Then she rose from the cold marble floor, limbs stiff with tension and dread. Moving as if through deep water, she crossed the chamber and laid herself upon the vast expanse of the bridal bed. The linen was cool and smooth beneath her, a field of white beneath the shadowed canopy. She settled at its exact center, arms at her sides, staring upward into the dimness. She did not pray. She did not hope. She simply waited. Her fate was no longer approaching—it was here, in the room with her, in the silence, in the very air she breathed.
The fire in the hearth had burned low when the door opened.
It did not swing—it was thrust inward, then shut with a sound like a stone falling into a well. No announcement, no knock. Only the presence that filled the doorway, darker than the shadows around it.
Henry entered without haste. He wore a long shirt of undyed linen, unlaced at the throat, and nothing else. The fabric, thin from wear, did little to conceal the hard lines of his body—the broad taper of his shoulders, the defined plane of his chest, the leanness of a warrior even at rest. Firelight traced the edge of his jaw, his bare forearms, the quiet, dangerous grace of his movement as he stopped at the foot of the bed.
His gaze was not a look but an imposition. She felt it on her skin. She closed her eyes.
"Is this," his voice came, low and stripped of all warmth, "how you mean to consummate a crown marriage? By lying there like a sacrifice?"
Her eyes opened. Amber burned into frost. Something kindled in her chest—not courage, but a desperate, reckless defiance. She held his stare, then let her gaze travel down, slowly, over the length of him. Over the shoulders that held kingdoms, over the chest that did not quicken with breath, down to where the linen hung loosely. Then, without thought—only a wild, furious need to seize something, anything—she parted her legs. The fine silk of her nightgown slipped aside, baring the pale, vulnerable skin of her inner thighs, the shadowed intimacy between them.
He did not move. Only a faint, disdainful sound escaped him, more breath than laugh.
"They are outside the door," she said, her voice unnervingly steady. "Listening. We should be quick."
He laughed then—a short, brittle expulsion of air. "Has no one taught you anything?" His voice was a blade wrapped in silk. "You do not receive a king as though issuing a challenge. It reeks of the marketplace. It is common."
Shame flooded her, hot and sudden. She clamped her thighs together, cheeks burning as if struck.
Before the heat could fade, he moved. His hand went to the leather at his waist and came back holding a dagger, its blade catching the low light in a thin, wicked gleam. She recoiled against the headboard, the carved wood pressing into her spine.
"What—what are you doing—"
"Your hand." The command was flat, absolute. "Now."
She pulled back, but he was on her in a movement too swift to follow. His grip on her wrist was iron, bruising. He turned her palm upward. There was no ceremony, no warning—only the cold, sharp line of the blade drawn swiftly across the fleshy pad below her fingers.
The pain was bright, startling. A seam of crimson welled up instantly. He pressed his thumb hard into the cut, his own hand swallowing hers, and squeezed. The blood pooled, spilled over, ran in a rivulet down her lifeline. Then he dragged her hand down, pressing her palm against the sheet, smearing a stark, rust-red arc across the white linen.
A gasp tore from her—more shock than agony—and she wrenched her hand free, cradling it to her chest. The cut throbbed in time with her racing heart.
He watched her, wiped the blade clean on the edge of his sleeve, and sheathed it. His eyes moved from her stricken face to the vivid stain on the bed.
"This alone may not suffice," he said, his voice chillingly matter-of-fact. A sly, knowing smile touched his mouth. "You will play your part."
He climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, jostling her wounded hand. A fresh lance of pain shot up her arm. He drew the heavy wool blanket over them both, shrouding them in close, suffocating darkness. His body was a solid, warmth-radiating presence beside her, not touching except where his hip pressed against hers. His face was so close she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the cool calculation in his hazel eyes.
"Play along," he whispered, his breath a hot brush against her ear.
Humiliation, thick and bitter, rose in her throat. She swallowed it. Then, forcing a tremor into her breath, she let out a low, choked sound. Another, louder—a shuddering moan, pitched to carry. "Ahh!" The cry was raw, convincing in its desperation. She screwed her eyes shut, refusing to see him, refusing to witness her own degradation.
Above her, he began to move. Not in passion, but in deliberate, measured rhythm. His shoulders shifted, his weight rolled, making the bed's wooden frame groan in loud, rhythmic protest. Each creak was a performed sound, a pantomime of intimacy for the ears pressed against the door. The bed became an instrument of their deceit, its voice filling the silent chamber with a lie.
The performance stretched, endless and grotesque. She focused on the throbbing in her palm, using the real pain to ground her in the fake one.
Finally, he stilled. The silence he left was heavier than the noise.
"There," he said, his voice sharp, a period at the end of a sentence. "We are consummated."
He threw back the blanket, rose from the bed, and straightened his shirt with a few efficient tugs. He did not look at her, not at her face, not at her hand, not at the stain that was their shared artifice. In three strides he was at the door. It opened, then closed with a soft, final click.
She was alone. The only proofs remaining: a wound stinging in her clenched fist, a rust-colored scar upon the sheets, and a silence so complete it seemed to ring.
---
The silence lasted only moments.
The door opened again, and this time a stream of women entered—the queen mother's personal attendants. They moved with a silent, fluid efficiency, their faces smooth and empty as still water. Their eyes did not meet hers.
Two went straight to the bed. Without a word, they peeled back the top sheet. They handled the stained linen with a kind of ritual care, folding it precisely, reverently, into a woven willow hamper—tangible proof for the court scribes and gossips. In its place, they spread fresh sheets, snapping them over the mattress with swift, crisp motions that seemed to erase the very memory of what had transpired.
Another pair approached Gisela. She sat coiled upon herself, her injured hand hidden against her sternum. They did not speak, only extended their hands. Their touch was neither gentle nor rough—it was impersonal, procedural. They guided her from the bed to a copper tub that had appeared as if by magic, steam curling from its rose-scented water. They undid the ties of her ruined nightgown, let it slide into a silken pool at her feet, and helped her step into the bath.
The water was scalding. She did not flinch. A maid knelt, took up a cloth and lavender soap, and began to wash her. Long, methodical strokes over her arms, her back, her legs—a cleansing that felt not purifying, but abrasive, as if scrubbing away the night itself. Gisela kept her right hand tightly fisted, resting on the cool rim of the tub, the cut safely above the waterline. They did not notice. They saw a bride being prepared for the morning, not a queen nursing a secret wound.
When they were done, they lifted her out, patted her dry with thick linen towels, and rubbed her skin with a faint, floral oil until it gleamed. They dressed her in a new nightdress, high-necked and long-sleeved, made of plain, soft blue wool—a garment of modesty, perhaps even penitence.
Then, as soundlessly as they had come, they withdrew. They took the hamper, the tub, the used towels, the very scent of the bath. The door closed, leaving behind only the smell of clean linen and extinguished candles.
Utterly alone, Gisela slowly uncurled her fingers.
In the pale light of dawn seeping through the window, the cut across her palm was a dark, precise line. It was not a mark of love, or desire, or even violence born of passion. It was a signature. A royal seal pressed in blood upon a contract she had never read. The only truth in the chamber was this slender, aching cipher on her skin, and a deeper hurt, unseen, that was only beginning to swell.
She crawled onto the fresh, impersonal sheets, clutched a pillow to her chest, and squeezed her eyes shut. She begged for sleep, for oblivion.
But the pain in her hand would not relent. It pulsed, a small, stubborn drumbeat against the silence. Each throb echoed the cold kiss of the blade, the pressure of his thumb, the stain borne away as evidence. It was a whisper that would not be hushed, a sentinel keeping vicious watch. It held her ruthlessly awake, prisoner to every passing minute of the long, hollow night that stretched before her—a night that felt like the first of thousands.