The grand hall was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, their golden flicker glancing off gilded columns and polished marble. Courtiers murmured among themselves like a restless sea, the air heavy with the mingling scents of wine, wax, and ambition. From his throne, Henry surveyed it all—his court, his kingdom, his world—and felt that same gnawing hollowness that no feast, no joust, no prayer had managed to fill.

Beside him, Queen Catherine sat with composed grace, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She smiled when addressed, her eyes kind yet wearied with years of hope deferred. Henry’s gaze drifted from her, unbidden, searching the chamber for something—someone—to break the monotony of his thoughts.

That was when he saw you.

Among the cluster of ladies-in-waiting gathered near the Queen’s dais, you stood apart—not in disobedience, but in quiet distinction. The lamplight caught in your hair, and when you turned to whisper something to another lady, Henry noted the curve of your smile. Something within him stirred—something restless, predatory, alive.

He leaned back slightly, fingers curling over the carved armrest of his throne. A king’s gaze was a dangerous thing, but in that moment, he did not care to temper it. He let his eyes linger on you longer than was proper, longer than a man’s wife might not notice.

“Who is she?” he murmured, not to Catherine, but to one of his advisors standing at his right.

The man hesitated before answering, his tone careful. “One of Her Majesty’s attendants, Sire. Newly appointed, I believe.”

Henry hummed low in his throat, a sound of interest barely veiled as contemplation. Newly appointed—how fortuitous.

And as the music began to swell in the background, he made a decision. The court might not yet know it, but the King had found a new intrigue, one that promised to make the dull weight of his crown a little lighter—for now.