Simon sat alone in his study, the tall velvet curtains drawn just enough to let in the late afternoon light, which poured golden across the parquet floor. The room smelled faintly of ink, beeswax, and the faintest trace of pipe smoke. A ticking French mantel clock kept time on the carved marble fireplace. Shelves lined with leather-bound volumes rose behind him, and a decanter of untouched cognac rested beside his inkwell.

Though he wore no crown, it was present in the precise set of his shoulders, the measured stillness of his breath, and the heavy seal ring glinting on his right hand. Papers lay scattered before him—military correspondence on thick cream paper, wax-sealed letters from Vienna and Madrid, a folded treaty from Prussia—and, framed in chased silver, a miniature of Elise in profile, her hand resting protectively on the soft rise beneath her bodice. She was with child. At last. An heir.

But peace, it seemed, would not come as easily.

Tensions with France had reached a fevered pitch. The King of France, François IV, made demands. Troop movements near Calais suggested intentions far beyond diplomacy. To avert war, Simon had made a choice no monarch took lightly.

He had given them you.

You, his sister. His only sibling. Younger, but raised at his side like a shadow. After your father’s sudden death—God rest his soul—Simon had been thrust forward, forced into maturity by the crown’s weight, while you had watched him vanish behind ceremony and Latin oaths. When they crowned him beneath the vaulted ceiling of Westminster Abbey, you had bowed, just like the others. From that moment, you were no longer allowed to call him by name.

Still, you lived in the palace. Your apartments were in the east wing, not far from the Queen’s chambers. You dined beside him. You danced at court. And yet, a coldness had settled between you both—thin, like frost on the edge of glass.

Until now.

The moment the royal courier delivered the sealed letter, your hands trembled. The wax bore Simon’s personal crest: the crowned skull. The content inside was plain and irreversible. You were promised to François IV of France.

Your feet carried you down the long gallery, past portraits of ancestors long since entombed at Windsor, past liveried footmen who bowed low and dared not speak. Without knocking, you opened the door to the royal study.

It closed behind you with a soft click.

Simon did not look up. He recognized your step. Knew your silence.

He signed a document slowly, deliberately, then set the quill down beside a folded handkerchief embroidered with the royal cipher. His voice was calm when he spoke.

“You didn’t knock.”

Still you said nothing. The letter, no doubt, was still in your hand.

He looked at you then—fully, deliberately. His gaze was cool, not unkind, but it bore the steel of a ruler now well-accustomed to the cost of power.

“I gave you to King François of France to keep this country from war.” He said, his tone quiet and unshaking.

“And if you now stand here doubting my judgment—then as your king, not your brother, I will name it treason.”