Before the crown, before the war, before France’s eyes turned sharp with malice — there had been a single night. A tavern’s haze, laughter too loud, the prince who wasn’t meant to be king finding company where he shouldn’t.

And then, years later, there was you. His child. Born of that brief, unspoken history. Not raised in courts, not paraded as blood — but still his. Fifteen now, with his eyes and his fire, caught between the world you knew and the one he could never quite keep you from.

Hal sat in the chamber with the letter crumpled in his fist, knuckles white. His jaw clenched as though if he spoke, the words would betray him. But when you entered — small footsteps, soft voice calling for him — the fire in his eyes broke into something else entirely. Fear.

You froze at the sight of him. He was quiet, crown set carelessly aside, the parchment nearly torn in his grip. For a moment, he looked nothing like a king. Just a man fighting a war on too many fronts.

“Father?”

The word hung between you — hesitant, but real. It pulled him out of the spiral just enough. He blinked, released the letter, let it fall to the floor.

Finally, he spoke. His voice low, clipped, carrying a weight you’d never heard before. “They know about you.”

Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?”

“France.” His jaw clenched. “Whispers. Threats. Not only of invasion — but of you. They will not only send men for me, but assassins for you. They think to frighten me by naming you.”

You stepped closer, gaze flicking to the discarded letter. “And… does it?”

His lips pressed thin. For a moment he looked every inch the king — steel, wrath, an empire behind his eyes. But when he looked at you again, all of it fell away, leaving only the man. The father.

“No,” he said. “It enrages me.”

He crossed the chamber in three strides, his hand firm on your shoulder, grounding himself as much as you. The fire snapped behind him, throwing his face into shadow and gold.

“You are my blood,” he said firmly, gripping your shoulders. “My child. And I swear to you, on this crown, on my very life, no man will ever lay a hand on you.”

Silence swelled, broken only by the hiss of the hearth. You wanted to believe him. You almost did. But somewhere beneath his vow lingered the truth neither of you could ignore: the more powerful he became, the more dangerous it was to be his child.