Theodore slept restlessly.
The room was warm: dry logs crackled in the fireplace, filling the air with the scent of smoke and heated wood. The curtains were drawn, muffling the howling of the winter cold outside.
One arm was carelessly thrown over the blanket, exposing a solid shoulder and part of a chest, tanned from recent training in the barracks. His face was peaceful, relaxed, like a man who too rarely allowed himself to be vulnerable. Regular features. Sharply defined cheekbones. Lips too soft for a man used to commanding armies. Fair hair lay in a messy scatter on the pillow, catching pale flecks of firelight. His breathing was deep, heavy. Even in sleep, there was strength in it.
And in that dream, he saw her. Beatrice. She was laughing.
She wore a light dress, not royal, but simple, weightless, as if woven from wind. She reached out to him, bold, warm, alive. And he reached for her. Theodore laughed in his sleep, softly, involuntarily.
And only after a few moments did the dream world begin to dissolve,
like fog beneath the first rays of a winter morning. He exhaled, lying for a long time staring at the ceiling, not immediately returning to reality. He wanted to stay in that dream. But reality waited. He gripped the edge of the blanket, as if trying to hold on to its fading warmth. Then, with a quiet sigh, he let go and rose.
The servants were already waiting in the dressing room. Silently, with well-rehearsed movements, they began to dress him: a thick shirt of fine wool, a dark blue doublet with silver embroidery, a cloak over his shoulders, gloves.
Theodore stood still, letting them make him presentable, but his thoughts were far away. In the dream. In her laughter. In her hand in his.
When everything was ready, he nodded silently to the valet. The carriage waited at the side entrance. The roads were slick with snow, but Theodore ordered them to depart immediately. The horses snorted, stamping the slushy snow, the wheels creaked quietly. He looked out the window, not seeing the scenery. Only fragments of the dream still clung to his mind.
The carriage stopped. Theodore stepped out. He crossed the narrow hall slowly. Sheltered in the shadows of the confessional. Not the grand cathedral of the capital. Not a majestic temple for showy prayers. A small chapel, with dark windows and a heavy oak door. A place without politics. A thick wooden screen separated him from the priest. Only the flickering light of candles slid across the floor. Theodore sat down. And sat in silence for a long time before speaking.
His voice was hoarse, as if after a long silence:
—I'm lost.
Silence. Only the crackling of wax. He squeezed his glove in his hands.
—In my youth they hammered one thing into my head: the crown above all. Feelings are weakness. Love is a luxury a true heir cannot allow himself.— He sighed heavily, as if dragging each word out by force. —My father… was like that. Strict. Cold. He believed only in strength. In duty. In order.
His voice faltered.
—I was raised by the sword and by law. From early childhood, training in the yard, laws by heart, treatises on the state instead of bedtime stories. Not affection, but discipline. Not warmth, but duty.
Theodore closed his eyes for a moment.
Flashes of an old, harsh childhood rose up in his mind.
—And then, still as a youth, I made myself a promise: to keep my heart closed. For the crown. For the realm. For everyone.
He continued, more quietly:
—When it came time to marry, there was a list. Long. From noble houses, strong families. I chose Beatrice. Because her family was noble enough, but not so powerful as to threaten my rule. Because she was worthy, but not dangerous. And, I admit, because in her eyes then there was… quiet.
No greed. No ambition. Only calm acceptance of duty.— He lowered his head.— I chose her with a cold mind. And I built a wall between us myself. So I wouldn't allow myself any weakness. So she'd be an ally, the mother of my heir, but nothing more. Not a woman to love.
A long silence. Only the creak of the old church. Theodore slowly exhaled:
—And everything went according to plan. Until recently. Until I saw how she had changed.
He squeezed his gloves tighter.
—Now… I reach for her. Not because I must. Not because the alliance demands it. Because I want to. Because without her… the cold in this palace now feels unbearable. Because her voice, her gaze, even her stubbornness, have become more to me than duty.
The priest was silent for a long time. Then asked quietly:
—What is it you fear the most?
Theodore looked up.
—That I'll lose her.— His voice trembled.— And that, allowing myself love… I will betray the steel I was forged from.
He expected to hear condemnation. But the priest only said softly, almost sadly:
—To be human is not betrayal.
The silence between them stretched, heavy.
The priest waited, unhurried.
Theodore clenched his gloves so hard the leather creaked.
—You ask what I fear? —his voice broke into a rough whisper.— Not just opening up, that's almost happened already. I fear the price I will have to pay for love.
He lifted weary eyes to the confessional screen.
—I fear she'll become my greatest vulnerability. That anyone who wants to break the crown will strike at her. I fear assassination, poison, some "accident"—a stray arrow that flies a mile further than it should. I fear she'll be turned into a pawn in political marriages, bait for rebellion, a trophy for others' ambition.— He clenched his jaw.— I fear I'll wake one day amid ashes and realize I saved the border, but not the one who was by my side.
Theodore drew a deep breath, like a diver before black water.
—When I was a boy, my mother loved my father madly. She followed him through wars and councils, never faltering. And that's why they… got rid of her. They thought: if they killed her, it would break his will.
He fell silent; even in the half-light, the tension in his jaw was visible.
—My father didn't break, but I saw what it cost. I saw how only steel remained on the throne, and the man died with her.
Again silence filled the confessional. Only the candle wick gave a quiet pop, releasing the bitter scent of wax. The priest spoke gently, without rebuke:
—You do not fear love, but the pain of losing it. But, Your Majesty, sometimes the Lord shows us: a closed heart won't save you from grief. It only makes loss emptier, and even more terrible. —Sometimes, God sends a trial not through pain. But through attachment.
Theodore gave a faint, bitter smile.
—Attachment to a woman I was never supposed to feel anything for.
—And who decided you shouldn't? —the priest asked softly.
Theodore froze.
—You yourself? Or someone else?
Theodore opened his eyes. Stared into the darkness.
—Myself,—he answered quietly.
The priest nodded, as if even through the screen he could feel how hard these confessions came.
—Then perhaps it's time to ask yourself something else.
Theodore waited.
—Are you not betraying… yourself?
If only Theodore knew.
If only he could have looked into the heart of the woman who sat across from him at council, who gritted her teeth in the corridors, who quietly wiped away tears in empty chambers. But he didn't know. And like so many before him, he saw not with his own eyes, but with what he was shown.
Sometimes, when Beatrice looked at Theodore, something strange flickered in her gaze. Not fear. Not hostility. More like a heaviness.
Thin, like a crust of ice on a lake. A weight only someone who had drowned in it could recognize. Theodore noticed that look, but did not understand.
He took it for tiredness. For an echo of illness. For consequences of pregnancy. He didn't know, couldn't have known,
that in those moments Beatrice remembered not their smiles in the garden. Not the gentle light of winter sun. But the moment when he, wearing the royal cloak, led her to the scaffold with his own hand. Or that night when his signature became her sentence to burn.
Theodore did not know.
Did not know what price this woman had already paid for him. Did not know how many times his hand had drawn the final line of her life.
If he knew how, from the start, she was "poisoned" in his eyes, and how it affected him. The chain of false "evidence": intercepted letters hinting at betrayal, testimony of servants bought by enemies. Lost funds from the royal treasury signed in her hand, secret meetings in her chambers.
Even the stones on the road knew: say a woman is a witch a thousand times, and on the thousand and first even those who saw her shining will believe.
At first, he ignored it. Gritted his teeth. Reminded himself: "I chose her. I knew whom I took as my wife." Then he began to notice the little things: Beatrice withdrew more and more. Avoided gatherings. Kept silent where a word was expected. Each new report seemed like another tiny crack in his patience. He got angry. Not just at her. At himself, for his growing weakness. At the counselors, for their constant poison.
He wanted to believe. Until the very end.
All the little ulcers grew into a wound. Theodore… he held on. For a long time.
His patience was like a bowstring, stretched to its limit. But every new rumor, every new whisper wore down his trust. Drop by drop. Like a poison, not killing at once, but turning the heart to stone.
And his patience snapped. Not because he wanted to destroy her. But because he thought: if it's true, then he had already betrayed the crown by waiting so long. And the crown demanded a sacrifice.
If only he'd known his hands didn't tremble when the sword sliced the air,
when that slender white neck bent under the final stroke. His hands stayed steady. That's how he was taught. That's what duty demanded.
He didn't let himself close his eyes. He watched as Beatrice's head fell to the stone floor, her hair, heavy with dew, spreading like tangled threads, as something clenched in his chest. He gripped the sword in his hand. He gave the order.
And he killed not the woman he had only just begun to understand, but the image he had allowed himself to destroy.
He didn't strike her down with joy. He didn't consign her to the fire lightly.
But when the time came to choose between her and the throne, the crown, the realm, he did what he had been taught since childhood: he chose duty.
Or, as he thought then, saved the kingdom from destruction.
Only much later would he realize: sometimes the true betrayal is not rebellion or the sword. But the silent permission for someone else's lies to enter your heart.
And the most terrible thing is, Beatrice knew it. Felt it. And what she would have to forgive him for was not the swing of the sword, but the fact that he allowed himself to believe the lie about her.