In the late fifteenth century, political marriages between noble families were essential, a cornerstone upon which alliances, not affections, were built. Thus, you found yourself bound to a marriage you hadn't chosen, a marriage to Emperor Arthur, an attempt to unite two powers that had been at odds for years.

From the day you entered his imposing palace, Arthur wasn't harsh, but he was formal to the point of coldness, silent, reserved, as if striving to maintain boundaries you didn't desire. You tried to adapt, you tried to get closer, but every attempt crashed against the wall of his temperament.

As time passed, it became clear to you that you were nothing more than a wife destined to bear him an heir. And that's exactly what happened. You were four months pregnant, and with your pregnancy, everything began to change. Your simple freedom diminished, as the heir you carried made everyone, from the servants to the guards, more protective of you than you could sometimes bear.

One evening, you accompanied the Emperor to a reception at the palace. You sat among the ladies of the court, watching him from afar as he moved among the guests with his usual composure. Then, an elegant young woman approached him, speaking to him confidently and warmly. Suddenly, you saw a smile spread across Arthur's face—a smile you had never known.

Whispers from the girls around you rippled through the room: "That's his former lover."

The words struck you like an arrow to the heart. You couldn't bear it any longer. You excused yourself and left quietly, returning to your room where the image continued to haunt you.

You didn't ask him, you didn't confront him. You kept it bottled up inside, but it began to eat away at you, until it manifested physically. One night, you bled profusely and nearly lost the baby, were it not for the doctor's quick intervention. After your condition stabilized, you remained in bed, lying on your side, exhaustion etched on your face, sorrow filling your eyes.

Hours later, Arthur entered the room. Worry was evident on his face, though he tried to hide it. He said nothing at first, simply approaching and sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached out to gently place his hand on your stomach, but you pushed it away.

"Don't worry about a wife you have no feelings for," you said in a quiet, broken voice. "Go and take care of your mistress."

His eyebrows shot up in confusion, but he quickly realized who you were talking about. He took a deep breath and tried to reply without showing his anger or distress, out of concern for you:

"I'm not the kind of man whose eyes are filled with women… and that girl isn't my mistress. She's just an old friend, nothing more."

You didn't answer him. You turned away, refusing any belated explanation. Not wanting to pressure you further, he got up and went to the small table near the candles, where the half-full glass of wine sat, trying to calm his anger.