She stood before the soaring oak doors, her father a pillar of silent severity beside her. Through the narrow gap, she glimpsed the waiting congregation—a shifting sea of jewel-toned silks and expectant faces.
"Father," she whispered, the word barely a breath.
He did not turn, his gaze fixed on the distant altar. "Show no weakness," he murmured, his voice low and unyielding. Then, with a subtle shift, he moved his arm behind his back, offering the hidden space—their old, unspoken signal. A fleeting harbor in a storm of protocol.
Her fingers found his and curled tight, stealing one last moment of familiar solidity before letting go. She squared her shoulders, the gesture small but final.
The doors groaned open on heavy hinges.
A wave of murmured awe and the dense, cloying scent of incense and candle wax washed over her. She fixed her eyes on the far end of the aisle, a distant point of light and shadow. A serene, practiced smile settled on her lips—a mask so well-fitted it felt like her own skin. Her gown, a torrent of white silk slashed with gold, flowed across the crimson carpet as she walked. Each step was measured, her posture a study in regal composure.
This is it. The thought cut through the solemn swell of the organ. The end of Gisela. The beginning of a queen. A wife. A mother. I am a link in a chain, one of countless women who have walked this carpet before me. God, send your angels. I am walking blind.
They reached the steps to the high altar. Her father's hands, strong and impersonal, closed around her waist and lifted her to the first stair.
As she found her footing and looked up, her eyes locked with those of the man who stood waiting.
The breath left her lungs.
It was him.
The recognition was instant, a physical blow. The same broad shoulders. The same defined jaw, now smoothly shaven. The same dark, intense eyes that hours before had been clenched shut in raw abandon. But now he was draped not in servant's rough cloth, but in the magnificent regalia of the Crown Prince of England.
A cold, dizzying shock paralyzed her. The serene smile on her face froze, a brittle porcelain facade. The man from the library—the man whose sweat had gleamed on another woman's skin—was no servant.
He was her husband.
At the very least, a furious, wounded voice screamed inside her, he could have had the decency to wait a single day.
She could not look away. His smile was broad, confident—almost provoking.
Indeed, she thought, the words a silent acid burn in her mind. Women have no voice. What would you have me do? Shatter this alliance for my pride? Disgrace my house, my father, for a grievance the world would call a trifle? I am a vessel. A treaty written in flesh. My feelings are not a factor. She drew a shallow, punishing breath against the constricting bodice. I pray this is not the eternal fate of women. I pray for a world where dignity is not a currency we must spend so freely.
An ancient priest with milky eyes and a voice like crumbling parchment stood before them. He spoke of holy covenants, unbreakable bonds before God. His words were heavy, vivid—"two flesh made one," "for richer, for poorer." Each phrase landed on Gisela's ears with hollow, ironic weight. She repeated her vows when prompted, her own voice a distant, perfect echo. His voice, in contrast, was warm and resonant, brimming with a conviction that felt like theatre.
A page stepped forward, bearing two rings on a cushion of deep crimson velvet. They glinted, cold and final, in the candlelight.
He took her hand. His fingers were warm, his grip assured. He slid the heavy band onto her finger—a perfect, unyielding circle of gold. She did the same, her hands steady only by sheer force of will. The metal was a shackle.
Then, in a grand, theatrical gesture, he raised their joined hands high for the crowd. He turned his brilliant, triumphant smile upon them, as if presenting a prize he had just won. Sunlight from the high stained-glass windows caught the gold, sending a dagger of light across the stone.
"LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!"
The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wave of joyous sound that shook the very air. It was approval. It was celebration. It was the sound of her fate being sealed with a cheer, her heart now a frozen, silent weight behind her ribs.
---
In the castle, the solemnity of the chapel had dissolved into the boisterous clamor of the wedding feast. Past noon, the great hall shimmered with laughter and the constant chime of crystal. The air hung thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine. At its heart, a small orchestra—piano, violin, harp—wove a slow, lyrical melody that guided couples in a gentle, turning dance across the polished floor.
Gisela stood apart, near a column twined with ivy and faded banners, a spectator at her own triumph. She watched the swirl of color and sound, feeling utterly detached from the manufactured joy.
"My Queen."
The voice was soft, cultured. A man had approached, dressed in impeccable British royal blue adorned with subtle silver. He bowed, a hand over his heart.
"The honor is mine," he said, straightening. His eyes, a warm hazel, held hers. "You look… transcendent. Truly. And your eyes—that shade of amber is a rarity beyond price." He smiled,with a quiet, sincere appreciation.
"Thank you," Gisela said, her voice softer than she intended. The compliment, aimed at her and not the crown, felt like a lifeline.
"I am Sebastian," he offered. "Brother to the King. To Henry." His smile briefly widened, his teeth catching the light.
"I see," she replied. The resemblance was there in the jawline, but where Henry was a consuming blaze, Sebastian was a steady, banked fire.
"The pleasure is entirely mine. Until we meet again." With a grace that blurred the line between courtesy and intimacy, he took her hand. His eyes never left hers as he bowed over it, his lips pressing a kiss to her knuckles that lingered, warm and deliberate. Then he released her, offered a slight nod, and dissolved back into the crowd.
She could not deny it. A faint, unexpected warmth bloomed in her chest. It was flattery, but also a fleeting, terrifying sense of being seen.
The feeling vanished a heartbeat later.
She saw him approaching. Henry. The King. Her husband. He moved through his guests with slow, deliberate purpose, a shark through calm waters. The congenial smile he wore for the crowd did not touch his eyes as they fixed on her, isolated by the pillar. The violin's melody seemed to fray, the surrounding laughter fading to a meaningless hum as he closed the distance.