"My queen."
The commander's voice held no reverence—only the bare acknowledgment of a title. He crossed the frozen ground in three swift strides and gathered Gisela from the earth. Her body was a shuddering weight in his arms as he lifted her effortlessly onto his saddle, settling her before him. Her back pressed against the unyielding plate of his chest, her head lolling. He seized the reins with one hand, his other arm a bar of iron across her midsection, pinning her in place.
He turned his helmeted head toward his men, his gaze falling on Hilda, who stood frozen in the torchlight.
"Bring the maid," he commanded, the order flat and absolute.
Then he spurred his horse.
They surged forward into a gallop. The wind, now a roaring blade, sliced through Gisela's cloak and clothes, finding the fever-heat of her skin and stealing it. She trembled violently, a leaf in a gale. With each jolting stride, her skull knocked dully against the commander's armor—a sickening, rhythmic tap of bone on cold steel that punctuated the drum of hooves and the rush of the dark.
---
Gisela knelt on the cold stone, her body a trembling column of exhaustion and fever. Before her, Henry sat upon the throne, a figure of impassive judgment. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed, struggled to focus, yet she held his gaze. It was like looking into polished flint—hard, sharp, and utterly merciless. Behind her, Hilda was prostrated, her forehead pressed to the floor in a silent plea.
"You never fail to disappoint me," Henry said, his voice devoid of all warmth.
A raw, fractured sound that was almost a laugh escaped Gisela's lips. "You… gave me no choice." The words were labored, pushed through the pain in her head. "First, you refused to love me. Then, you refused to release me. And finally, you made a prison of my own body." She drew a shuddering breath, the room tilting slightly. "I sought only peace. I had believed the man I called husband would be my shelter. But you…"
A wave of dizziness crested behind her eyes, a punishing throb that stole her voice. She swayed, one hand rising instinctively to her temple as if to contain the ache. The rest of her sentence dissolved into a pained silence.
Her head bowed, a mere weight her neck could no longer support, as each breath came as a shallow, strained effort.
"…You are nothing I believed you would be," she managed, the words a frayed whisper.
Henry's eyes, which had been fixed on her with detached scorn, sharpened. He studied her—the pallor beneath the dirt, the uncontrollable tremor, the sheen of sweat on her brow. A flicker of recognition passed through his gaze; this was not defiance, but collapse.
In three swift strides, he was before her. His hand came as a firm support beneath her arm, just as her eyes rolled back and her consciousness fled. She slumped against him, a dead weight. He caught her, lifting her into his arms with an unsettling ease.
"Fetch the physician," he commanded, his voice cutting through the hall. "Immediately."
He turned to carry her away, then stopped. His gaze, cold and clear once more, swept over the prostrated form of Hilda. The brief lapse in his composure was sealed shut.
"Lock the maid in the dungeons."
Without ceremony, the guards descended, dragging a silently weeping Hilda from the chamber as Henry strode away with his unconscious queen.
---
Gisela's eyes opened to a world of pain. A vicious, pounding weight anchored her skull to the pillow. Henry's form materialized from the shadows beside her bed, still and watchful as a carrion bird.
"You tried to run," he said. The words were flat, devoid of anger, which was worse.
She forced her gaze to his, the effort sending a fresh wave of nausea through her.
"You… gave me… no alternative," she breathed, each syllable frayed at the edges.
"No alternative?" he echoed, a whisper of false curiosity in the dark. He leaned close, and the scent of him—ink, cold stone, and a faint trace of wine—filled the space between them. His knuckle brushed her temple, following the painful throb there. "You misunderstand the terms of your existence here, Gisela. Your body, your breath, your suffering… they are not yours to govern."
His hand slid down, his thumb pressing against the frantic flutter in her throat. "I have been merciful. I have touched you with restraint." His voice dropped to a hushed, horrific intimacy. "That ends now. Your little performance in the woods has earned you a new lesson."
He straightened, his shadow engulfing her.
"Your punishment," he announced, the words precise and final, "is no longer simple correction. It is to be an education. We will continue until you understand, in your bones, that every gasp, every tremor, belongs to me."
He turned toward the door where a physician stood, tools in hand, eyes averted.
"She is awake. Begin the treatment."
The physician approached, laying out implements that glinted in the low light—not just medicine, but a cruel array of restraints and sharp, polished steel.
Henry watched, his expression one of detached interest. "Let us see how far you can run when you cannot even stand."
Her eyes, wide with fever and dawning horror, fixed on the array of instruments beside the bed. The gleam of sharp steel in the candlelight was utterly foreign to a sickroom.
"What… what are these?" she whispered, her voice thin. She dragged her gaze from the cruel implements to the physician's weary face. "I only need a tonic. For the vague."
The old man would not meet her eyes. "I know, Your Grace," he said, his words measured and slow, heavy with grim finality. "But the King has ordered… an alternative treatment. It will be… more efficient."
A wild, animal panic surged through her weakness. She wrenched her gaze to Henry, who stood observing from the foot of the bed, a statue of shadow and indifference. "Henry! I will not submit to this! You cannot—"
"You are in no position to refuse anything." His voice sliced through hers, not with rage, but with the chilling certainty of a fact. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to the guards who had melted from the walls.
"Secure her. Ensure the physician has… unimpeded access."
The guards moved with efficient silence. Their hands were not rough, but utterly inescapable. Leather straps, cold and stiff, were looped around her wrists and ankles, cinching tight against bone with a terrible, final sound. The last strap crossed her forehead, pinning her skull to the pillow. She was a specimen, trussed and presented.
The physician leaned over her, his shadow swallowing the light. In his eyes, she saw no malice, only a profound, professional emptiness. That was the darkest thing of all.
"Now," Henry said, from somewhere in the shadows. "Begin."