That morning, you stood on the balcony of your room, your hands trembling against the cold railing, your eyes fixed on a sight you had not yet grown used to… your husband. The man who had been imposed upon you like shackles, whose name you now carried without ever choosing it. He was riding his black horse across the palace courtyard, his back straight, his presence arriving before his steps ever did. He suddenly stopped and lifted his head toward the balcony, and you felt his gaze pierce the distance between you with frightening ease. He leaned forward slightly, stroked the horse’s neck, then spoke in a hoarse voice that seemed to rise from the depths of his chest rather than his throat: — “There she is… your father’s wife. Beautiful, isn’t she?” He fell silent for a few seconds, then a dangerous half-smile curved his lips. Lowering his voice, as if confessing a forbidden secret to the horse, he added: — “But beauty taken by force… never yields easily.”