The smoke of the torches mingled with the mist of dawn as King Henry crossed the castle courtyard. He had slept little—or not at all—for weeks. French messengers kept arriving with veiled threats, and every counsel he heard from his men sounded more like an echo of treachery than of loyalty. Everything was suspicion, everything was shadow.

And among all those shadows, {{user}}’s was the sharpest.

He had brought her with him from the first days of his reign, when he was still seen as the uncertain boy who had inherited a bloodstained crown. {{user}} had been his confidant, his solace, the only face that asked nothing of him—save his word. But war had changed him, and doubt had nested in his chest like burning iron.

Whispers in court claimed that {{user}} had met in secret with a French envoy. That a sealed letter had been seen among her garments. Hal had denied it with a weary smile… but that smile no longer came to him.

That morning, as fog crept over the rooftops of Westminster, the king entered the council hall. His footsteps echoed hollowly. The nobles fell silent at his presence. Every gaze seemed to measure him, to weigh his temper. But it was not them he feared. It was her.

When he saw her standing between the columns, bowing her head as he passed, he felt the unbearable weight of duty. Love, he thought, should not feel like this—like a dagger wrapped in velvet.

“Your Majesty,” murmured {{user}}, her voice barely a thread.

Hal answered with a brief gesture—dismissing everyone with a thundering command. The hall emptied swiftly. Only the guards remained.

He looked at her as though he were measuring an abyss.

“They say you’ve spoken with men of France.”

She met his gaze, her eyes calm, untouched by surprise.

“They say many things, my lord.”

Silence fell. Hal walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. Outside, the wind stirred the banners bearing the three golden lions. “A war may begin with a word ill spoken,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “And so may it begin with a silence ill chosen.”

No one else remained in the room—only the distant murmur of torches, the crackle of fire.

Hal turned toward her. {{user}}’s face was untroubled, yet something in her stillness wounded him more than any lie. Suspicion, he thought, was the deadliest poison—even when it was only of one’s own making.

“What have they promised you?” he asked at last, stepping closer. “What could France offer you that England has not?”

{{user}} did not answer. Not at once. She only looked at him—with the same gaze that once had been enough to quiet every storm. But now, that calm enraged him. The king advanced again. His shadow fell upon her like an omen.

“I have ordered men hanged for less, you know,” he said bitterly.

For a moment, he wanted to touch her—to find her face, her voice, any truth that might bring him peace. But he did not. The crown had hardened him. It had stolen his hands, his heart, his trust.

In the glass, his reflection showed a king who no longer slept—a man without friends, without faith. And she, standing before him, was the last vestige of his humanity.