"Consider this your punishment: you must seduce your King," Henry stated, his gaze impassive. "Thus far, I am not impressed."
He watched the tears, like spilled tribute, tracing her cheeks. "If you fail to stir your sovereign," he continued, his voice devoid of all warmth, "the consequence will befit the offense."
Compelled by the decree, she took him deeper, the invasive fullness wrenching another silent sob from her chest. Her tear-blurred eyes lifted to his in a final, wordless petition.
He offered none. His hand rose to cradle the base of her skull, his fingers threading through the damp silk of her hair—a sovereign's possession. His expression remained a mask of detached observation. To him, her desperation was merely a failing performance before the throne.
Gisela wrenched back, her body screaming for air. A ragged gasp tore from her throat.
"My lord…I can't… I beg you…" she sobbed, the words dissolving into a subject's plea.
"You beg?"His laugh was a short, cruel sound. "You petitioned for consequence. Or does my subject require… assistance?"
He did not wait.His hand fisted in the vibrant tangle of her hair, jerking her head back. Her lips parted in a cry he instantly silenced, forcing himself back into her mouth. He stood, his hips setting a ruthless, driving rhythm. Her choked sobs were swallowed by the violation, becoming wet, muffled protests against his skin. Violent tremors racked her; her hands scrambled uselessly against his thighs as he drove her head deeper, faster—a relentless, metronomic torture.
A raw, guttural moan erupted from her. He did not pause. The room condensed into a hellish chorus: the strain of his breath, the obscene, wet sounds, her own strangled attempts to draw air. The world dissolved into suffocating pressure and the sudden, acrid taste flooding her mouth—a bitter precursor to the void.
Then he released her.
The absence of his grip sent her sprawling. She fell, a discarded weight, onto the cold stone. Her body curled inward as she fought for breath, each gasp a searing pain. Her lips, bruised and slack, parted. A trickle of milky liquid escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a path through the salt of her tears.
From the floor, through a blur of anguish, she watched him. He turned away, his focus already on restoration. He retrieved his belt, the leather whispering through the loops with dreadful finality. The buckle closed with a soft, definitive click—a sound that sealed the violation into law.
A raw, broken sound shuddered from her chest, cohering into words. "I hate you, Henry." The declaration was a ravaged whisper, soaked in tears and the taste of him.
"Oh?"His voice was a low, perilous calm. He paused at the threshold, delivering a final, assessing glance. "I have been waiting to hear you say that."
His gaze swept over her, a silent inventory. "You will remain in these chambers. I return at midnight." He offered no opportunity for reply. The door closed with a soft, definitive click, the turn of the key echoing through the heavy wood like a judge's gavel.
Alone, Gisela crumpled against the cold floor, her body wracked by a fresh wave of sobs. But within the despair, a brittle, crystalline resolve hardened like a state secret. She swiped at the tears on her chin with a trembling hand, her voice a raw, whispered vow to the stones.
"There will be no midnight," she breathed into the silence. "I will be gone from here. I swear it."
----
Time became a tangible, viscous thing. Dusk did not merely fade; it was systematically dismantled. She watched, unblinking, as the long, somber shadows stretched across the walls, merging into a single, consuming entity. The room, once a gilded cage, was now a well filling with ink. Gisela did not move. She lay on the floor, a silent testament, her spirit hollowed to a cavern where only this new, sharp resolve echoed. The soft snick of a key in the lock registered only as a distant pressure change. She did not stir.
The door opened, but the footsteps were too light. A sharp, bitten-off gasp cut the stillness.
"My Queen…?Sweetheart, what has happened?...My goodess." It was Hilda's voice, etched with a horror that seemed to make the very air grow colder.
Gisela turned her head slowly, her eyes deadened pools reflecting the last grey gleam from the window. "What took you so long?" she whispered, the sound scraped from her throat. "We leave. Now."
"The King… he left the key in the outer lock, but the corridor guard was late to his post. I had to wait for the—"
"Just take me from here,"Gisela interrupted, the words fracturing into a dry sob. She pushed herself onto trembling arms. Her gaze locked onto Hilda's with terrifying, absolute intensity. "Take me so far from this place that its name turns to dust. However you must."
The plea was the last command of a broken sovereign, uttered from her knees.
"Alright, my lady. But first, you must disappear." Hilda knelt, movements swift and silent with practiced fear, and produced a hooded cloak from the folds of her own skirts. It was black, thick, and coarse, smelling of cold soil and the dust from the servants' passages.
With fragile, painstaking slowness, Gisela pushed herself upright. Every movement was a fresh offense. She allowed Hilda to shroud her in the heavy fabric; its weight was both an anchor and a shroud. Pulling the hood forward, she vanished into its deep, starless shadow.
"We must go. This instant," Gisela whispered, a thread of sound taut with panic. She grasped Hilda's arm, her grip shockingly strong. "He said he would return at midnight." Her eyes, wide in the darkness beneath the hood, darted to the window. The last purple bruise of twilight had been utterly consumed. "The tenth bell tolled as you entered. We have one hour. Not a minute more."
The darkness outside was no longer an absence of light, but a solid, waiting thing. Their escape was no longer a flight, but a desperate surgery—a cutting-out performed in the brief, precise window between the palace patrols, before the clock's face turned to the fatal number.