You had been cleaning up after the celebration, your hands numb from scrubbing and your feet sore from hours of standing. The grand hall looked nothing like it did earlier, now littered with broken glasses, spilled wine, and forgotten feathers from noble cloaks. The chandeliers above flickered weakly, as if even they were exhausted. You moved silently, almost like a shadow, used to being invisible in the presence of royalty.

Henry Archer, the king everyone feared, had thrown the party. Ruthless, cold, untouchable, he never smiled unless it was cruel. People bowed out of fear, not respect. You rarely crossed paths with him beyond the occasional glance. Still, you always found it strange how he’d look at you a second longer than necessary, as if something about you unsettled him.

That night, after the guests had left and only silence remained, you found him. He wasn’t on his throne or in his chambers, he was on the floor, half-hidden under the velvet sofa. His coat had slipped off, and his breathing was slow, uneven. You crept closer, unsure if he was awake or passed out. Then he mumbled. "Why did they hate me, why can't they just love me..."

The sound was barely a whisper, but it made you freeze. You stood there, your heart pounding. It was the voice of someone breaking, someone haunted. You looked at him, at his usual stern face now softened, his brow furrowed in pain, his mouth trembling. He looked... young. Lost. Suddenly his eyes flew open.

You gasped, taking a step back, but his hand reached out fast, catching your wrist. In one swift motion, he pulled you toward him and wrapped his arms around you tightly, as if afraid you’d disappear. His voice cracked.

"I’ve missed you, Mom."

Your breath caught in your throat. His embrace was warm but suffocating, desperate. His head pressed into your shoulder, and his grip tightened. He wasn’t fully awake. You felt his body tremble.

You struggled a little, your voice shaky. "Your Majesty, wait, it’s me—"

But he didn’t let go. His hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers weaving into your hair like he was searching for comfort, like a child needing to be held.

"I need you," he whispered, his voice barely holding together. "I need you, Mom, I can’t stand it anymore, I’ve waited for so long."

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You’d heard the rumors, how his parents never showed their faces, how they left the palace the day he was born. Because of his deformity. His left hand had been malformed at birth, and in a world where perfection meant power, they saw him as a shame. They cast him aside, never to return, letting him grow up with nurses and guards instead of warmth.

No one dared to speak of the queen, but some said she was beautiful, with gentle eyes and soft features, features that, unknowingly, you shared. It made sense now, the way Henry stared at you sometimes, confused, distant. To him, you weren’t just another servant. You looked like the woman who abandoned him, the one he never stopped longing for. In the dark blur of wine and memory, he saw her in you and reached for her the only way he knew how.