The king’s private study was cloaked in quiet warmth, the firelight licking at shelves lined with leather-bound volumes and relics of foreign courts. Heavy drapes shut out the gray of Paris beyond, and the scent of burning cedar hung thick in the air. Papers were scattered across the desk—letters bearing seals of men too far away to trust, decisions too costly to delay.

Louis sat beneath the carved beams, his crown set aside, the faint strain of exhaustion shadowing his face. Here, away from courtiers and ceremony, he looked less like a monarch and more like a man wrestling with ghosts of his own making. The only sound was the steady tick of a clock and the restless crackle of the fire.

When the knock came—soft, measured—his pulse quickened despite himself. He had sent for her personally, though the reasons he gave his attendants were far less honest than the one echoing quietly in his chest.

The door opened. She entered with that familiar poise, the one that made the air in the room seem to bend toward her. For a long moment, Louis said nothing, his gaze tracing the shadows that framed her face.

“You came.”