The palace held its breath in a stillness that was both liberation and sentence. His absence was a presence of its own—an echo where his shadow had once loomed, a freedom that felt unnervingly like abandonment. To her quiet dismay, she missed the edges of his temper, the harsh clarity of his certainty. Even his disdain had been an anchor.
She sat alone in the solarium, a queen enthroned in glass and winter sunlight. The porcelain cup in her hands—white as frost and banded with cobalt—felt almost weightless. She lifted it, inhaling the soft, floral whisper of bergamot, but her gaze drifted unfocused across the rows of orchids she had not truly seen in days.
"Hilda," she murmured, her breath ghosting against the rim. "She was dismissed after the wedding. I want her recalled."
A sigh slipped from her, fragile as silk. "This life… it has become formless. Tame. I find myself longing for days that cut rather than cushioned."
So deep was her reverie that the approach of boots on flagstone stirred no awareness. Even the soft clearing of a throat vanished into the haze of her thoughts.
"Gisela!"
Her name struck the stillness like a stone through glass. She started, breath catching, the tea trembling in its cup. Her amber eyes snapped toward the intrusion—and softened in startled recognition.
Sebastian stood at the edge of the sunlit chamber, composed as ever, his expression a calm ripple against the shimmering quiet.
"Forgive the intrusion, my Queen," he said, voice steady and deep. "I called your name three times. Your thoughts seemed to be travelling far from here."
For a heartbeat, she was simply a woman drifting between past and present. Then instinct—royal, practiced, impenetrable—closed around her like a mantle. Her spine straightened; the flicker of vulnerability vanished. She set her cup upon its saucer with a delicate, decisive click.
"Oh," she replied, the syllable cool, precise, a veil drawn over the moment. "You are… Sebastian, if memory serves."
He inclined his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "Indeed, Your Majesty. Your memory remains exceptional."
"Indeed, Your Majesty. Your memory is, as ever, impeccable."
"Really," she murmured, her amber eyes widening just slightly at the praise, a delicate arch to her brow refusing to grant it too much ground.
He did not retreat. "You seem… adrift, in the King's absence. Lonely, perhaps." Sebastian's voice softened, a note of intimate conspiracy threading through it. His gaze, dark and holding hers with deliberate intent, was unmistakably seductive. "How might we pass the time? Let us have some amusement, and become better acquainted, My Queen."
His hand, elegant and sure, reached for hers. He did not grasp it, but presented his own, an invitation. When she placed her fingers in his palm, he lifted her slowly from the wrought-iron chair. The movement was a ceremony in itself, their eyes locked in a silent contest as he led her from the solarium's crystalline silence.
"Can you use the bow?" he asked, a knowing smile playing on his lips as they walked.
"An… arrow?" Gisela replied, her tone a soft feint of innocence. "No, I cannot. Would you teach me?" Her gaze remained fastened on his, the question hanging between them, layered with more than mere curiosity.
He led her to the lower courtyard, a vast, weathered space of grey flagstone bounded by high, ancient walls. It was a place of practice and purpose, not pageantry. The air here smelled of damp stone, clean hay, and the distant, earthy scent of the stables. Against one broad wall, weathered targets stood like solemn sentinels, their painted circles faded by sun and rain.
Sebastian did not speak. He merely flicked his fingers, a single, imperious gesture. As if conjured, two servants in plain tunics emerged from an archway, bearing a polished yew bow, a quiver of grey-fletched arrows, and a standing rack. They placed them with silent efficiency before melting back into the shadowed recesses of the castle, their obedience speaking of pre-arranged command.
"Watch," Sebastian instructed, his voice low, his gaze still fixed upon the Queen. "And learn."
He selected an arrow, his movements economical and fluid. Turning to face the target, he raised the bow, the curve of the wood an extension of his own poised form. He nocked the arrow, the sound a sharp, definitive click. As he drew the string back, his entire being seemed to focus, to condense into a single line of intent. He lowered his chin, his profile sharp with concentration, eyes narrowing on the small red heart of the target.
"It is a matter of focus," he said, the words measured against the tension of the bow. "And control."
He released. The string thrummed, a clean, vibrant note in the quiet courtyard. The arrow flew, a swift, silver-grey streak, and struck the center with a solid, satisfying thwack.
A spontaneous, sharp clap broke the silence. Gisela's smile, when it came, was genuine in its surprise and admiration, bright against the solemn backdrop.
"An excellent shot," she breathed, her applause slowing to a stop. She looked from the quivering arrow in the bullseye back to him, her study of his face now open, appreciative, and lingering far longer than propriety might allow.
"Your turn, My Queen," Sebastian said, his voice breaking the quiet that had settled after the echo of his shot.
"My… turn?" Gisela echoed, the words slow with uncertainty.
"Indeed, your turn. Come." His invitation was soft, yet it carried the weight of a command.
She moved toward him, the gravel crunching faintly beneath her slippers. As she neared, he stepped behind her, closing the distance. She flinched, a slight, instinctive tremor at his sudden proximity, and turned her head to look up at him.
His face was so close she could trace its details: the strong, clean line of his jaw, shadowed with the faintest hint of stubble; the confident arch of his brows. But it was his eyes that held her—a luminous hazel, like sunlit whisky, flecked with gold and green. They were not gentle. They were keen, observant, and in this moment, intensely focused on her.
"Remember," he whispered, the word a warm brush against the shell of her ear. "Focus."
She faced the target again, her breath catching as he reached around her. His hands, smooth and sure, covered hers, guiding them to their positions on the bow. One hand steadied her grip on the polished yew, the other closed over her fingers on the bowstring. She could feel the solid strength of his arms, the heat of his chest against her back, even through the layers of their clothing. Together, they drew the arrow back, the tension humming through the string and up her arms. His guidance was absolute, a cage of competence from which she could not stray.
"Now," he breathed.
She released. The arrow flew with a soft thwip, and struck the target board with a dull thud—well outside the painted circles, shuddering in the bare wood.
Sebastian did not immediately step away. He remained close for a lingering moment before releasing her hands, his touch leaving an imprint of warmth.
"A credible first attempt," he said, his gaze shifting from the wayward arrow to her face. A faint, approving smile touched his lips. "The foundation is there. All it requires is refinement."