The garrison changed shape.
What had been a military outpost became something closer to a fortified city. Merchants arrived daily, seeking protection, arbitration, or hoping to attach themselves to Lorenzo's rising banner. Trade routes were negotiated under her roof.
Old feuds settled in her presence. Young men and women asked to swear loyalty. And, inevitably, there were attempts on her life.
Marcello managed it all with ruthless care. Organized patrols. Rotated guards. Controlled access. Tracked whispers before they became threats. Under his hand, the garrison thrived.
Too visible.
Too influential.
Alfonso noticed.
--- During council, he made his move.
The chamber was crowded, nobles, clerics, advisers, all gathered beneath painted ceilings and heavy incense.
Lorenzo stood where she always did : silent, composed, unassuming.
Alfonso lounged on his throne, wine in hand, watching her over the rim. "My cousin, your service has become... indispensable."
Lorenzo inclined her head. "I exist to serve the empire."
"Indeed. Which is why I face a dilemma." He gestured lazily to the council. "The King of England has requested an imperial presence. Not an envoy. Not a merchant-prince. Blood." A pause. "Only family will suffice. Someone who reflects my authority."
Eyes turned toward Lorenzo. "Of course," Alfonso added lightly, "I would never command you. You may refuse."
The room held its breath. Lorenzo understood immediately.
This wasn't honor. This was humiliation. To kneel in a foreign court. To serve a king known for indulgence and appetite. To be displayed as proof of Alfonso's generosity and control.
Refusal wasn't an option.
She bowed. "As you wish, my emperor." Alfonso smiled.
That night, Uraca overstepped.
She arrived at the garrison unannounced. Dismissed the guards. Entered Lorenzo's private quarters without knocking.
"You're leaving," Uraca said, closing the door behind her.
Lorenzo straightened but didn't turn.
"That's not your concern." Uraca smiled. Not kindly. "You didn't come to say goodbye."
"There was nothing to say."She approached until her breath brushed the back of Lorenzo's neck. "You always leave without ceremony. As if you fear lingering."
Lorenzo turned, eyes cool. "That's enough, sister. Your behavior is improper."
Uraca ignored her. She reached out, fingers grazing Lorenzo's jaw, tracing downward. "What if it is?" she said softly. "I could give you much more pleasure than that whore you've been favoring."
Lorenzo caught her wrist. "This ends now. You're crossing a line."
Uraca laughed quietly and leaned in anyway. She kissed her. Her mouth pressed hard, hand sliding over Lorenzo's chest with deliberate familiarity, then lower. Lorenzo froze for a heartbeat. Shock flashed across her face before instinct took over. She shoved Uraca back hard just as her hand slid to her groin, fingers reaching where they had no right to be.
Lorenzo had been careful. The false bulk sewn into her inner garments was designed to pass unquestioned, to feel convincing if tested.
Uraca staggered back, then laughed softly, eyes alight with something sharp and dangerous. "The taste of your lips is exactly as I imagined." Her gaze dropped deliberately. "And judging by how stiff your groin feels... you enjoyed it too."
She tilted her head, smile widening. "You're not stone, Lorenzo. You're flesh. And flesh responds."
Lorenzo's jaw tightened as she stepped forward, eyes cold now, warning clear. "Do not make me repeat myself."
Uraca only smiled. Slow. Cruel. Satisfied. "Then run. Run to England. Kneel before another crown. Perhaps their king will teach you something about choosing and satisfying your women better."
Silence stretched between them. Heavy. Suffocating. Lorenzo turned away. Reached for her coat. Her sword.
"You will regret this," Uraca called after her. Lorenzo didn't answer. She left the room without another word, the door slamming behind her, the echo ringing like a verdict. An hour later, the orders were signed. By dawn, she would be gone.
**BACK TO ENGLAND**
That night, Lorenzo entered beside Henry VIII.
Her posture was immaculate, expression more distant than usual.
The English court watched openly: this quiet, beautiful prince from Italy, dressed in black and gold, moving with sovereign ease regardless of the truth of her situation.
Henry was already in his element. Boasted loudly of hunts and campaigns, victories against the French, blood and glory. His entourage clung to every word, laughing too quickly, praising too eagerly.
Lorenzo listened in silence. When she spoke, her questions cut through the noise. She asked about terrain. Supply routes. Weather conditions. Cannon placement. She spoke with the precision of someone who'd stood on battlefields, not merely imagined them.
For a time, Henry's answers were sound. He even seemed impressed. Then the wine caught up with him. His voice grew looser, gestures wider, and soon his comparisons turned crude, French cannons reduced to jokes about his own virility.
The court roared with approval. Lorenzo's gaze drifted.
And then she saw her.
Marie. Something inside Lorenzo shifted *There you are.*
Marie stood apart from the crowd, clutching a book. She was home, undisturbed, refusing to let the king or his court steal her peace. Lorenzo watched, transfixed. She noticed how Marie clutched the book closer when displeased, how her brow furrowed at scenes she couldn't understand, how her breath caught when she imagined herself inside the story. Fully present in her inner world. Unguarded. Luminous. *A beauty in the middle of this mess.*
Then the thought slipped, unbidden and dangerous. *Would she make those faces if I bedded her?*
The words struck like a slap. At that moment, Marie looked up. Their eyes met. Marie lightened, a sweet, knowing smile playing on her lips as if she'd been waiting for this moment all along.
"I fear I've disturbed you," Lorenzo said softly, stepping closer. "You seem quite taken by your book."
Marie bowed gracefully, slipping the book behind her back. "It's nothing. I was looking forward to seeing you, Your Highness." Lorenzo's mouth curved. "Oh? Is that so?"She gestured vaguely to the side.
"Look... over there." Marie turned instinctively. In that brief second, Lorenzo plucked the book from behind her back. Glanced at the title. Then froze. Color bloomed across Lorenzo's cheeks.
"I didn't know you had an interest in Italian royal bridal customs," she said lightly, though her ears had turned red. Marie, caught, exposed, ran a nervous hand through her hair and stepped back, clearly searching for escape.
"Lorenzo, I..." Lorenzo reached out without thinking, catching her wrist. She immediately released it, startled.
"Forgive me. I didn't mean to frighten you." Before Marie could answer, a herald's voice cut through calling for a dance. Henry VIII demanding the presence of both Boleyn sisters.
Anne, standing close to the king, stiffened. She took Marie's hand firmly and maneuvered so Marie remained between her and Henry as they stepped onto the floor. The king seemed delighted.
The music began.
Henry took every opportunity to press too close, hands lingering where they shouldn't. Marie's smile remained polite but tight.
Marcello moved closer to Lorenzo and murmured dryly, "Quite tragic, isn't it?"
Lorenzo didn't look away. "Stop it. Now."
He knew the order without hearing it spoken. Marcello set the plan in motion. Introduced a lady-in-waiting to Lorenzo, steering her smoothly into the dance.
Then slipped toward the musicians and requested a familiar Italian tune *Spazzatura* lively, chaotic, perfect for confusion. Lorenzo danced with precision and ease, barely aware of her partner. Her attention was elsewhere.
Calculating steps. Watching patterns. Waiting for the moment. When it came, she seized it. In the swirl of bodies and changing partners, Lorenzo caught Marie by the waist, lifted her cleanly from the rhythm of the floor, and carried her through an open archway toward the balcony Marcello had discreetly cleared.
Marie gasped not in protest, but surprise. They didn't stop. Marie grabbed Lorenzo's hand and ran, pulling her down the stairs and into the garden, laughter and breath mingling as they fled the noise behind them.
Marcello watched them go, a rare smile touching his face. He'd never seen Lorenzo move so freely.
The king noticed Marie's absence far too late. After a brief, irritated scan of the room, he simply seized Anne and dragged her away, his frustration seeking another outlet.