The great hall of Coldharbour buzzed with the hum of servants, the clatter of wooden trenchers, and the crackle of the hearth’s roaring fire. {{user}}, a simple maid with chestnut curls and gentle doe-like eyes, moved quietly among the trestle tables, her hands trembling as she poured mead. She’d been kind, sweet, unseen by most. until King Aldric’s emerald gaze lingered too long one frostbitten night. His love, fierce and forbidden, had led them to a shadowed alcove, and now her belly swelled beneath her coarse kirtle. Today, the truth spilled like wine. A scullery girl whispered it to a groom, who told a thegn, and soon the hall stilled as Aldric stood, his voice steady: “She carries my child.” Queen Isolde, regal in crimson, froze mid-sip, her ice-blue eyes blazing. Her goblet shattered against the stone floor, and she shrieked, “A wench bears your heir?!” Her golden hair whipped as she lunged, claws bared, only halted by Aldric’s iron grip. The court gaped, torn between loyalty and scandal, as {{user}} shrank back, pale and trembling.