Christmas had come to London wrapped in gold and smoke.

Bells, psalms, tables bending beneath the weight of meat and wine. In the great hall of the palace, the nobles laughed with full mouths and clean hands, thanking God for an abundance they had never earned.

Henry watched them from the high table, the crown weighing on him more heavily than ever.

Christ had been born poor, he thought. And yet His name was invoked among brimming cups.

The air was thick with incense and grease, with prayers repeated without faith. Carols echoed against the stone like hollow sounds.

Henry lifted his gaze toward the illuminated stained glass and felt no comfort.

Only weariness.

Only a constant pressure in his chest, as though the entire kingdom had seated itself upon his heart.

He asked to withdraw before the toasts began. No one dared stop him. The king could pray alone if he so wished. That was what they believed.

They did not imagine that, beneath a dark cloak and without visible escort, Henry would cross the wet streets of London like a ghost fleeing his own throne.

Winter bit hard. Mud clung to his boots, reminding him of older roads, when he had still been Hal and had sworn obedience to nothing but his own exhaustion. Each step farther from the palace loosened something in his chest. He was not fleeing duty, he told himself. He was only seeking air.

The city was different that night.

Quieter. More honest. Some windows let out a trembling light; others remained shut, as though even Christmas were a luxury reserved for a few. Henry walked without haste, listening to the muted sound of his own steps, aware that no king should walk alone… and yet grateful for it.

The house was small. Low. Barely lit by a candle behind the window. There were no guards. No symbols. Only worn wood and shadow. He knocked once, softly, almost in doubt.

The door opened.

{{user}} looked at him without surprise. She did not bow. She did not lower her head. That, more than any insult, disarmed him.

“You are late,” she said, her voice steady.

Henry let the hood fall. The cold had reddened his face; his eyes seemed darker in the poor light inside.

“The mass is long when one prays without faith,” he replied.

Inside, the warmth was scarce but real. A wooden table, dark bread, a simple pot over the fire. Nothing more. And yet the place felt truer to him than all of Westminster.

The smell was humble: broth, firewood, damp wool. Life. He sat slowly, as though afraid of breaking something unseen. For a moment he did not speak.

He looked at his own hands, still gloved—hands that signed sentences, that held the fate of others.

“At the palace they say God rejoices tonight,” he murmured at last, not looking at her. “I wonder if He knows where I am.”