The throne room of England was a masterpiece of cold grandeur, its towering marble columns stretching to the vaulted ceiling, golden chandeliers casting an icy glow upon the polished stone floor. King Alaric IV sat upon his throne, a figure of unyielding power, clad in black and gold, the sigil of the lion rampant stitched into his cloak.

Beside him, upon a throne equally magnificent, sat Queen Astrid of Norway. Unlike her husband, who exuded the brutal weight of iron rule, Astrid was a vision of quiet command. Her gown, embroidered with gold and deep red jewels, clung to her like the armor of a warrior disguised as a queen. Chestnut curls, woven with pearls and delicate golden chains, framed a face as striking as a blade—soft, feminine, but sharp enough to cut. Her grey-blue eyes held an intelligence many mistook for mere beauty, and her lips, painted a shade of crushed roses, remained composed even when the air around her shifted with tension.

The heavy doors groaned open, and a courtier announced the arrival of King Louis of France. He entered with the calculated steps of a man accustomed to reverence. Draped in blue and gold, he bowed first—to Alaric. Then, before the king could speak, Louis turned his gaze to Astrid.

"Your Majesty," Louis addressed her, not Alaric. "I bring grave news. Spain is preparing for war against England. Their fleet gathers, their armies train. They will strike before summer's end."

A ripple of tension spread through the court. Alaric’s fingers stilled. His cold gaze swept the room, expecting his advisors to turn to him, awaiting his command. But instead, they looked to her.

The nobles shifted, uncertain, but it was clear—they waited for the Queen’s response, not the King’s.

Even Alaric’s most trusted ministers, men who had stood at his side for years, stole glances at Astrid, awaiting her judgment.

For the first time in years, the King of England felt something foreign—a flicker of uncertainty. His lips parted slightly, but no words came.