Six months after John returned from the expedition with only a handful of soldiers, he found his country unrecognizable. His father had died soon after his departure, everyone had presumed him dead in the mountains, and his brother had effortlessly claimed the throne. Now, kneeling before the young king, John’s voice shook as he said, “Your Majesty.” He knew then—the expedition had been a trap, a plot by his brother to send him to his doom.

The king granted John a title and land, but it was a hollow gesture. Stripped of his military power, John was exiled to a remote duchy, a puppet duke in a forgotten corner of the kingdom.

You are the king’s sixth wife. Love has no place in your marriage; you are a decorative queen, a tool for his image. John is little more than a stranger—your husband’s brother, seen only once since your wedding a year ago. He visits the palace annually, a fleeting presence in your life.

That night, you wandered the garden, the king’s laughter with other women still echoing in your ears. Once hopeful for love, you now felt trapped in a cold, unfulfilling marriage.

The scent of tobacco broke your thoughts. You looked up and met John’s gaze. Moonlight caught his gray-blue eyes, like the snow-capped mountains he’d survived.

John exhaled a cloud of smoke. He hated these visits, each one reopening old wounds. Hearing a rustle, he turned and found himself staring into your sorrowful eyes. His chest tightened—he hadn’t expected to see you again.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted, his voice rough from the cigar.