"You are… different," Gisela said, her voice barely above a murmur as she lowered the bow. "Unlike the King, your brother. You have a calmness. A softness to your manner."
Sebastian's hazel eyes, so keenly observant, held hers for a moment before his gaze drifted toward the distant battlements. A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
"We were formed within different wombs, by different mothers," he began, his tone deceptively light, as if commenting on the weather. He picked up another arrow, rolling the smooth shaft between his fingers. "I have sometimes allowed myself to wish, on days like this, that the order of our births had been written differently. That the legitimacy had fallen to me, and not to him." He glanced at her, the smile turning wry, almost apologetic. "First son, the bastard. Second son, the true heir. A rather tidy irony, is it not?"
He let the statement hang, simple and devastating, before returning his attention to the arrow in his hand with an air of casual detachment.
Gisela stood utterly still. The confession, dropped so casually into the quiet courtyard, seemed to expand in the silence, sucking the air from around them. She had nudged the door open with an idle observation, and he had flung it wide, revealing a chasm of resentment and royal strife. Now, she found herself on the edge, speechless, with no idea how to step back or how to proceed. The weight of his words—and the dangerous implication of his trust—left her frozen, the taste of her own careless curiosity turning to ash.
She cleared her throat, a soft, strained sound in the heavy silence. The floodgate he had opened now seemed to pull her own secrets to the surface.
"I understand… what you feel," she began, the words tentative, then gaining momentum. "Life has seldom been gentle with me, either. On the very eve of my wedding to your brother… I saw him." Her voice tightened, a crack of old pain breaking through. "He was with another. He could have afforded me that basic respect, at least. The barest discretion." She shook her head, a quick, angry motion, as if dislodging the memory. "I have never spoken of it. It still… it hurts."
She took a deliberate breath, visibly steadying herself, the queen's composure settling over her like a shroud.
"But I have accepted my fate. I belong to him. My sole duty now is to bear his heirs." A bitter, hollow smile touched her lips. "Such is the use of women of royal blood. We are legacy-making machines." She met his hazel eyes, finding an unexpected mirror for her own resentment. "So you see, perhaps I do understand. You wish for your throne. I wish for my dignity. My peace. We are both denied what we were promised."
The confession hung between them, no longer just a shared moment of sympathy, but a stark, silent pact of mutual understanding.
The silence between them thickened, heavy with shared confessions and the scent of damp stone. Then Sebastian moved. Not abruptly, but with a slow, deliberate grace, closing the distance between them one measured step at a time until the cool courtyard air grew warm in the narrow space separating their bodies.
He lifted a hand, his fingers gently tilting her chin upward until her amber eyes, wide and conflicted, met his hazel gaze. In that suspended moment, she could not lie—not to herself. A fierce, shocking want surged through her, a craving for his touch, for the solace of a different pair of arms. The feeling was treason, both to her crown and to her own guarded heart. It was reckless. It was ruinous.
She jolted back as if scalded.
"It was…agreeable to pass the time with you," she stammered, the formality brittle. She turned to flee, but his hand shot out, his grip firm around her wrist, pulling her back toward him.
"Do not pretend," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate vibration. A knowing smile curved his lips. "As if you do not feel this."
Then her hand flew, a swift, sharp arc through the air. The crack of the slap was startlingly loud in the quiet yard, neither gentle nor hesitant. She recoiled, putting precious distance between them, her chest heaving.
"You will not," she breathed, her voice trembling with fury and shame, her whole body quaking, "address your Queen in such a manner."
Sebastian slowly raised his fingers to his reddening cheek. A sly, undaunted smile spread across his features, his eyes gleaming with a peculiar admiration. He offered her a slow, deliberate bow, perfectly correct yet utterly insolent in its execution.
"My most profound apologies, Your Majesty," he said, the words smooth as silk. Then he turned and walked away, his retreating footsteps echoing with a promise that felt far more dangerous than a mere advance.
She walked, her steps slow and unsteady on the cold flags of the corridor, the hollow echo of her own footsteps a mockery of her racing heart.
What have I done?
The thought was a sharp sting, clearer than the ghost of the slap upon her palm. I never should have raised my hand to him. A queen does not lose control. A queen does not reveal her hand.
A worse truth followed, cold and unwelcome. Now, I am starting to miss you, Henry. If only you were here, your oppressive presence would have been a shield. All this would be impossible. The irony was a bitter draught. I am homesick for my cage.
A hot tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. Then another. She could not stop them. They fell silently at first, then in a helpless, breaking wave that blurred the stately tapestries into watery smears of color. With a choked gasp, she gathered the heavy silk of her skirts in her fists and ran. The sound of her flight—the frantic slap of silk slippers, the rustle of petticoats—brought a row of concerned maids scurrying from an alcove.
"I wish to be alone!" The command tore from her, raw and sharp enough to hit the ancient stones and bounce back at her, laced with the unmistakable sound of tears. She did not slow.
Bursting into her chambers, she slammed the great oak door shut on the world, on the maids, on Sebastian's knowing smile. Her back against the solid wood, she slid to the floor, a crumple of velvet and despair. She buried her face in the rich fabric of her gown, weeping into the intricate embroidery until the threads grew dark and damp with the salt of her shame and confusion.
Eventually, the storm subsided into ragged breaths. She rose on trembling legs, her gaze drawn inexorably across the room. She approached the drawing he had pinned to the wall, her reflection ghosting over the parchment. Slowly, hesitantly, her fingers rose to trace the strong, inked lines of his jaw.
If only I knew, she thought, her heart a constricted ache. If only I knew whether youstill live. The permanence of the ink taunted her, a fixed image of a man who might already be lost to the indifferent maw of war, leaving her truly alone in the gilded prison he had built for them both.