"I know what you were doing," Alphonse said quietly. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The words were heavy enough on their own. "We'll discuss it later. For now, please—" He paused, searching for words that wouldn't make everything worse. "—enjoy the evening."

He turned away from her, away from Lord Ashworth, away from the whispering crowd. His eyes found Orias, still standing by the wall, his expression unreadable but his posture coiled like a spring.

Get me out of here, Alphonse thought, though he didn't say it. Get me out of here before I break.

But he couldn't leave. He was the king. And kings didn't flee from their own halls.

So he straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and smiled—the same practiced, pleasant smile he'd worn all evening. The performance continued. It had to.

But he could still feel his wife's gaze on his back, and the shame of it burned hotter than any insult Lord Ashworth could have delivered.

Someone Who Notices 🕯️

The Queen's office was quieter than usual, the scratch of quills and shuffle of parchment replaced by the soft, uneven sound of someone trying very hard not to cry. Bernadetta Varley sat hunched at her desk, her shoulders drawn up nearly to her ears, a crumpled handkerchief clutched in one hand while the other pressed against her mouth as though she could physically push the sobs back down her throat. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and a fresh wave of tears spilled over her cheeks despite her best efforts.

Across from her, Hilda Goneril sat perched on the edge of the desk, her usual girlish charm tempered by a rare, genuine frown. She had one hand resting on Bernadetta's shoulder, rubbing small, soothing circles.

"Breathe, Bernie," Hilda said softly. "Just breathe. She's not here. She can't hurt you."

"She—she screamed at me," Bernadetta managed, her voice cracking. "In front of—in front of everyone. She said I was—that I was incompetent and jealous and that I was deliberately sabotaging her because I—because I—" She dissolved into fresh sobs, burying her face in the handkerchief.

Lorenz Gloucester stood near the window, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression one of barely contained outrage. His usual formality had sharpened into something harder, more indignant.

"This is unacceptable," he declared, his voice clipped and precise. "Absolutely unacceptable. A concubine does not have the authority to berate a member of the Queen's household—let alone the Queen's Secretary—in public. The impropriety alone is staggering."

"The impropriety," Linhardt drawled from his position slumped in a chair near the fire, "is the least of it. She made a scene. A very loud, very public scene. That's not just rude. That's a calculated display of power." He yawned, but his eyes, sharp and observant beneath the drowsy exterior, were fixed on Bernadetta. "What exactly did she want?"

Bernadetta sniffled, wiping her nose. "Her—her birthday ball. She submitted a proposal. It was—" She hesitated, her loyalty warring visibly with her distress. "It was... not good. The funds she requested were—were completely unreasonable. Three times what the Queen's birthday ball cost. And the rationale was just... 'because I deserve it.' She wanted the Great Hall for the entire week, which would have—would have displaced the diplomatic reception for the Norwood delegation and the—the charity auction for the orphanage and the—"

"The entire week," Lorenz repeated, appalled. "The entire week. Does she have any concept of the royal calendar? Any concept at all?"

"Apparently not," Linhardt said. "Or she does, and she simply doesn't care."

Hilda's hand stilled on Bernadetta's shoulder. "So you told her no."

"I—I told her I couldn't approve it as written," Bernadetta whispered. "I offered to—to work with her on a revised proposal. I was polite, I was—I followed every protocol. I even—" Her voice broke again. "I even offered to help her resubmit it. And she just—she laughed at me. She said I was a—a nobody who had no business telling her what she could and couldn't have. She said I was only saying no because I was jealous of her. And then she—she started screaming."

Benedict Ashcombe, who had been standing quietly near the door with a tea tray he'd brought in and then forgotten to set down, finally moved. He crossed the room and placed the tray on a clear corner of Bernadetta's desk, then knelt beside her chair so he could meet her eyes at her level. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle—so gentle it seemed to lower the temperature of the room.

"Bernadetta," he said quietly. "Look at me."

She did, her eyes swimming.

"You did nothing wrong. You followed procedure. You were polite. You offered solutions. She was the one who chose to humiliate you in public. That is not your fault."

Bernadetta's lip trembled. "But if I—if I file a report—"

"Then you file a report," Linhardt said flatly. "It's the correct course of action. She harassed you for doing your job. There are witnesses. Half the court heard her."

"But the Queen—" Bernadetta's voice cracked again. "She mentored me. She hired me when no one else would. I was—I was nobody. I was just some—some nervous girl with a talent for organization. And she believed in me. How can I—how can I go to her now and say, 'Your husband's concubine screamed at me and I need you to fix it'? She has so much to deal with. I don't want to be—to be a burden. I don't want to make a ruckus over someone being mean to me."

"Bernie," Hilda said softly, "this isn't just someone being mean. This is a pattern. You've told me before—she's been cold to you for months. Little comments. Little looks. This is just the first time she's done it in front of an audience."

"Which makes it worse, not better," Lorenz added. "A private slight can be forgiven. A public one is a statement. She was making a statement about you, and by extension, about the Queen's household. You are the Queen's Secretary. When she humiliates you, she humiliates the Queen."

Bernadetta's face crumpled. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

Benedict, still kneeling beside her, reached out and gently took the crumpled handkerchief from her hand, replacing it with a fresh one from his pocket. His movements were unhurried, kind, and utterly unflappable.

"Would you like me to speak to the Queen first?" he asked.

Bernadetta blinked at him, startled. "What?"

"I was already planning to bring her some documents this afternoon," Benedict said, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. "I can mention your concern while I'm there. I won't frame it as a complaint. I'll frame it as... a concern for the household. For you. She should know what happened, Bernadetta. Not because you want to make a ruckus, but because she would want to know. You're not just her secretary. You're under her protection. And Helena knows that."

Hilda nodded slowly. "That's... actually a good idea. Let Ben test the waters first. If the Queen wants to handle it personally, she can. If she wants to file a formal report, she can. But Bernadetta doesn't have to be the one to bring it to her. Not alone."

Lorenz inclined his head. "I concur. A third party introduction is more diplomatic. And Benedict has a rapport with the Queen. She trusts him."

Linhardt yawned again. "Fine. But if this escalates, I want it on record that I said she should file the report. Today. Preferably before Helena decides to escalate it herself."

Bernadetta looked at Benedict, her eyes still wet but her expression a fraction less desperate. "You would... you would do that? You'd talk to her for me?"

"Of course," Benedict said simply, as though it were obvious. "You're not alone in this, Bernadetta. You never were."

She nodded, a tiny, fragile movement, and pressed the fresh handkerchief to her eyes. Benedict rose, straightening his tunic, and picked up the stack of documents he'd set aside earlier. He gave the room a brief, reassuring smile—and then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

The Queen's private office was warm and lamplit, the evening shadows soft against the tapestries. Benedict knocked twice, a familiar pattern, and let himself in at the muffled response from within. He carried a leather folder under one arm and his usual mild, friendly expression on his face.

"Good evening," he said, closing the door behind him. "I brought the household accounts you asked for. And the revised schedule for next week—I moved the linen inventory to Thursday so it doesn't conflict with the Norwood delegation's arrival."

He set the folder on the corner of her desk and settled into the chair opposite, crossing one leg over the other in an easy, comfortable posture. He spoke for a few minutes about the household matters—the kitchen's request for a new oven, the repaired tapestry in the east hall, the small matter of a missing candlestick that had turned up in the wrong cupboard. Ordinary things. Easy things.

Then his tone shifted, just slightly. Still gentle. Still warm. But more careful.

"I also wanted to mention something else," he said, his eyes meeting hers across the desk. "It's about Bernadetta. She's... she's quite upset this afternoon. Helena confronted her earlier today. In public. About the birthday ball proposal."

He paused, giving the information space to settle, watching the Queen's expression with quiet attentiveness.

"Bernadetta did nothing wrong. She followed procedure. She was polite. She offered to help revise the proposal. But Helena... screamed at her. Called her incompetent. Accused her of sabotage and jealousy. In front of several witnesses."

Another pause. Benedict's voice remained gentle, but there was a weight beneath it now—a quiet, steady insistence.

"Bernadetta didn't want to bring this to you herself. She was worried about causing trouble. About being a burden. She said—" He stopped, then continued, his tone softening even further. "She said you mentored her. Hired her when no one else would. She didn't want to repay that by making a fuss."

He leaned back slightly, his gaze still on the Queen.

"But I thought you should know. Because she's yours. And she's not making a fuss. She's just... trying to do her job. And someone screamed at her for it."

The room was quiet. The lamplight flickered. Benedict waited, his expression open and patient, leaving the silence for her to fill.

Someone Who Is Here 🍼

The Queen's private chambers were warm, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, but the atmosphere was anything but comfortable. Linhardt Hevring stood by the window, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his usual sleepy demeanor replaced by something sharper—something restless. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as though he'd been running his fingers through it, and his eyes kept darting toward the door.

The queen sat on the edge of her bed, her hands resting in her lap, her expression carefully composed. But there was a tension in her shoulders, a stillness that wasn't quite calm. On the small table beside her, a cup of tea sat untouched, long since gone cold.

"You're certain?" Linhardt asked, not for the first time. His voice was clipped, impatient. "There's no doubt?"

She nodded.

Linhardt exhaled sharply through his nose and turned back to the window. His reflection in the dark glass was pale and strained.

"I need to speak with the King," he said, more to himself than to her. "Immediately. This isn't—this isn't something that can wait."

He moved toward the door, his steps quick and uncharacteristically purposeful, and pulled it open—only to find Orias March standing in the corridor, his hand raised as though he'd been about to knock. The captain of the guard blinked, his pale blue eyes flicking from Linhardt's agitated face to the queen beyond.

"Physician," Orias said, his voice a low rumble. "I was told there was an urgent matter."

"There is," Linhardt said, stepping aside to let him in. "Where is the King?"

Orias's expression didn't change, but something in his jaw tightened. "He's... occupied."

"Occupied," Linhardt repeated flatly. "Occupied where?"

A pause. Orias's gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward the queen, then back to Linhardt.

"He's outside the palace. With Lady Helena."

Linhardt stared at him. "He's what?"

"She requested an evening away from the court," Orias said, his voice carefully neutral. "No knights. I argued against it. She conceded to a single guard, but not—" He stopped, his jaw working. "Not me."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken things. Linhardt's hands had curled into fists at his sides, his agitation now barely contained.

"What is so urgent?" Orias asked, his eyes narrowing.

Linhardt opened his mouth, then closed it. He glanced at the queen—a quick, almost guilty look—and then back at Orias. He didn't say the words. He didn't need to.

Orias's expression shifted. It was subtle—a tightening around the eyes, a slight flare of the nostrils—but it was unmistakable. He understood.

"She's pregnant," he said. It wasn't a question.

Linhardt didn't confirm it. He didn't deny it either. He just stood there, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with something that might have been anger or might have been something else entirely.

Orias turned and walked out.

He didn't say another word. He didn't bow. He didn't excuse himself. He simply turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, his boots striking the stone with a sharp, furious rhythm that echoed long after he'd disappeared from view.

Linhardt stood in the doorway, staring after him. His hands were trembling—just slightly—and he pressed them flat against his thighs to still them.

"I need to get something," he said abruptly, turning back toward the room. "Something from my quarters. I'll be back."

He was halfway out the door when he nearly collided with Benedict Ashcombe, who was coming down the corridor with a tea tray in his hands. Benedict stumbled back, the cups rattling, and blinked at Linhardt in surprise.

"Physician? Is everything—"

"You," Linhardt said, pointing at him. "Come here. Now."

Benedict's eyebrows rose. "I—what?"

"The Queen needs someone with her. I have to fetch something. Stay with her until I return." Linhardt's tone left no room for argument. "Don't leave her alone."

He was gone before Benedict could respond, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Benedict stood there for a moment, the tea tray still in his hands, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and concern. Then he straightened, adjusted his grip on the tray, and stepped into the Queen's chambers.

"Your Majesty," he said, his voice gentle. "Forgive the intrusion. Physician Linhardt asked me to—" He stopped, his eyes falling on her face, and something in his expression softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to eavesdrop earlier. I was just bringing tea. I heard—" He hesitated. "I heard enough."

He set the tray down on the table beside her cold cup and stood there, uncertain, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. The firelight caught the edges of his face, softening his features.

"I don't know if anyone has said it yet," he said quietly, "so I will. Congratulations. Truly."

He paused, his eyes searching her face.

"But I also... I know this must be complicated. And I don't pretend to understand all of it. But if you're feeling anything other than joy right now—if you're feeling afraid, or uncertain, or—" He stopped, his cheeks coloring slightly. "You don't owe anyone a performance. Not even me."

He stepped closer, hesitating for just a moment before gently reaching for her hand. His touch was light, careful, as though he were asking permission without words.

"My mother," he said, "used to get terrible cramps in her hands when she was pregnant with my younger sister. My father would sit with her for hours and just... rub her hands. Like this."

He demonstrated, his thumbs pressing gently into the palm of her hand, slow and steady.

"She said it helped. She said it made her feel less alone." He kept his eyes on her hand, his voice dropping lower. "I don't know what you're feeling right now. But you deserve—"

He stopped. His fingers stilled.

"You deserve someone who is here," he finished quietly. "Someone who chooses to be here."

He didn't look up. He just kept holding her hand, his thumb tracing slow circles against her palm, the fire crackling softly in the silence.

And somewhere beyond the palace walls, a king walked in the moonlight with a woman who was not his wife, unaware of the storm gathering behind him.

Free Scenario! ✨