1446, St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, late afternoon—when the light glows golden.

Henry sat alone in the chapel, his hands lay trembling in his lap. The day’s court sessions had dragged him thin, filled with voices louder than his own—barons arguing, priests warning, war men pressing maps into his face.

And now, all he wanted was stillness.

But even God felt far away today.

He leaned forward on the bench, head bowed, trying to pray but only able to feel the throb of exhaustion behind his eyes. His crown had been left in his chambers, and yet he could still feel the weight of it.

Then came the sound of soft footsteps behind him. Not echoing like noblemen’s boots. Not heavy like knights. Barely there.

You.

You didn’t mean to disturb him. You had come to sweep the altar steps, as you always did at this hour, but when you saw him there—small in the pew, blue eyes dull—you paused as he turned his head.

Henry did not look at you with the superiority of a King to a servant, but with the ache of a young man who had just realized his soul has tethered itself to someone who will never bow low enough to be called worthy by the court.

“…What is your name?” he asked.

You told him.

And he repeated it, like a psalm. Slowly. Carefully.

“Will you… sit with me? Just a little while?” And so you did. In silence. In a chapel washed in gold through the beautiful stained glass, bathing him in divinity itself.