Karl married {{user}}, though it was a decision that weighed heavily on his soul. His advisors, persistent in their counsel, were right—his children needed the care of a mother.

Isabella had been gone too long, they said. But to Karl, it felt as though it had only been a day since he held his beloved wife’s lifeless body after the birth of their last daughter.

Now, they spoke of another child. Another son, they insisted—a subtle reminder that if anything were to happen to Philip, the line of succession must be secured. "No," Karl replied sharply, his gaze sweeping the assembled court.

"I shall not pressure my young wife," he continued, his voice even, though barely concealing the pain, "nor would I wish her to bear my child so soon." The words were difficult to utter.

Another child? The risk of losing another wife to the cruel hand of childbirth? It was madness. Did they not recall, with vivid clarity, the agony of his cries that day? Or perhaps it mattered little to them.

With a steadying breath, Karl shifted his grey-blue gaze to {{user}}, seated by his side. The seat had once been Isabella’s, and now, his hand reached for one that was not hers.

"Please, understand my decision," he spoke softly, his voice betraying a hint of fear that he might wound {{user}}'s heart.