Just then, Henry's surveying gaze snagged on a figure in the crowd.
Emily. She walked in the wake of his mother, draped in an ivory dress that was a ghost of innocence against the hall's dark opulence. Her eyes were locked on him, a silent, daring filament across the chaos.
A cold fire ignited in his veins. What in the hell is she doing here? The thought was a razor drawn across his mind. He watched his mother, a statue of calculated purpose, abandon the two ladies and glide away. Emily's gaze held his for one more incendiary moment before she turned and walked—not toward him, but directly to where his brother, Sebastian, stood isolated by a pillar.
Henry's breath hissed through his teeth, a sound lost beneath the music. His control, a moment ago absolute, crystallized into something predatory. "Don't tell me you are doing this now," he murmured, a devilish, mirthless curve touching his lips. His hazel eyes sharpened, his brows twisting into the fierce line of a wolf catching a rival's scent. This was no mere slight; it was a deployment, a strategic move by his mother to place a living reminder of his past within reach of his greatest failure.
"What happened?" Gisela's voice, soft beside him, pierced his focus. "You have been murmuring to yourself."
"Excuse me," he replied, his tone instantly smoothed to an arctic calm. The transition was terrifying. Without another word, he detached his hand from hers and began cutting through the crowd, a shark moving toward a disturbance only he could sense.
Gisela's gaze followed his path, confusion knotting her brow. Before she could decipher his target, a new presence enveloped her.
"My dear child. You came."
The voice was vibrant, a melody of forced warmth. Gisela turned. Before her stood a vision of delicate power: a slim, beautiful woman with rivers of blonde hair and eyes of calculated blue. She was swathed in a gown of white samite touched with silver, like moonlight on frost. Gisela recognized her—the woman seated beside her father at the high table.
Her father's new bride. The French princess. Up close, her beauty was a weapon, her smile a perfectly fashioned tool. She took Gisela's hands, her touch cool and light. "I am Elodie," she said, her gaze sweeping over Gisela with an appraisal as swift and clinical as a jeweler's. "Your father is so pleased you are finally here to share our joy." The words were sweet, yet they settled on Gisela's skin like a chill, another performance in a hall where she was forever late to learn her lines.
Across the room, Henry reached Sebastian's side, his presence a dark frost that made his brother flinch. But his eyes were on Emily, who stood just beyond, a pale, defiant flame in the shadow he had cast.
Henry's hand shot out, closing around Emily's wrist with a force that crushed silk and bone. He yanked her to his side, the motion stealing her breath in a ragged gasp. She became a shield, a reclaimed object placed between him and his brother.
Sebastian watched, his posture tall and unnervingly still. No fear, no anger—just the void of a man who had long ago been emptied. His gaze met Henry's, a flat mirror reflecting the storm.
"I won't play these childish games, Henry. Battling over a servant?" Sebastian's voice was a dry rustle. "A pity. You're a married man now. Your priority should be your wife. Focus on getting an heir. It would be a shame if the crown passed from you because you failed at that, too. Might make people question their choice of king."
A faint, corrosive smile touched Sebastian's lips as he saw the inferno ignite in Henry's eyes.
"Ah. Did I strike a nerve? Let's discuss the queen, then. Gisela. Such… vitality. Such a clever, beautiful creature. The kind that makes a man's thoughts turn dark and possessive. The kind men might fight wars over, or take by force if—"
"Enough." Henry's command was a lash of pure rage. He pointed a rigid finger at Sebastian, his other arm locking Emily behind him.
Sebastian's smile didn't waver. "Her eyes, Henry. Her grace. That smile she must force for the crowd. I wonder, do you ever truly see it? Or does your own exquisite misery blind you to everything?"
The control shattered. Henry moved with predatory speed, his hand vaulting the space between them to clamp around Sebastian's throat. He drove his brother back, the impact against the stone wall echoing like a dull punch. Sebastian's head snapped back, a dark thread of blood instantly tracing from his nostril. Yet he didn't struggle. His laughter bubbled up, wet and choked, a horrifying sound of genuine amusement at his own violation.
"Henry, stop! Everyone is watching!" Emily's plea was a frantic whisper as she clutched at the back of Henry's doublet, her fear finally piercing the red haze of his fury.
The laughter, the blood, the clinging hands—they broke the spell. Henry released Sebastian, who slid slightly down the wall, still smiling through the blood on his lips. Without a glance back at his brother, Henry turned, seized Emily's arm once more, and strode from the scene, leaving Sebastian to wipe his face in the silent, staring circle their confrontation had cleared.
The night outside the palace was a silent, cold vault. The only sound was the distant, muffled roar of the feast—a world away. Emily's hand rested on Henry's arm, a tentative weight meant to anchor his simmering rage.
"I am sorry, my lord, for—" she began, her voice small against the vast dark.
"No," he cut in, the word blunt but not unkind. The fury that had contorted his features was gone, smoothed into an expression of weary intensity. "There is no apology."
"But Sebastian was right. I am just a maid. And your wife, she is—" Emily's words faltered again, lost in the impossibility of her position.
Henry's hand rose, his fingers curving to cup her jaw, tilting her face toward his. "You are more than that to me. Do not mention her name here. This space is not for her." His thumb traced her cheekbone, a gesture of possession far gentler than any he had ever shown Gisela.
Emily's gaze escaped his, lifting to the night sky peppered with hard, bright stars. "I love that one," she whispered, pointing to the brightest point of light, a steady, silver-white beacon.
"That is not a star," Henry said, his voice softening further, becoming almost pedagogical. "It is Venus. The Evening Star." He stepped closer, his body shielding her from the palace's chill. "The Romans named it for their goddess of love, and beauty… and fertility. The Greeks saw their Aphrodite in it. A planet of divine desire."
He spoke not as a king to a servant, but as a scholar sharing a secret. In this stolen moment, he was neither Gisela's jailer nor Sebastian's tormentor. Here, with Emily, he could be a man who knew the names of goddesses.
"Really?" she asked, a genuine, wondering smile touching her lips, her fear momentarily forgotten in the celestial lesson.
He looked from the planet to her face, illuminated by its cold light. "Really," he affirmed quietly. In the purity of her wonder, he found a fleeting respite from the calculated corruption of his world. Venus shone down, a symbol of everything his marriage was not, and a silent testament to the dangerous, hidden desire he kept confined to the shadows.