#king!harry

He was already halfway to that hunger again. His mouth found her breast, warm and bare, and he suckled her with the languid contentment of a man who had no need to rush. His tongue rolled gently over the peak, then suckled harder, lips closing firmly around it until her back arched and her fingers pulled at his hair.

She giggled when he nipped softly. "You are the devil," she said with a gasp.

"The devil you love, little mouse," he replied, voice muffled against her skin, and then sucked harder, drawing a soft moan from her lips.

"Mmm… The king has grown terribly wanton since last night. What would your ministers say if they knew you’d deferred council to bed your wife?"

"I have missed you," he said, his nose brushing lightly over hers when he lifted his face up, breath warm and steady. It sounded less like a confession and more like something torn from him at last. "They will wait."

Y/n closed her eyes as he pressed his mouth to hers. She felt the rough edge of his beard against her chin and cheeks as he kissed her again. She loved the feel of him, even so. Between her thighs, her mouth, her tummy, her breasts… all sensitive to the rough brush of his beard from the way he'd devoured her the evening prior.

His fingers shifted at her waist, stroking the bare skin down to her thigh, then tracing upward again, along the plush of her bottom. She opened to him, the parting of her lips a subtle invitation. It was all he required. The restraint he’d worn gave way in a single breath, as if her acquiescence had unlatched something deep in him. The control he’d been clinging to gave way to his deeper urges.

He slid his hand from her hip to the small of her back to draw her closer until there was no room for air between them. She smoothed her fingers up from his chest to his shoulder, then into the warm hair at his nape, feeling the little shiver that went through him when she did.

"You are so beautiful," he breathed, kisses turning heated and rough. "I don't know that I'll ever have enough of you."

She gave a quiet moan and rolled her hips against him. His member, already fully risen, throbbed against the curve of her abdomen. It pleased her beyond words to know that he still desired her, that he still found her worth this kind of admiration, despite everything she'd done. There was no greater relief than to be taken by him, a man who craved her. However, part of her doubted she could reach that trembling peak again so soon. He had already coaxed two sobbing climaxes from her the night prior. It wouldn't be possible again, would it?

And yet, as the king's hand wandered downward and slipped between her thighs, she felt the unmistakable heat of readiness. His fingers found her slick and wanting, the wetness gathering on his knuckles. She gasped aloud, half in disbelief, her eyes lowering to witness it. Her body, it seemed, had made up its own mind.

She had been told such things were impossible. That the marital act was for the husband’s need and not the wife’s pleasure. She had been warned it would be painful, distasteful, that she would learn to lie still and let her husband have what he needed. That it shouldn't take very long and that she should endure if she wanted God to bless her with a child.

But none of that had been true. At least not for her. Not with Harry. For every time he touched her, she found herself slick and open, her quim aching for him, her heart thudding like a trapped bird. Her legs parted when he approached her. Her mouth watered for his kiss. When his body pressed against hers, she did not resist. She yielded because it always felt so good… from the first time he touched her before they were married, to right then.

She still had to come to terms with what she'd been led to believe. Because now, with a little bit of experience behind her, she found that she enjoyed the act more than almost anything else in the world.

He smoothed a hand up her back, over the line of her spine, and then down again, lingering at the curve of her waist as he smirked at her. "It seems the queen is also quite wanton."

He pressed two fingers inside of her, and she arched her back, breasts pressing his chest as she panted. "The court would lose their minds if they knew the way the Queen wetted her King's fingers. So ready for me, mouse. So soft and warm."

"Oh, Harry…"

He groaned at the sound of her. "Yes," he whispered, pressing his mouth to her breast as she gasped. "The court would faint dead away if they knew how their queen takes her king. If they heard the sounds you make when I’m inside you, filling you to the hilt."

He drew his fingers from her dripping entrance and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a sound of approval. Then, bracing himself, he rolled her gently onto her back and followed her down, his body covering hers, the mattress dipping beneath their joined weight.

"I need more of you," he said, voice low and roughened as he raked his gaze over her bare body underneath him. "I cannot resist the way you feel, the way you sound…" he dipped and kissed her chin and then her neck. "The way you taste."

He guided his thick cockhead to her opening, and her legs fell open wider, thighs parting to cradle his hips. She felt the broad, aching length of him press against her entrance, nudging, seeking. Then, with a slow thrust, he entered her.

Her eyes fluttered shut at the stretch, the deep, aching fullness. He pushed in until the whole of him was buried inside her, his hips flush against hers. Her body adjusted around him, snug and wet, muscles fluttering.

"Heaven above," he groaned, head tipping forward briefly, closing his eyes to savour the way her insides squeezed snugly around the whole length of him.

Her heart was filled to the brim by his praises as he pushed harder, the tip of his member carving through her end sharply until she hissed. The corner of his mouth twitched, the shadow of a smile there and then gone. His lips followed the line of her jaw, the hinge beneath her ear, the fragile, racing beat in her throat.

Her palms slid over the breadth of his back. He shivered, and the sound he made into the hollow of her throat was unguarded, almost boyish. She smiled at the way he reacted to just her touch, to the feel of his length encased by her.

"You undo me," he said.

"And you me," she answered, fingers tracing the scars and sinew.

She whimpered when he drew back and shoved forward, grasping at his back, nails pressing into his skin as he began to move. He withdrew, then thrust forward again, the rhythm careful but with purpose.

The friction sent sparks of pleasure darting through her spine. Her legs locked around his hips, keeping him close, deeper. He grunted softly at the feel of her tightening around him.

She opened her eyes to look up at him. His gaze already held hers, dark and intense as he drove into her.

"You are my heart, mouse," he whispered, lips brushing hers. "Do you know that?"

"Yes," she breathed.

The thrusts grew bolder. He found a rhythm with deep, rolling strokes that made her moan aloud, her back arching, hips rising to meet his. Each movement stoked the fire low in her belly. Their joined flesh was slick now, the sounds of it unholy, shameless, damp.

He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers above her head, pinning it gently to the pillow. With his free hand, he cupped her breast, thumb circling the peaked nipple, teasing it until she writhed beneath him. His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder, lavishing kisses between gasps.

The wood that held the bed together groaned under the movement. The sheets twisted beneath them as Y/n's limbs began to tremble, her breath coming in uneven, pleading gasps. His thrusts were steady, deep, each one seeming to reach further inside her, rubbing against a spot that sent bright, helpless shocks up her spine.

Harry felt the tremor in her thighs and growled low in his throat. "That’s it… let me feel you melt for me."

He shifted his weight subtly, angling his hips until she gasped, her nails dragging down his back. The sensation only spurred him on. He pressed closer, chest flush with hers, his breath hot against her cheek as he drove into her with slow, merciless strokes.

Her breasts brushed his chest with each movement, then he pushed up, eyes lidded as he looked down at her, heavy cock stuffed into her deep before he dipped down, his mouth sought a nipple, lips closing greedily around the rise of it as he thrust. She curved into him, offering more, her fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there.

"Harry—oh—Harry, please—"

Her plea dissolved into a soft sob as he suckled harder, tongue circling the peak, pulling at her until her back bowed. Her hips lifted to meet him, the wet slide of their bodies distinct in the quiet room. Every stroke filled the air with soft, sinful sounds… his low grunts, her breathy cries, the slick joining of their flesh.

He lifted his head, beard scraping gently over the curve of her breast as he kissed upward, slow and indulgent, still driving into her in languid, thick motions, until he reached her throat. He mouthed at the racing pulse there, teeth grazing lightly.

"I want you undone beneath me," he murmured against her skin. "I want your legs shaking again… your voice gone hoarse… I want all of you, mouse."

He lifted and sat back, throbbing member still buried, spreading her insides as he pulled her thighs over his. He slid his hand over her breast downward to her trembling stomach, until his thumb found the tender, aching bud nestled between her folds. He circled it gently at first, drawing a startled cry from her lips. Then he pressed more firmly, stroking in time with his thrusts, every movement deliberate and devastating.

Her body jolted beneath him, hips jerking in helpless response. She was almost embarrassed by how quickly he could work her to her end that way. She reached for his hand, panting as her body began to uncoil under him. "N-no, I cannot—Harry, it is too soon—"

"Yes," he whispered, voice rough as he rocked in deep. "You can. As many times as your body wants. Open for me, my love, come for me."

Her head fell back, fingers gripping his hand with near-desperation as he rubbed her faster, the pleasure rising inside her so swiftly she could scarcely breathe. Each thrust drove the sensation higher, sharper, until she could do nothing but cling to him, legs shaking around his waist as the pressure built unbearably.

As good as he felt, what really had her unable to control her body was the way he looked above her, his hips thrusting, abs flexing, the line of sweat that dripped between the sparse hair on his pecs. Broad, thick chest, strong arms, soft pink lips held open as he trailed his jeweled green eyes from her face to her breasts, and down to the space he was filling her. He truly was every bit the vision of a king she could worship.

He moaned her name softly, the gushy sound of his girth sliding through her arousal only more noticeable with every stroke. He pulled at her hand and pressed it down to the bed as he leaned back over her, his pelvis hitting her clit. He kissed her open mouth, his tongue stroked hers languidly, contrasting the relentless rhythm of his hips.

Her thighs quivered violently around him, breath fractured, vision blurred. "Harry, oh! God, please—"

"That’s it," he groaned, mouth kissing at the edges of her lips as he circled his hips into her faster, firmer. "Let go for me. Let your king have you."

Her belly tightened, and her breath caught, then everything broke open inside her.

And when her climax came, it rushed through her like wildfire… an uncontrollable tide that tore her apart. She cried out beneath him, body clenching around his member, hips jerking. He grunted, hoarse and near wild, and thrust hard as his own release followed.

He spilled into her with a shudder, mouth pressed to hers, eyes shut as if the very sensation of it might undo him. His whole frame quaked, and for a long moment, he could do nothing but breathe and hold as he emptied himself inside of her in orgasmic throbs.

She could feel his hand still holding tight to hers, feel the way his arms shook, the way his heart pounded rapidly against her chest. He moaned a relieved sound against her cheek as he caught his breath.

He rolled them gently onto their sides, her leg draped over his hip, his twitching length still cradled inside her. The moisture between their legs was overwhelming. Just as it had been the night before. She was sure they were due for a bath.

They lay there, quiet, her fingers tangled in the damp curls at his nape. He kissed her brow, then her cheek, then the top of her head.

"That wasn't too much now, was it?" he asked softly.

She blinked at him and lifted her head to look at him. "I fear I've grown greedy for you. For the way it feels when we are together."

He smiled. "What is there to fear when the greed is born of love?"

She hummed, a hand sliding up to his shoulder. "I fear I will not have enough. That I will not be able to quell my urges for it. Like a boozer enslaved to his drink."

Running his nose along her cheek, he cradled the back of her head. "That does not sound like a bad predicament to me."

"But surely ignoring moderation is perilous. Covetous."

Harry puffed out the softest laugh, tracing a fingertip over her jaw. "Covetous... It is not abhorrent when it is your husband you are greedy for, mouse. I welcome my wife's gluttonous appetite."

She sighed and leaned in toward him, pressing her cheek to his clavicle. "I have never been so fulfilled in all my life. Clothing, food, comfort, warmth… It almost feels wrong."

Running a hand up her spine, he kissed the top of her head. "And you shall be fulfilled always. You are the queen of Thornekeep. You are my queen."

She lifted her head to kiss him, slow and sweet, then lay her head back upon his chest. His arm drew tight around her waist. It would take some getting used to, being called Queen. In moments like these, they were simply man and wife, tangled together in the aftermath of pleasure and reconciliation.

. .

The cold had settled in earnest by the time a week had passed, the kind of crisp winter cold that turned the breath visible and made teeth ache. Y/n drew her fur-lined cloak tighter as she stepped into the castle yard, Phoebe at her side, both of them bundled enough that the tips of their noses froze.

Behind them, Niall and another guard followed at the regulated distance. But Niall’s eyes kept darting toward Phoebe in that unmistakable way of a man trying not to be obvious. Y/n and Phoebe both noticed it.

She didn’t dignify it with so much as a glance. "He keeps looking at me," she muttered under her breath, cheeks warming despite the cold. The soft smile on Phoebe's lips told Y/n she liked that the guard kept letting his gaze drift over her.

"Because you keep kissing him," Y/n said, nudging at her friend playfully.

Phoebe exhaled a scandalized little laugh and then whispered, "Do not say it out loud!"

"Do not worry. No one can hear us, and your secret is safe with me."

Phoebe groaned and kept her sight tilted toward the hedges as she spoke quietly. "He is quite good at it."

Y/n’s laugh burst bright into the air. No one knew what she and her lady-in-waiting were on about but as Phoebe caught Niall's gaze briefly, and she watched his cheeks pink, there was a momentary look of knowing about him.

Phoebe tugged her arm. "Come, tell me everything about your nights with the king. It seems you have been quite occupied by him since you reconciled."

The queen smiled. "He's gentle and loving."

"What else?" Phoebe pushed.

"There's nothing else to say that wouldn't have you fainting in shock," she said with a laugh.

Phoebe let out a defeated breath. "You promised. I have been waiting the entire week while you’ve been floating about the castle like a love-struck lady in a poem."

Y/n pressed her gloved fingers to her warming cheek. "I am not floating."

"You are fluttering," Phoebe corrected. "Positively fluttering."

Y/n bit her lip, trying to smother the smile, but it pressed through anyway. "He has been… very generous and kind in bed."

"Kind," Phoebe repeated. "That is the word you choose?"

Y/n fixed her with a look. "We are not discussing particulars right here."

"Too bad. Look at you." Phoebe tugged her arm again. "You are glowing."

"And you’re being absurd."

Phoebe hummed. "Absurder things have happened than a Queen glowing after forgiveness and eight days of being thoroughly—"

"Phoebe!" Y/n laughed.

Phoebe only smirked, then leaned closer, voice lowering to something more thoughtful. "Truly… you do seem well again. Happier. I am glad of it."

Y/n’s breath misted in front of her. She looked out over the small orchard at the far end of the yard, bare branches scratching at the pale sky. "I am," she admitted softly. "It is much better to be on his good side."

Phoebe nudged her shoulder affectionately. "Then all is well."

They walked a little farther, letting the cold nip at their cheeks and the wind tug at their hoods. The silence between them was companionable until Phoebe’s voice broke it, light but sly.

"Have you had your courses yet this month?"

Y/n blinked. "My courses?"

Phoebe gave her a look. "I only ask because this month you have not yet summoned for any articles to help with it."

"Well…" Y/n frowned slightly. "I… think not."

Phoebe nodded solemnly. "And your last bleed was early last month?"

"I don’t know," Y/n insisted. "I lost my courses often before the wedding. Stress does that. And now, with everything that has happened—"

"Oh, heavens," Phoebe breathed, seizing her arm. "What if you are with child?"

Y/n felt her stomach swoop. "No, that is not certain—"

Phoebe laughed. "Maybe not, but you have been in that bed near every night since your wedding, save for the few when Harry was not speaking to you. Do not tell me you’re surprised."

Y/n went stiff. "We cannot think that."

"Well, what am I to think?" Phoebe teased. "I see you at breakfast looking half-dazed, hair undone, and the King walking about the castle with the air of a man who has been… greatly restored."

Y/n covered her face with her gloved hands. "This is mortifying."

"And wonderful if true," Phoebe corrected.

Y/n lowered her hands and exhaled, breath clouding in the air. "I do not know yet. Truly. It could be nothing."

Phoebe softened, looping her arm through Y/n’s. "Then we shall wait and see. But if you are…"

Y/n’s heart gave a hard, quiet pound. If she was… She pressed a hand to her middle without thinking. Phoebe noticed and smiled.

"Whatever comes, my Queen… you will not face it alone."

Y/n swallowed, eyes drifting toward the tallest tower where Harry’s study window looked out over the courtyard.

"No," she whispered. "I will not."

.

The warmth Y/n felt after the walk did not leave her, but it changed its structure as the day went on. By the time she returned to her chambers, there was a tight, humming awareness inside her that she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Phoebe helped her out of her cloak and set it over the chair. "You’re quiet," she murmured.

Y/n brushed it off. "Just cold. And… perhaps I'm thinking too much."

But even as she said it, her hand drifted lightly toward her stomach again. She didn't know anything just yet, but the suggestion from Pheobe had wormed into her so deeply that she felt as though she could almost make out the stirring of something inside her.

The rest of the afternoon ticked by as slowly as time ever had. She tried to read but couldn’t. Tried to write down her thoughts, but forgot halfway through the first paragraph what she wanted to say.

Finally, Phoebe, ever astute, stepped closer.

"Ma’am," she said softly, "shall I send for the physician? Not to say anything for certain, only to… inquire."

Y/n hesitated. So many consequences hinged on her body now. On a clock she could not see. On a life she could not yet feel.

"Yes," she said. "Send for him. Quietly."

.

The old castle doctor, Dr. Holder, had recently been replaced by Dr. Alderton. He was an older man, mild of manner and much kinder than Dr. Holder, who'd kept insisting Y/n be checked for virginity before she wed the king. But Dr. Alderton had the air of someone who had seen every kind of worry a woman might have.

"Majesty," he greeted with a bow when he arrived. "How may I be of service?"

Phoebe stood by the door, hands clasped, silent but watchful. Hopeful.

Y/n kept her voice soft. "It is only that I have… missed a course. And I wish to know whether it signifies anything."

The physician nodded as if this was a question posed to him a hundred times a year, which it likely was. "May I ask when your last monthly bleeding occurred?" He stepped in closer, his examination bag still in his hand.

"The early days of last month," Y/n answered. "And before that, I was irregular. Often."

"Have you felt sickness upon waking? Lightness in the head? An ache in the lower back? Changes to appetite?"

Y/n bit the inside of her cheek. "No sickness," she said. "But I have felt… very tired the last few days."

"That is as common a sign of strain as it is of childbearing," he said gently. "And your recent ordeal in the square may have taxed your constitution."

She lowered her eyes. "Then there is no way to know yet? No exam to do?"

He shook his head. "No exam for now. There are signs I may watch for," he said. "But at this early stage, one cannot say with certainty. The body keeps its secrets until it no longer can. I would advise rest. Avoid undue exertion. And…" His voice softened. "Tell His Majesty. Should you be with child, caution is warranted."

Y/n nodded, folding her hands tightly together. "Thank you, Doctor."

He bowed and withdrew, leaving Phoebe and Y/n alone again.

Phoebe came closer, her face bright with soft hope. "Then we will wait and see. We shall not act prematurely. But I have a feeling, ma'am."

"No one knows. It is too soon," Y/n countered. "I might not be with child."

"But you might," Phoebe whispered.

Y/n’s stomach fluttered. She wasn't sure if it was from excitement or fear. "Yes," she admitted. "I… I might."

.

That evening, Harry entered as he always did. Like a man with the weight of work and duty on his mind, focused, composed. He removed his gloves and set them aside, loosening his collar, hanging his coat. Even still, he noticed her. He watched closely as he moved about.

"You’re quiet," he said as he approached. "All day, you’ve carried some thought. I could tell after supper. What is it?"

She stood near the fire, warming her hands as she looked at him while he wrestled his boots off his feet.

"I do not know how to say it… and there may be nothing to say," she answered.

"Y/n." His voice gentled. "Tell me."

She turned to him slowly. "I may be with child."

Harry went very still. Not a breath nor a blink. Only the soft flicker of concern in his expression, the slight parting of his lips as though he’d forgotten how to draw air.

He stepped across to her and took her hand in his. "May," he repeated, voice low. "May be?"

She nodded. "The physician cannot say yet. But I have missed a course. And I am… more tired than usual. And we have been—" She didn't let herself finish that sentence, but they were both more than aware of what she meant.

Harry lifted a hand to her cheek. "Are you unwell? Any pain? Any dizziness?"

"No," she whispered. "Nothing of concern."

Relief flashed through his eyes, and then worry. He pressed his palm over her cheek and traced her temple with his thumb. "If it is true… You must be careful. You must not walk alone. You must not—"

"Harry," she said softly, placing a hand on his chest. "We do not yet know."

"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know what losing you would do to me."

Her heart clenched. "You will not lose me."

He cupped her face fully now, warm palms framing her cheeks. "Tell me the moment you feel anything unusual. Any sickness, any weakness, any pain."

"If I do, I will," she promised.

He kept his gaze on hers. "And promise me you will be very careful. Even if you may not be, we cannot chance it."

"Yes. Of course. I know. I will not be sneaking into a crowd to stop anymore hangings if that is your worry."

He huffed. "If there is a child…" He swallowed hard. "It would be a great blessing."

Y/n felt her eyes warm. "I am unsettled but… excited. If it is true."

He kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the soft corner of her mouth.

"And I will be both as well," he whispered. "Until we know."

. .

Two weeks later, things were starting to feel different around her. It wasn’t drastic at first. Just a shift in how her mornings began. She'd become very aware of her body and every little thing that she felt, to the point that she was nearly convinced now that she was carrying the king's baby.

Y/n woke each day, for the past three, with the same subtle queasiness pooling low in her stomach, a shallow wave that rose and then ebbed. Not enough to bring her to her knees, but enough to make her press a hand to the mattress and breathe steady until the feeling passed.

Harry noticed before she'd even said a word. He sat down beside her on the bed, shirt open at the collar as he fastened his cufflinks. "Again?" he asked, voice gentle in the half-light.

"Only a little," she whispered.

He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, the gesture so tender it might've been the cure to the way her stomach turned. "Sit a moment longer. I’ll have Phoebe bring a little bread."

"You fuss," she teased softly.

"I have cause to fuss." He looked her over with the concern of a loving husband, but then his expression lifted… a quiet brightening.

This was something new in his demeanor that she had never seen in him before. Not the heavy protectiveness he’d shown in the days after the scaffold, nor the restrained warmth of their reconciliation. This was something lighter. She might even describe him as spry as of late. A new kind of spark that she was learning to understand as him being hopeful for what was to come.

He tried to hide it behind a composed air, but it slipped through anyway. She saw it in the way he lingered at the door before leaving each morning, in the quiet little smile he fought whenever she touched her stomach absentmindedly, in the way he handled her differently.

"It is the third day of sickness, mouse. I will call for Dr. Alderton again."

She laid her hand on his knee and nodded. "Okay. We will see if he can say with certainty, but I have a feeling it is still too early."

"Your courses still have not come, you wake sick in the mornings, and last night you were faint after tea. Even if it's too early, I will insist."

Harry kissed her forehead and made his leave. Not long after he'd gone, Phoebe arrived with bread and hot tea that both soothed and filled Y/n's insides warmly. But more than the tea and the bread, her friend's presence comforted her thoroughly.

Before midday, the physician arrived with his satchel and a respectful bow as Phoebe let him in the room. "Majesty. You look well," he said.

"Do I?" Y/n said as she moved across the room toward the doctor.

He gestured politely. "If you would sit, I shall ask you a few questions."

Phoebe stood nearby, trying not to beam but failing. She kept her hands clutched at her back and her mouth sealed, but Y/n could see the strain it took for her to keep her composure. It was almost as if Phoebe were more excited about the prospect of Y/n's disposition than even she was.

The examination was modest and brief. He checked her pulse. Asked about her appetite. Felt lightly along the low curve of her abdomen with no more pressure than a butterfly’s touch. Questioned her about her courses, her sleep, her morning spells.

When he finished, he stepped back with a small, warm smile. "It is early, Majesty," he said. "But all signs are consistent with childbearing."

Y/n felt her breath leave her, even though she already felt the delicate changes in her body and was certain of it by then. Still, to hear of it from the doctor felt very final. As exciting as the news was, it was equally scary.

The physician continued, gentle but firm. "You must rest often. Avoid sudden exertion, but take a bit of fresh air daily if you can manage it. Light but frequent meals are best. Steeped ginger for nausea and warm compresses if discomfort grows."

Y/n nodded, dazed. "Thank you."

When he left, Phoebe threw her arms around her with a giddy little squeak. This was something a lady-in-waiting should not do, but friendship outranked etiquette in the privacy of those chambers. Y/n welcomed her friend's cheer and love openly.

"Oh, ma’am," Phoebe breathed, "a child. You will give the king an heir."

Y/n held her, blinking against sudden hot tears. Her heart felt full and wild and terrified all at once.

"I suppose I will."

"Wait until His Majesty hears," Phoebe whispered. "He will be beside himself."

.

When the news found Harry, thanks to Phoebe, he felt faint in the head but overwhelmed with something deeper and more severe. He was excited yes, but this meant that he would have to ensure his Queen's protection even more now than ever. Not only was childbearing already a very dangerous thing to endure, if she was not given the proper care she could succumb and his chances of losing her were greater now than they ever had been.

Harry returned early that evening, which was a rare thing. He entered the room with a pace too swift to be casual and crossed to her where she sat.

"Phoebe sent word," he said. "Tell me."

Y/n rose from the settee slowly. "He believes I am with child."

For a moment, Harry stared at her like a man whose entire world had shifted at once. Her husband, the king of Thornekeep, was visibly shaken.

Then he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her mouth so softly and breathlessly that Y/n could feel every emotion he held inside.

He pulled back only enough to look into her eyes. "Are you well? Any pain now? Any dizziness?"

"No," she whispered. "Just… a little tired and sick in the mornings, as you know."

He exhaled deeply and rested his brow against hers. "I have never prayed for anything," he murmured, voice breaking quietly. "But I pray that you are kept well and healthy. I will do everything I can to ensure it."

Her heart pulled tight in her chest.

"Hush," she whispered, kissing his cheek. "Once again you fuss. Everything is okay right now."

"We will make it well," he said fiercely, quietly, as though vowing it against the entire world. "I will double the guard again. No stranger comes within ten paces of you. You do not walk alone, not even in the garden. I will have Niall stay with you as well as the—"

"Harry—"

He shook his head. "I will not risk you. Not now. Not ever."

She let him hold her, feeling his joy radiate through the tension and fear that lived side by side in him. He rested a hand over her stomach and smiled at her.

"We will endure this together," he whispered.

Then he swallowed and his shoulders loosened just slightly before he continued. "I am so very happy, my love. This news changes our course forever, but I am ready for it."

Her eyes stung as she nodded at him and then wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her cheek to his chest. She felt the same. The news was joyous, but unsettling at once. She closed her eyes and said a quiet prayer of thanks to God.

.

The castle did not know, not officially. But rumors had a tendency to spread all on their own in Thornekeep. Maids and servants were always watching, listening, paying too much attention to things they shouldn't when their days grew long and boring.

By the week following, whispers moved through the corridors like drafts. She heard bits and pieces. Some were happy of the news, others were not.

Doctor Alderton was with her near an hour… If she gives him a child, the realm is lost. What joyful news!

And that afternoon, Y/n did not mean to overhear the men when she neared the upper-floor chamber with Niall at her back. Normally the doors were closed for privacy in the old solar when anyone gathered inside, but right then, the doors were open when she caught the tail end of a hushed conversation that came from the room.

"…and if she gives him an heir, the king will be undone."

Y/n paused, not turning to look back at Niall as she listened closer.

"There are those who won’t allow it."

She took a breath and then continued toward the keep to view the kingdom from the topmost floor, as had been her intention before she heard them. The men fell silent as she passed, unaware she’d heard a word. But ice slid from her spine to her ribs.

Niall noticed her falter. "Majesty, are you okay?"

She straightened at once. "It is nothing."

But it was not nothing. The words had her rattled. She'd barely fallen pregnant, and men were already plotting her unborn child's demise.

She kept walking, every step echoing with the words she could not unhear.

If she gives him a child, the realm is lost… There are those who won’t allow it.

.

It had become the new routine for the king to retire to his chambers early every night, no matter how much work he had to attend to . There was no question to his men why he insisted on making his leave like that, and to Harry it was the only thing that made sense. While he trusted the guards he'd placed at the door to protect her, he preferred to see to it himself, with his own eyes, that she was okay.

And like every evening since he'd learned of the doctor's report, he had been doting with gentle hands at the small of her back, asking her more than once how she was feeling, offering to bring her fruit, and arranging extra pillows without being asked. But now, as she sat on the edge of the bed smoothing her nightgown over her knees, he watched her with a careful look.

"You’re quiet," he said at last. His voice held only concern threaded with exhaustion. "More than before. Something sits upon you."

"It is nothing," she said, drawing the covers back.

Harry exhaled a soft breath at the idea of her suffering alone. He crossed the room, extinguished the last lamp, and climbed into bed beside her. The feather mattress dipped under his weight, and then his hand found hers beneath the blankets.

"Mouse," he said quietly. "I know when you keep something from me. Please tell me."

She shook her head. "It will only trouble you. It is not a matter of urgency."

He shifted, pressing closer. "Then you must speak it all the more. Trouble me, if that is what truth requires."

His insistence dissolved the last of her resistance. She couldn't hide things from him, especially when worry was written all over her face like that. Truly, she hadn't wanted to repeat the words she'd heard earlier in the day, mostly because she didn't want to think of it. But she couldn't get the voices out of her head no matter how hard she tried to push them away.

"I heard something today," she said. "Voices in the old solar. Men speaking about me."

Harry's brows pulled together as he shifted, eyes focused on her face as she spoke.

She continued. "They said… if I give you an heir, the realm will be lost. And that there are people who won’t allow it."

Harry was silent for a long moment as he let her words sink in. His hand tightened around hers in a bristling, controlled fury she could feel in the tremor of his breath. He worked his jaw and his breaths slowly grew more rapid.

"Who?" he asked, voice low and angry.

"I don’t know," she said quickly. "But Niall was with me and he should know who stood in that chamber."

Harry sat up, only a little, but the movement was taut. He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw hardening, grinding, the undaunted king rising in him like heat from a flame that'd been freshly stoked.

Y/n reached for him at once, pressing her palm to his chest. "Harry," she said, "do not let fear take you. I am protected. I am safe."

He looked down at her. His eyes were fierce, shadowed, and aching with something almost violent. And then, with solemn slowness, he lifted the edge of her nightgown. His hand slipped beneath the linen and rested warm and secure over her lower belly where their baby would soon grow.

Harry bowed his head, lips brushing her temple as he murmured, "You and this child—" He paused and swallowed, tracing a thumb over her skin as he spoke. "I will guard you myself if I must. I will not allow any hand, any threat, any whisper to come near either of you."

"You are acting as if these men could reach me. All these guards, Phoebe, you… It is not possible for harm to come." Even as the words left her, she didn't know that she truly believed it herself, but she needed to calm her husband so that he didn't work himself into a dither.

"No." His tone was quiet and absolute. "Listen to me. There is no one in this world… no crown, no realm, no council more important to me than you. And now this small life we may have made." His fingers stroked lightly over her skin. "If anyone wishes you harm, they will not leave these walls alive. I swear that upon my name."

She felt tears sting her eyes. "You are frightening when you speak so."

"You are everything I fear losing," he answered simply.

She pressed her hand over his, fingers threading with his own over the gentle curve of her abdomen. "We will be cautious. We will be careful. But do not become consumed by this because I need peace, husband. Promise me that much."

His breath eased and after a long moment, he nodded and settled back beside her, gathering her into his arms without releasing her stomach from beneath his palm. She curled into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.

They lay quietly, entwined, held safe against the dark as snow began to whisper at the windowpanes. Neither could predict the future, but Harry would see to it that his wife remained unharmed.

Harry kissed the top of her head. "Sleep, my mouse," he whispered softly. "I have you."

"And I you," she whispered back, eyes closing as she brushed her palm over his chest, adoring how warm and solid he was. She'd never felt so safe and loved as she did when she was in his arms that way.

His hand stayed over her womb as their breathing steadied into the same rhythm, their bodies pressed close, their fears and their joy folded into one shared warmth. And as the fire sank to embers, Y/n let herself rest against him, despite the realm outside their chamber doors already whispering of the heir who might change everything.

. .

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The house was already alive beneath her. Sharp voices floated up through the floorboards—her mother's brisk orders, her sister’s light laughter, the clatter of servants preparing trunks and parcels for the journey ahead. Another maid had mercifully taken the morning shift, sparing Margaret from having to sweep hearths and draw bathwater before she could even think to dress. A small grace, rare enough not to question.

She slipped from her thin mattress, wincing as the creaky bedframe gave a low, protesting groan that seemed far too loud in the stillness of early morning. Her toes met the chill of the attic’s wooden floor, the boards worn smooth with age and dust. The air smelled faintly of moth-eaten linen, old stone, and something else, perhaps something forgotten, like the lingering ghost of candle smoke from nights long past. Here, at the highest point of Briarbourne Hall, it always felt like time had stopped moving.

Margaret gathered the dress she had laid carefully at the foot of her bed the night before, a patchwork of hand-me-downs and salvaged fabrics, lovingly sewn together in the hours no one cared to notice she was missing. The soft square neckline complimented the frill at the bottom. She pressed the bundle of cloth to her chest and tiptoed across the attic, careful to avoid the loudest of the floorboards, until she reached the narrow, rickety stair that led down to the servants’ entrance.

The back door groaned on its hinges as she slipped outside into the pale breath of dawn. The world was still half-asleep; the gardens were blanketed in mist, and the stones of the courtyard were slick with dew. Margaret padded barefoot across the cold, uneven stones to where a fresh bucket of water and clean cloths had been left at the corner by the kitchen maids.

Kneeling beside the bucket, she set her dress safely atop a dry patch of stone and braced herself. The water was bitterly cold, biting at her skin like needles. She splashed her face, her neck, her arms, scrubbing quickly with a coarse linen cloth. The roughness scratched at her skin, leaving it tingling and pink, but it washed away the heavy fog of sleep from her mind.

The world around her stirred to life: the low hum of distant conversation, the rhythmic clink of metal as the lantern lighters worked the hillsides beyond the Hall. She could just make out their tiny figures moving against the horizon, their soft voices carrying on the crisp air as they hooked the last of the night’s lanterns onto tall wooden posts. First light was creeping steadily over Edevane now, spilling pale gold across the fields, catching in the lace of fog still tangled in the hedgerows.

Margaret hurriedly dried herself off, her fingers stiff with cold, and slipped into her homemade dress. It hung loose around her slender frame, the seams slightly crooked where she had sewn them by candlelight. She tied the thin, worn sash around her waist and smoothed the wrinkled fabric with trembling hands, willing it to look presentable—though she knew it never truly would.

For a moment, she lingered outside, drawing in the fresh, damp scent of the morning; the earth, the moss, the faint trace of woodsmoke from distant cottages. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it: the fleeting quiet, the freedom of being unseen.

But there was no time to waste. She turned back to the Hall, pulling open the back door once more, and crept up the narrow servants’ stair to her attic. The air grew thinner with each step, the ceiling slanting sharply until she had to duck to avoid the low beams. The attic was dim and cramped, but it was hers, and that counted for something.

Crossing the tiny room in a few strides, she knelt by the small, battered trunk tucked beneath the eaves. It was her secret trove, the only corner of the world she could call her own. Carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a neatly folded mended shawl, a handful of worn, dog-eared books, and a journal bound in cracked brown leather.

Sitting on the edge of her frail bed, Margaret let the worn journal settle in her lap, the cracked leather cool beneath her fingertips. She opened it carefully, mindful of the fragile spine, and a thin photograph, tucked between the first pages, fluttered free. It drifted down like a falling leaf and landed soundlessly against her skirt.

She stared at it for a moment before picking it up between her trembling fingers.

The photograph was aged nearly to sepia, its edges curling inward, browned and delicate from the slow burn of time. Yet the image it held was stubbornly clear, stubbornly sharp enough to sting. It showed her family standing tall before the pristine façade of Briarbourne Hall in its younger days, when the stone was still new, the paint still bright, the gardens lush and untamed.

There was Nora at the center, poised and regal even then, her hand resting lightly on Thomas’s arm. Thomas stood stiff-backed and unsmiling, a man already heavy with the expectations of legacy. Beatrice was a bright flare beside them, her hair in glossy ringlets, her small face beaming with the easy assurance of someone destined to be adored.

And there—off to the side, almost out of frame—was Margaret.

Three years old, dwarfed by the grandeur around her, her hair a wild tangle that caught the light like spun gold. Her small hand was curled tightly around her mother’s, her round cheeks flushed from play. She looked up toward Nora, wide-eyed, expectant, clinging.

A memory unspooled itself, as fragile as the breath of winter across glass.

They had been running, she and Beatrice, through the tall grasses in the field behind the house, where the earth still smelled sweet and alive and the wind tangled itself in their hair. Margaret remembered the feeling of the grass brushing against her legs, the sun hot on her back, her heart hammering in the way only a child's could—with no fear, only delight.

Beatrice, in a white muslin dress, ran ahead with all the effortless grace that would one day turn heads in every ballroom. Margaret stumbled after her, skirts hiked up awkwardly in both fists, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably from her lips. She could still hear it—the high, shrill giggle of uncontained joy.

Nora had stood by the great oak tree at the edge of the field, skirts gathered in one hand, her other hand shading her eyes as she watched them. There had been no sternness then, no sharp tongue or cutting glance. Only a laugh; light, unguarded, almost girlish.

"Margie, slow down before you topple!" her mother had called, her voice bright with laughter, the smile stretching across her usually severe mouth like a miracle.

‘Margie.’ The name hung in Margaret’s mind like a ghost.

It was a name she hadn’t heard in years, one that now seemed to belong to someone else entirely, a girl who had once been cherished, if only fleetingly. A girl who had once been seen.

The memory trembled like a flame in a breeze, threatening to go out. It felt brittle now, foreign, as though it had been pressed too hard against the waking reality of her life and had cracked under the strain. A dream she wasn't sure had ever truly belonged to her.

Margaret touched the photograph with aching gentleness, her thumb brushing the faded faces. She half-feared that if she looked too long, they might vanish altogether—this brief, golden sliver of a past that had long since been buried beneath years of cold glances and clipped orders.

She closed her eyes and held the photo against her chest, letting herself feel, for just a moment, the ghost of the warmth that had once been hers.

“Margaret Jones!”

Her father's voice, sharp, commanding, and utterly devoid of affection, sliced through the thin attic door like the crack of a whip.

She startled, the photograph slipping from her fingers and landing soundlessly on the worn floorboards. Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs. Fingers fumbling, she gathered the fragile photograph and journal, tucking them hastily back into the battered trunk as if hiding away a guilty secret.

Below, the house had roused into a flurry of activity. She could hear the heavy thud of trunks being carried down the stairs, the shuffle of hurried feet on stone floors, the clipped farewells of servants they would leave behind. First light was brushing up against the horizon now, gilding the attic windowpanes in a thin, cold silver. The carriage would not wait for her.

Margaret smoothed her dress with quick, trembling hands, feeling the rough weave catch against her calloused fingers. She squared her shoulders, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, and slipped out of the attic.

The air grew colder as she descended the narrow staircase, the grandness of Briarbourne Hall pressing down with every step. The once-warm home of her childhood now loomed with the icy stiffness of a house grown used to her silence.

In the main hall, Beatrice spun before a tall, gilt-framed mirror, her new satin traveling cloak flaring out around her in glossy ripples, catching the light like water. She laughed—a light, tinkling sound rehearsed for the ears of courtiers—and Nora stood nearby, adjusting a fold in her daughter's sleeve, her face soft with approval.

Thomas stood apart, checking the time against his polished pocket watch, the glint of gold catching the edge of his cold gaze. He looked up briefly, his mouth thinning in irritation at the sight of Margaret before snapping the watch closed with a click of finality.

"You lot look lovely," Margaret offered into the charged air, her voice small, careful, the words as practiced as a prayer she no longer believed in. She kept her slim fingers clasped behind her, thumbs fiddling in anticipation. It had been months since Margaret had left the palace past the gates, besides for a usual gather for produce at the markets.

Beatrice turned just enough to catch Margaret's eye, her lips curling into a slow, triumphant smirk that didn’t reach her coldly shining eyes. Nora gave only the faintest of nods in acknowledgment, her fingers already back at work adjusting the angle of Beatrice’s bonnet, ensuring every ribbon and bow sat with effortless perfection.

Margaret bowed her head, murmuring another hollow compliment she knew they would not hear, and accepted the shawl a waiting maid thrust into her arms with mechanical indifference. She wrapped it around her shoulders, grateful at least for the meager shield against the creeping morning chill.

Within moments, they were ushered out into the courtyard. The air was sharp and biting, carrying the fresh scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Margaret flinched as the cold kissed her cheeks, but she kept her expression still, trained. Before them loomed the family carriage, grand and heavy, its deep blue panels freshly polished and emblazoned with the Fitzgerald crest—a bear rampant, roaring in silent pride.

Margaret climbed in after her parents, tucking herself into the farthest corner of the plush interior. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her fingers tightening until her knuckles turned white as the horses stamped and frothed impatiently at the bit, their breath pluming in the frosty air.

The carriage gave a lurch, the wheels groaning as they began their long journey northward. Margaret kept her eyes on the road ahead, refusing to look back at Briarbourne Hall, its chimneys silhouetted against the awakening sky.

The path stretched out before them—four long hours through misted hills, along roads that wound through shadowed woods where light struggled to reach. Alderham was waiting at the end of it, a place Margaret had only ever heard of in careful murmurs and wary warnings, a place of power and cold stone and royal blood.

She pressed her palm against the windowpane, watching as the mist thickened, swallowing the world in a pale gray hush.

Somewhere beyond that veil of fog, Wrosley Keep loomed, patient and immovable.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The great hall of Wrosley Keep stood as still as a tomb, thick with a silence that settled deep into the stone walls. Only the occasional crack of the hearth fire gnawing at its last stubborn logs offered any sign of life, the sound snapping sharply in the heavy air. Morning light, dim and shrouded by Alderham’s eternal mist, slanted weakly through the narrow, arched windows, painting long, wan stripes across the cold flagstone floor. The lingering fog outside made even the bold banners on the high walls seem muted, their colors dulled as if bleached by centuries of waiting.

At the end of the long black oak dining table sat King Harry Styles, solitary at the head, his figure carved out in stark lines against the throne-like chair he occupied. His posture was ramrod straight, every inch the king he had been raised to be, shoulders squared beneath the heavy cut of his dark jacket. The deep blue fabric, trimmed with subtle silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar, caught the faintest gleam of the firelight. As he meticulously adjusted the cuffs at his wrist, the small movements spoke volumes—rituals of control, of composure sharpened to a blade’s edge.

His hair, dark and thick, was neatly combed back from his brow, not a strand out of place. It gleamed faintly in the low light, the rich, natural wave of it tamed into order, like everything else about him.

Across the vast, yawning stretch of table—too long for comfort, too cold for true conversation—his twin brother, Edward, slouched in his chair with a boneless ease that seemed almost deliberately disrespectful. His ankles were crossed lazily beneath the table, boots scuffed with the dust of some unspoken misadventure, and his shoulders slumped as if the very notion of formality was a burden too great to bear.

A young maid, pale, slight, and visibly trembling, moved with silent urgency as she set down the last of the polished silver cutlery. Her hands fluttered like nervous birds. She offered a low, swift curtsey, her head bowed so low the limp ties of her apron brushed the floor. Without daring a glance at either brother, she backed out of the hall, the soft scrape of the door closing behind her like the final note of a funeral march.

Then Edward moved, quick and careless. He seized the metal lid covering his breakfast and tore it free with a theatrical flourish. It clattered noisily across the gleaming surface of the table, spinning and skipping like a tossed shield until it collided with a silver pitcher at the center with a metallic bang.

The echo rolled through the cavernous hall.

Harry’s jaw tightened so sharply a muscle leapt in his cheek, the only betrayal of his irritation. His hand paused mid-motion, fork hovering just above his plate.

"Must you behave like an ungoverned hound?" Harry said without lifting his gaze, each syllable clipped and wrapped in the kind of low, withering disdain that could wither even the boldest spirit.

Edward only chuckled, a deep, lazy sound, utterly unfazed by the rebuke. He speared a thick slab of meat with a single, cavalier jab of his fork, dragging it toward himself with a scraping sound that made Harry’s teeth grind.

"Morning to you as well, brother," Edward said around a mouthful of food, his voice warm with amusement and irreverence.

Harry returned to his meal with the same rigid, silent discipline with which he did everything else. His knife sliced through the ham with clean, efficient strokes, movements so precise they might have been measured with a ruler. Every bite was deliberate, not a crumb or smear of sauce left as evidence of indulgence.

In sharp contrast, Edward wielded his utensils with the gracelessness of a street brawler—switching hands without care, sawing into bread and meat with the same dull knife, elbows planted firmly on the table as he leaned forward like a boy who had never been taught a single table manner. He lounged and sprawled and ate without shame, his dark hair tied back haphazardly in a leather cord, the ends curling rebelliously against the nape of his neck.

After several minutes of taut silence, broken only by the muted scrape of silver against china and the distant whisper of the fire, Edward flung his fork down with a clatter that rang out across the cavernous hall. He leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, the legs of it creaking beneath his lazy sprawl. His long hair, having worked itself free from its earlier binding, spilled in unruly waves over the crumpled shoulders of his shirt, the loose strands catching the weak light like dulled copper. His collar was undone at the throat, exposing the smooth, bronzed skin of his collarbone, and his sleeves were shoved up past his elbows in a careless, half-drunk sort of fashion.

"So," Edward drawled, his voice rough with sleep and sarcasm, "the illustrious Fitzgeralds are due to arrive today?"

Harry did not immediately respond. He merely gave the smallest nod, so slight it might have been mistaken for the tilt of a shadow, his attention never once wavering from the careful, measured cuts he made into his meal. His movements were slow and deliberate, each slice of his knife a whisper against the plate.

Edward shifted, reaching for the nearest loaf of bread. He tore at it absently with long, calloused fingers, shredding the crust as a hawk might rip into a hare, his posture slouched and feral despite the grandeur around him. The pieces fell onto his plate in a rough pile, forgotten as quickly as they were made.

"What’s the fuss about, then?" Edward said, tossing a scrap of bread into his mouth and speaking around it. "Bit far to travel just for tea and pleasantries, isn’t it?"

Harry’s hand paused. He set his utensils down with almost surgical care, the faint clink of polished silver on fine china disturbingly soft. Without a word, he lifted his gaze; cool, commanding, and edged with warning.

"They need our help," he said simply, each word clipped and weighted, his tone stripped of any warmth or sympathy.

Edward snorted into his goblet, the low, derisive sound ricocheting off the stone walls. He tossed another piece of bread onto his plate with a bored flick of his fingers.

"Help?" he echoed, his mouth curling into a smirk. "Why would we waste our time bailing out a family with more pride than sense?"

Harry offered no immediate reply. Instead, he resumed his meal with mechanical precision, methodically cutting into another slice of ham. The blade of his knife bit through the tender meat with a quiet, clean hiss, like the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

"It is not a matter of want," Harry said at last, his voice low and implacable, like the slow shifting of stone beneath a mountain. "It is a matter of duty."

Edward tilted his head, studying his twin as if he were some curious artifact, grinning as though Harry’s words were the punchline of a particularly dry jest.

"Ah yes," Edward said, leaning forward with a theatrical air. "Our sacred duty. To lift the burdens of lesser houses. How terribly noble of us."

For the first time, a flicker of real irritation crossed Harry’s face. His fingers tightened minutely around the handle of his knife, the knuckles whitening, but he gave no other sign that Edward’s mockery had landed. He finished the bite he had prepared with methodical grace, then reached for the linen cloth beside his plate, dabbing the corner of his mouth with restrained, practiced elegance.

"You will remember your place when they arrive," Harry said after a beat, each syllable sliding out slow and deliberate, like the grinding turn of a rusted key in a stubborn lock.

Edward only grinned wider, raising his goblet in a mock salute that dripped insolence. His hair fell untamed around his face, the wild strands catching the muted gray light and turning it to glinting fire.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, sharpening into a cutting stare that could have chilled molten iron.

"And for God's sake," Harry said, the words bitten off as coldly as the northern cliffs outside, "bind your damned hair. You look like some half-bred poet loitering at court doors."

Edward laughed a low, reckless sound that spilled far too loudly into the solemn vastness of the great hall. It was the laugh of someone who cared little for consequences, who had built a life on poking at the sharp edges of his brother’s patience.

Still, under the weight of Harry’s blistering gaze, Edward eventually dragged a hand through his hair with exaggerated compliance, shoving the tangled mass back from his face and tying it off with a rough leather thong he fished from his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate, mocking.

"You do love your little spectacles of propriety," Edward mused, voice full of half-hearted admiration as he slouched even farther down in his chair, the picture of unruliness disguised as nonchalance.

"And you," Harry said, returning to his meal with a cool finality, "love humiliating yourself."

With that, the room lapsed once more into a brittle, strained silence, broken only by the steady scrape of knife against plate, the low pop of the hearth, and the distant, hollow thrum of the banners outside Wrosley Keep flapping against the oncoming storm.

The Fitzgeralds would arrive by afternoon. And Harry intended to be ready.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The carriage rattled over the uneven roads that wound through the countryside of Edevane, the early morning sun now fully risen and casting pale gold across the fields. Dust and the sweet, heavy scent of wet earth kicked up in their wake. The horses' hooves clattered rhythmically against the stone-laid roads, a steady drumbeat beneath the low chatter of birds darting from the hedgerows.

Margaret sat tightly beside her sister, her shoulder brushing against the overstuffed skirts of Beatrice’s traveling gown. The silk and tulle ballooned against the cramped quarters, forcing Margaret to shrink inward all the more. She folded her hands primly in her lap, her patched dress of stitched scraps looking even sadder beside her sister’s fine lavender silks, the fabric catching the light like mist.

Their parents sat across from them, poised and straight-backed despite the jostling of the carriage wheels. Lord Thomas Fitzgerald barely moved a muscle, his gloved hands resting on an ivory-handled cane, while Lady Nora kept herself busied with small, constant adjustments—pulling her shawl closer, smoothing the folds of her gown, glancing sharply now and then toward Beatrice.

"Remember," Nora said sharply, her voice slicing through the confined air, "head high. Shoulders back. Speak with care and caution. You are not merely our daughter today, you are the future face of this family."

Beatrice gave a demure nod, twirling the end of one pale glove between her fingers with a casual grace that was well-practiced.

Margaret said nothing. She pressed her forehead lightly against the cool windowpane, letting her gaze blur over the endless roll of green and gold hills, the shadowed woods beyond them. Occasionally, a village boy or a weary farmer would pause to watch the passing carriage, hats tugged low over their brows, but Margaret hardly saw them. She let the rhythm of the horses, the creak of the wheels, the distant shushing of the bushes along the roadside lull her into a quiet fog.

"How grand it shall be," Beatrice said, breaking the stillness with a voice touched by barely restrained excitement. "To show my face properly this time. To be seen not as a child, but as the next heir. Imagine it… the future of Fitzgerald resting in my hands."

She smiled, the kind of smile that was all white teeth and ambition hidden behind a curtain of charm.

Lady Nora offered her daughter a thin, pleased smile in return. "You have been groomed for this, Beatrice. Do not forget it. And should fortune favor us..." She leaned slightly forward, voice dropping low and intent, "you may well have the opportunity to become Harry Styles’ missus."

At this, Beatrice's cheeks pinked with barely concealed glee. Margaret sat still, her gaze dropping to her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"The more the brothers, moreso Harry, favor us," Nora continued briskly, "the better our standing. We require their allegiance as much as they require the appearance of unity. Do not embarrass us. And do not think for a moment they will forgive carelessness."

Thomas grunted in vague agreement, his eyes still trained out the window.

A sudden tap of fingers against the carriage wall snapped Margaret back to attention.

"And you," Lady Nora said sharply, her steely gaze fixing on Margaret like a hawk's on a mouse. "You will speak only if you are spoken to. When you greet the brothers, you will curtsy politely and say nothing more unless addressed."

Margaret turned her head, sitting straighter, folding her patched skirts beneath her with aching care.

"Yes, my lady," she murmured, her voice low, nearly lost beneath the clatter of hooves.

"You will stand behind us," Nora continued, voice crisp. "You will not interfere. You will not embarrass yourself, or us. Should you be asked to leave, you will do so without hesitation."

Thomas said nothing. He never did when it came to Margaret. His gaze remained pinned out the opposite window, as though she were merely another piece of luggage making the journey.

Margaret bowed her head obediently, feeling the familiar flush of shame rise up the back of her neck. Her palms, folded tightly in her lap, left small damp prints against the fabric of her skirt.

"Of course, mother," she whispered, offering a curt nod.

Beatrice gave a small, satisfied smirk and returned to adjusting the lace cuffs at her wrists, as if the matter were settled beyond all dispute.

The carriage jostled sharply over a rut, and Margaret’s head knocked lightly against the wooden frame of the window. She hardly flinched. She only turned her face back toward the glass, watching the misty hills of Alderham grow nearer with each lurching turn of the wheels.

The air seemed to grow colder the farther north they traveled, the fields giving way to long stretches of moorland, where the wind bent the grasses low and dark clouds loomed distantly along the horizon. Somewhere ahead, hidden among the hills and cliffs, lay Wrosley Keep—the seat of the House of Styles.

Margaret pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but it did little to chase away the chill creeping into her bones.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The long hall of the north wing was chilled with the breath of the early morning fog, a low mist pressing against the tall windows like ghostly fingers. Beyond the glass, the fields of Alderham stretched out in a pale, colorless sprawl, the sun straining through the mist in gauzy ribbons of gold, as if the world itself was still waking, hesitant to embrace the new day.

Harry Styles stood in stillness at the window, one gloved hand resting lightly on the cold stone ledge, his eyes lost in the view that had become so familiar it barely registered anymore. His reflection, sharp and princely, stared back at him through the pale glass, the contours of his face sharpened by the dim light. His dark blue coat, cut sharply across his broad shoulders, swept neatly to the tops of his polished black boots, the fabric rich and heavy, like the weight of his title. A brooch bearing the House of Styles sigil, a lion crowned with ivy, clipped his heavy velvet cloak at the throat, glimmering faintly under the low sun. Beneath the cloak, a crisp white cravat was tied precisely at his collar, the folds symmetrical and flawless. His black waistcoat fit snug against his chest, the fabric stitched with faint embroidery in thread so dark it was barely visible unless caught in the right light, a detail most would miss but one that only added to the meticulous perfection of his appearance.

A pocket watch gleamed in his hand, the silver casing flashing briefly as he thumbed open the lid and checked the time. They were due any moment now.

The Fitzgeralds.

Their meeting had been arranged through a careful back-and-forth of handwritten letters, sealed with too much wax, and couched in the kind of formalities that Harry found irksome but unavoidable. The need for this meeting was not one born of mutual respect or kinship, but necessity. The Fitzgeralds needed money after the unfortunate, very public collapse of a portion of their estate wealth. It had become a scandal, one that could not be ignored, especially given how they had once been among the most influential families in the kingdom.

Harry, urged by Edward’s strange, persistent prodding, had agreed to this... display of generosity. At first, it had seemed like nothing more than an act of diplomacy, an arrangement to maintain the delicate balance of power between noble houses. But Edward had insisted, his voice heavy with persuasive charm, that this could be more, much more. Pity, Edward had argued, was not weakness if wielded properly. It was power: the power to bestow favor, to raise up those who could not stand on their own, and in doing so, show the kingdom that King Harry Styles was not just a ruler but a savior.

The thought of it left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth. It was so very... calculated. So very Edward. He had always been the one to see power in places where others saw only weakness, to turn the very act of charity into a tool of dominance. And Harry, always the more cautious, had reluctantly agreed. There was no real danger in extending a hand to the Fitzgeralds. They would remain beneath him, as all others did. Their presence at Wrosley Keep was a show, nothing more—proof of his strength disguised as kindness, as benevolence.

The thought lingered in his mind, cold and steady, until a sharp voice echoed down the hall, dragging him from his thoughts.

"Your Majesty."

The voice was unmistakable. Edward.

Harry didn’t bother to turn, his expression already sliding into a mask of polite restraint.

Edward emerged from the west wing archway, his wild hair now tamed into a neat bun tied with a slim ribbon of red silk at the crown of his head. He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves tucked into a black waistcoat, silver buttons gleaming, and fitted dark trousers tucked into knee-high riding boots. There was a rakish elegance about him, like a man pretending at courtly behavior but unable, or unwilling, to hide the scoundrel underneath.

"You’re late," Harry’s lips tightened, the words slipping out like the snap of a drawn bowstring. His hand flexed once around the smooth casing of the pocket watch before he snapped the lid shut with a sharp click and tucked it back into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. The movement was crisp, exacting, as if even small gestures could not afford to be careless.

With a slow, practiced stillness, he turned toward the direction of the voice, his frame rigid beneath the heavy drape of his cloak. His face, honed into an expression of distant resolve, betrayed none of the irritation that simmered low beneath his skin.

Edward grinned in response, wide and unbothered, his stance a study in irreverence. His dark cloak hung open and loose at his sides, the finer points of his attire rumpled with a careless charm that somehow only made him look more princely, not less.

"I’m early by my own clock," Edward said lightly, voice lilting with amusement as he strolled forward, hands tucked lazily behind his back.

Harry’s eyes flickered once, a brief roll of temper he was too well-trained to fully show. "You don’t have a clock," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Edward, as he brushed an invisible crease from the sleeve of his coat and adjusted the cuffs with slow, deliberate precision.

"All the more reason I’m never wrong," Edward replied with a shrug, his voice rich with self-satisfaction. He came to stand beside Harry, their twin reflections caught faintly in the dim glass of the window—two halves of the same whole, yet impossibly different.

The hall stretched wide around them, a cavern of stone and echo, lined with suits of armor that glinted dully in the thin, reluctant light. Tapestries bearing the ancient crest of their house stirred slightly from the draft seeping through the cracks in the stone walls. Every sound, the scrape of a heel, the breath of the fog beyond the windows, seemed amplified by the vast emptiness.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath controlled, tempered, as he turned his gaze toward the distant outline of the main gates, barely visible through the thick white gauze of mist that clung to the outer courtyard. The carriages would be there soon, he knew. The sound of wheels grinding over gravel, the snort of impatient horses, the flutter of banners—he could almost hear it already, ghosting through the cold air.

Without looking at Edward, Harry lifted one hand, a sharp, commanding gesture, and called out, "Open the gates. They’ll arrive shortly."

His words cracked across the space like a whip. Down the hall, the guards straightened at attention, the polished steel of their armor flashing briefly in the dim light. With practiced efficiency, they bowed low, the motion deep and synchronized, before sweeping away toward the outer doors with the hollow thud of boots against stone and the low, rhythmic clank of armor plates shifting.

The brothers remained where they stood, silent as sentinels.

For a moment, there was nothing but the hush of the empty hall, thick with waiting, and the soft, ceaseless groan of the wind pressing against the high windows. Somewhere farther off, the faint metallic moan of the gate mechanisms starting to turn echoed up through the stone like the slow stirring of some great beast waking from slumber.

Harry watched without moving, his posture a portrait of patience sharpened into a weapon. Edward, beside him, rocked back slightly on his heels, humming a soft, tuneless sound under his breath, as if the moment's gravity did not touch him at all.

As Edward rocked idly on his heels, the soles of his boots made the faintest creak against the flagstones. He tilted his head, casting a sidelong glance at Harry, who stood rigid as a drawn sword beside him.

"Tell me again why we’re offering a lifeline to a family that couldn’t even keep their coffers guarded?" Edward asked, his voice low, coaxing, almost playful.

Harry’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the skin as he remained unmoving, his gaze locked out toward the mist-veiled road. The fog lay thick and heavy, muting the edges of the world beyond the gates into little more than ghostly outlines.

"Because it is our duty," Harry said at last, his tone clipped and cool as a blade's edge. "A king does not merely conquer. He uplifts, when it suits him."

His words held the weight of a rehearsed lesson, something he had long ago carved into himself with careful precision. Yet even now, the bitterness laced subtly through his voice, a reminder that duty rarely tasted sweet.

Edward smirked, slow and crooked, the kind of smile meant to provoke. "Sounds like you’re going soft," he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed mischief.

In a single, fluid motion, Harry turned to face him. His cloak snapped behind him with the sharp crack of heavy velvet slicing the cold air. The movement was so sudden, so forceful, that Edward instinctively straightened, the lazy smirk lingering but his posture subtly less mocking.

Harry’s glare pinned him where he stood; cold, searing, and honed with the precision of a dagger’s thrust.

"Say that again at court," Harry said, his voice low enough to be a warning, "and see how fast you find yourself posted to the borderlands."

The threat, though spoken softly, hit like a slap. The borderlands, windswept, treacherous, and crawling with unrest, were not where one went to bask in favor. It was where inconvenient men were sent to fade into obscurity, or die.

Edward raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, the chain at his wrist glinting faintly as it caught the dim light. Laughter flickered in his dark eyes, the easy, reckless kind that had always marked him as Harry’s greatest frustration, and perhaps his only true equal.

"As you say, Your Majesty," Edward teased, sketching an irreverent half-bow that was far too casual to be respectful. His tone danced on the edge of mockery, but there was an acknowledgment buried beneath it, a deference neither of them would ever admit aloud.

Harry said nothing in return. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back beneath the heavy drape of his cloak, adjusting the set of it until it fell in precise, commanding folds. His gloved hands smoothed down the front of his coat, each movement methodical, controlled.

Without another word, the two of them turned and began to move in measured strides down the long hall toward the main entrance. Their boots struck the stone floor in a steady rhythm, echoing faintly through the cavernous space.

The air between them, though outwardly casual, thrummed with an electric tension—the constant, unspoken current that ran deep between twin brothers who had been raised together yet shaped by the crown to walk entirely different paths.

Outside, the ancient iron gates had begun to groan open, the sound deep and grating, like the yawning of some slumbering beast. Mist coiled greedily through the widening gap, spilling over the gravel like thick smoke from an unseen fire.

From beyond the wall of fog came the soft, rhythmic crunch of hooves meeting gravel, steady and deliberate.

The horses slowed, their breath misting the cold air in great silver plumes. A black carriage, lacquered to a mirror shine and bearing the Fitzgerald family crest, emerged slowly from the mist and drew to a halt before the steps of Wrosley Keep.

"Another bloody Tuesday, another bloody woman," Harry muttered, adjusting his silk cravat in the ornate mirror. His valet, Arthur, a stoic man who had seen it all, merely cleared his throat. "Indeed, Your Royal Highness. Lady Amelia was quite... spirited."

Harry snorted, a lecherous grin spreading across his face. "Spirited? She nearly bit my damn ear off. But a good bit of fun, nonetheless." He ran a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair, a stark contrast to the perfectly coiffed wigs favored by many at court. He was Prince Henry, but everyone, even his father, called him Harry. And Harry liked his life. He liked the endless parade of women, the late-night revelries, the freedom to indulge every whim. He was the spare, after all, his older brother, Edward, destined for the throne. Harry was free to be Harry.

The morning air, usually crisp and invigorating, felt heavy today. He could hear the faint sounds of courtly life stirring outside his chambers – the clatter of carriages, the distant chatter of servants, the hurried footsteps of minor nobles. All a blur to Harry, whose days revolved around pleasure and avoiding responsibility.

He was about to dismiss Arthur and find his morning brandy when a knock, sharp and insistent, echoed through the room. Arthur opened the door to reveal Lord Pembroke, his father's chief advisor, his face grim. Harry's playful mood immediately soured. Pembroke never brought good news.

"Your Royal Highness," Pembroke began, his voice unusually strained. "I regret to inform you that His Majesty has taken ill. Gravely ill."

Harry's breath hitched. His father? Ill? The old man was a bull, strong and unyielding. "What do you mean, 'gravely ill'?"

Pembroke's eyes met his, filled with a mixture of pity and something akin to dread. "The royal physicians fear... the worst. His Majesty is not expected to recover."

The words hit Harry like a physical blow. His father. Gone? But that meant…

"And Prince Edward?" Harry asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Where is my brother?"

A long, agonizing silence filled the room. Pembroke swallowed hard. "His Royal Highness, Prince Edward, succumbed to a fever last week, Your Royal Highness. The news was withheld from you at His Majesty's request, given his own failing health."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. Edward? Dead? The world tilted on its axis. No, this couldn't be happening. Edward was the king-to-be. Harry was… Harry.

"So that means…" Harry started, his voice hollow.

Pembroke nodded slowly. "It means, Your Royal Highness, that upon His Majesty's passing, you will be King. King Henry."

The reality of it slammed into Harry. King. No more drunken escapades. No more illicit affairs. No more freedom. His stomach churned. This was a nightmare. A bloody, rotten nightmare.

"And there's more, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke continued, seemingly oblivious to Harry's spiraling despair. "Before his illness took hold, His Majesty made arrangements for your marriage. A matter of stability for the crown, he insisted."

Harry felt a cold dread creep up his spine. An arranged marriage? To some simpering duchess, no doubt, who would lecture him on propriety and bore him to tears. "Who is it?" he demanded, his voice thick with loathing.

Pembroke hesitated, a flicker of unease in his eyes. "Her name is Miss Ida Elmore, Your Royal Highness."

The name meant nothing to Harry. "A noblewoman? From which house?"

Pembroke cleared his throat again, this time with a visible effort. "Miss Elmore... is not of the nobility, Your Royal Highness. She is a commoner. His Majesty believed her simplicity and grounded nature would serve as a 'humbling influence,' in his words."

Harry stared at Pembroke, then burst into a harsh, mirthless laugh. A commoner? His father, that conniving old bastard, was truly having the last laugh. He was going to be king, yes, but he was also going to be shackled to a commoner, a woman chosen specifically to humble him.

"A commoner?" Harry snarled, the vulgarity bubbling to the surface. "You're fucking kidding me! This is a joke, right? Some sick, twisted joke?"

Pembroke remained impassive. "No joke, Your Royal Highness. Your father's final decree."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. His life, once a playground of endless indulgence, was now a gilded cage. A bloody throne, a dead brother, a dying father, and a commoner bride. This was a goddamn nightmare, and he was trapped in it.

His gaze fell on Arthur, who stood silently by the door, his face as unreadable as ever. "Arthur," Harry said, the word a rasp in his throat. "Fetch me the strongest brandy you have. And a large glass."

Arthur merely bowed and exited the room. Harry collapsed into a velvet armchair, his mind racing. King. The word echoed in his ears, a mocking refrain. He, Harry, who had never taken anything seriously in his life, was to be king. 

The very idea was ludicrous. He imagined himself presiding over court, attempting to decipher diplomatic intricacies, or worse, listening to endless petitions from disgruntled commoners. He would be a disaster. The kingdom would crumble within a year.

And Ida Elmore. A commoner. The humiliation of it burned his cheeks. His father, in his dying act, had managed to deliver one final, devastating blow. It wasn’t enough that Harry would be forced into a life of duty and responsibility, he would also be tied to a woman whose very existence was a public declaration of his father’s disdain for his choices. A humbling influence. The gall of the old man! He could almost hear his father's booming laugh, a cruel echo from beyond the grave.

The door creaked open, and Arthur returned with a silver tray bearing a crystal decanter and a goblet. Harry snatched the goblet and poured a generous amount of the amber liquid. The fiery burn as it went down did little to quell the turmoil in his gut, but it offered a momentary distraction.

"Pembroke," Harry said, his voice flat. "Tell me everything. How long has Edward been… gone?"

Pembroke shifted uncomfortably. "Almost two weeks, Your Royal Highness. It was a virulent fever. The royal physicians were helpless."

Two weeks. Two weeks and no one had told him. His own brother, dead, and he had been living his usual dissolute life, oblivious. A fresh wave of self-loathing washed over him. He had been so wrapped up in his own petty pleasures, so convinced that his position as the spare exempted him from the realities of life and death, that he hadn't even noticed the absence of his elder brother. Edward. 

He pictured his brother’s serious face, his quiet dedication, his unwavering sense of duty. Edward had been everything Harry was not. And now Edward was gone, and Harry was left to pick up the pieces of a crown he never wanted.

"And the marriage?" Harry pressed, the brandy beginning to dull the sharp edges of his despair. "When is this… charade to take place?"

"As soon as is decorous, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke replied. "Given the circumstances of His Majesty’s health, a swift union is deemed essential for stability."

"Decorous?" Harry scoffed. "My father is on his deathbed, my brother is barely cold in his grave, and you speak of decorum? This is a monstrous farce!"

Pembroke remained stoic, his eyes unwavering. "These are His Majesty’s wishes, Your Royal Highness. They are absolute."

Harry took another long swig of brandy, the warmth spreading through him. He leaned his head back against the velvet, staring at the ornate ceiling. He felt like a pawn in a game he hadn’t even known was being played, a game in which he had just lost everything.

He imagined Ida Elmore. He pictured her as dull, plain, probably pious to a fault. Someone who would tut at his drinking, frown at his late nights, and sigh dramatically over his many improprieties. 

The thought made him want to smash something. He, Prince Henry, was to be a prisoner in his own kingdom, chained to a woman who would remind him of his father's disappointment at every turn.

"Is there… is there any way out of this, Pembroke?" Harry asked, a desperate flicker of hope in his voice. "A loophole? A forgotten law? Anything?"

Pembroke shook his head slowly. "I am afraid not, Your Royal Highness. His Majesty’s decree was meticulously drafted and witnessed. It is legally binding."

The last vestige of hope died within Harry. He was trapped. Utterly, irrevocably trapped. The thought of a life without freedom, without the endless pursuit of pleasure, was a suffocating weight. He would be King Henry. A king he did not want to be, ruling a kingdom he felt utterly unprepared for, married to a woman he would undoubtedly despise.

A bitter laugh escaped him. "So, I am to be King Henry, the reluctant monarch, shackled to a commoner wife, all thanks to my father’s final, vengeful act."

Pembroke cleared his throat again, a gesture Harry was beginning to associate with uncomfortable truths. "His Majesty, in his final lucid moments, expressed a profound hope, Your Royal Highness. He believed that this union, and the responsibilities of the crown, would finally… make a man of you."

Harry slammed his goblet down on the nearby table, the crystal ringing loudly. "Make a man of me? He’s trying to break me! He always has been! He saw my life as a series of failures, and now he’s ensured my future will be a perpetual penance!"

"With all due respect, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke said, his voice surprisingly firm, "your father loved you. He believed in your potential, even if you did not. He saw the fire in you, the passion. He merely wished to channel it toward a greater purpose."

"Greater purpose?" Harry snarled. "My purpose was to enjoy life! To live free! To be Harry, not some gilded statue trapped on a throne!"

He stood abruptly, pacing the room, his long strides carrying him from one end to the other. He felt a surge of restless energy, a desperate need to escape, to run, to disappear into the anonymity of the world. But there was nowhere to go. The walls of his chambers, once a sanctuary, now felt like the confines of a prison.

"What about… what about the arrangements for the funeral?" Harry asked, forcing himself to focus on something, anything, other than his own looming fate.

"Preparations are underway for a private ceremony, Your Royal Highness, given the circumstances of Prince Edward’s passing and His Majesty’s immediate decline," Pembroke explained. "A public mourning period will be observed after the coronation."

Coronation. The word hung in the air, heavy with the weight of responsibility. Harry shuddered. He, Harry, the carefree rogue, was to be adorned with a crown and scepter, symbols of power and authority he had never craved.

"And Miss Elmore?" Harry asked, forcing the name out. "Where is she now? Is she aware of… all of this?"

"Miss Elmore arrived at the palace last night, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke replied. "She has been apprised of the situation and is being prepared for her new role."

Harry’s jaw tightened. Prepared for her new role. The phrase conjured images of a frightened mouse being primped for a lion’s den. He felt a fleeting, almost imperceptible flicker of something akin to pity for the woman. 

She, too, was a victim of his father’s machinations. A commoner, thrust into the unforgiving glare of court life, expected to marry a man who openly loathed the very idea of her. It was a cruel fate for both of them.

He downed the rest of the brandy, the alcohol burning a familiar path down his throat. He would need more than brandy to get through this. He would need a miracle. Or perhaps, he thought with a cynical smirk, just a very large supply of the strongest spirits the royal cellars could provide.

"Leave me, Pembroke," Harry finally said, his voice rough. "I need to… contemplate this new reality."

Pembroke bowed stiffly and exited the room, leaving Harry alone with Arthur, who stood silently, observing his master with an unblinking gaze.

"Arthur," Harry said, collapsing back into the armchair. "Tell me, honestly. Am I completely screwed?"

Arthur, for the first time in Harry’s memory, offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Your Royal Highness, you are merely… embarking on a new adventure."

Harry snorted. "Some adventure. More like a life sentence." He closed his eyes, picturing the endless procession of duties, the stifling formality, the crushing weight of a crown he never desired. This was not the life he had chosen. This was the life that had chosen him, and he was completely, utterly unprepared for it. 

The sun, now fully risen, cast long shadows across his chambers, illuminating the gilded cage that was now his reality. The game had changed, and Harry, the eternal player, found himself on the losing side, with no escape in sight.

The weight of his new reality pressed down on Harry, each breath a struggle against the invisible shackles that now bound him. King. The word still felt alien on his tongue, a costume he was forced to wear, ill-fitting and suffocating. 

The thought of Ida Elmore, his commoner bride, twisted his gut into knots. He needed an escape, a momentary reprieve from the impending doom of his coronation and his forced marriage. And he knew exactly what kind of escape he needed.

His eyes fell on a half-empty bottle of brandy on the side table, but even that offered little solace now. Alcohol could dull the edges, but it couldn't erase the suffocating feeling of being trapped. 

No, what Harry needed was a different kind of oblivion, a carnal distraction that could, for a few blissful hours, make him forget he was Prince Henry, soon to be King Henry, shackled to a life he despised.

He rose from the armchair, his movements agitated. Arthur, ever the silent shadow, watched him with an unreadable expression. Harry paused by the window, staring out at the manicured gardens, the perfect facade of a world he was about to inherit. He felt a sudden, desperate urge to throw open the window and scream.

"Arthur," Harry said, his voice low and tight. "I need… a distraction."

Arthur’s gaze remained steady. "Of what nature, Your Royal Highness?"

Harry turned, a cynical smile playing on his lips. "The kind that makes me forget my name, my title, and the monstrous farce I'm about to endure." He met Arthur's eyes, a silent plea passing between them. "I need a woman, Arthur. A willing, discreet woman. Someone who understands that this is purely… transactional."

Arthur cleared his throat, a faint flicker of something akin to sympathy in his eyes. "At once, Your Royal Highness. I shall make the necessary arrangements."

Harry watched him go, a sliver of relief cutting through his despair. At least for tonight, he could pretend. He could pretend he was still Harry, the carefree rogue, untroubled by crowns or commoners. He poured himself another brandy, but this time, the burn felt less futile.

***

Hours later, the palace was a hive of hushed activity, preparing for the inevitable announcement of the King's passing. But in a secluded wing of Harry's chambers, a different kind of preparation was underway. Arthur had returned with a woman, cloaked and veiled, her presence as discreet as a whisper. He introduced her simply as 'Eliza.'

She was tall, with a graceful bearing, and when she removed her veil, Harry saw a face that was strikingly beautiful, with intelligent, knowing eyes that held a hint of sadness. She wasn't one of the simpering court ladies he usually entertained, there was a quiet strength about her that intrigued him despite his immediate need.

"Your Royal Highness," she murmured, her voice soft and melodious. "It is an honor."

Harry waved a dismissive hand. "Spare me the pleasantries, Eliza. Let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is." He watched her carefully, searching for any sign of offense, but her expression remained serene.

"As you wish, Your Royal Highness," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "I am here to serve."

Her fingers, nimble and skilled, unfastened his cravat, then the buttons of his waistcoat, working with a practiced efficiency that spoke of long experience. Her body, a sinuous canvas of curves, moved with a fluid grace, brushing against his just enough to ignite a spark, yet without any hint of overt invitation. 

As his clothing fell away, revealing the hard lines of his torso, her gaze swept over him, appraising but not judgmental, a silent acknowledgment of the powerful physique beneath. 

She led him to the bed, her touch light on his arm, a gentle guidance that belied the building tension between them, and then, with a quiet confidence that both surprised and aroused him, she began to explore. It was a methodical unveiling, a deliberate journey over his form.

Her lips traced the taut line of his jaw, down his throat, lingering on the pulse point at his neck, where she felt the rapid beat of his desire mirroring her own. Her breath, warm and soft, ghosted over his skin as she descended further, her tongue tracing the hollow of his collarbone, tasting the subtle saltiness of his skin. Her hands, soft yet firm, kneaded the tension from his shoulders, her fingers working deep into the muscle, before sliding down his chest, outlining the defined pectorals. 

She found the hard nubs of his nipples, circling them with her fingertips until they peaked, sending shivers through him, a testament to her precise touch. Her touch moved lower, over his taut abdomen, awakening nerves he hadn't realized were dormant, a slow building of sensation. 

She cupped him gently, her thumb stroking the sensitive head of his cock, which sprang to full rigidity under her touch, a clear signal of his aroused state. She moved with an instinctive understanding of his desires, her rhythm aligning with his own unspoken needs, each touch a carefully orchestrated move designed to bring him to the precipice of pleasure, a master of her craft.

He found himself surprised by her quiet confidence, her ability to hold his gaze without flinching, even when he was at his most demanding. There was a depth to her that he hadn't expected, a fleeting moment when he almost forgot the desperate reason for her presence.

He gasped, a low moan escaping his lips as her touch intensified. Her nails, short and neat, lightly raked over his inner thighs, sending a fresh jolt of pleasure through him that reverberated deep in his core. A delicious shiver traced its way up his spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

She leaned in, her warm breath caressing his ear, and whispered, "Relax, Your Royal Highness. Let me take you where you need to go." The words, softly spoken yet laced with a knowing confidence, seemed to melt away the last vestiges of his royal composure. 

He felt himself yielding, his body responding with an urgency that surprised him, given his usual detached and calculated approach to such encounters.

Her skilled hands continued their exploration, a symphony of delicate presses and tantalizing strokes. She found every sensitive point, every hidden nerve ending, coaxing him further into the burgeoning tide of pleasure. 

Each movement was deliberate, a master sculptor shaping raw clay, molding him into a state of exquisite vulnerability. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound he hadn't known he possessed. The air in the chamber grew thick with unspoken desires, charged with the electric current of their current intimacy.

She lowered her head, her soft, silken hair brushing against his erection as she began to suck him gently. Her lips and tongue created a delicious suction, a rhythm of pure indulgence that made his vision swim, blurring the ornate details of his bedchamber into a hazy, sensual dream. 

He arched his back, a guttural sound torn from his throat, a primal cry of surrender. His hands instinctively reached for her hair, his fingers tangling in the silken strands, gripping them as if clinging to his last tether to reality. She continued her masterful assault on his senses, her movements becoming more urgent, mirroring the frantic pounding of his heart.

He was lost, utterly and completely lost in the moment. The weight of the crown, the impending marriage to a woman he barely knew, the political machinations of the court, all faded into a distant, irrelevant hum, like the drone of a forgotten fly. There was only Eliza, her breath on his skin, the delicate pressure of her lips, the exquisite torment and unparalleled pleasure of her touch. 

He felt himself teetering on the edge of an unknown abyss, an intoxicating descent into pure, euphoric pleasure, and he knew, with a certainty that transcended all logic, that he wanted to fall. He wanted to fall with her, into her, until there was nothing left but the raw, burning intensity of their shared passion.

He bucked against her, a raw, primal instinct driving his hips to rise and meet her mouth, a silent, desperate demand for more of the exquisite torment she inflicted. Her grip on him tightened, fingers digging into the muscle of his thighs, and she drew him deeper, her throat a warm, wet sheath that pulsed around him with every breath she took. 

The intensity was unbearable, a delicious agony that stretched his control to its absolute breaking point, each nerve ending singing with a pleasure so acute it verged on pain. His body trembled, a fine tremor that ran through him from head to toe, every muscle taut and strained with suppressed sensation, held in a precarious balance on the edge of oblivion.

He felt the insistent pull, the building pressure behind his eyes, a molten current coursing through his veins, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure gathering force within him, a tsunami poised to crash. He was close, agonizingly close, to the precipice of his release, his mind a hazy fog of need and sensation. 

He could feel the first tremors of his climax, a hot, liquid warmth spreading through his core, radiating outwards, setting his skin alight. Her movements grew more urgent, a frantic, almost desperate rhythm that matched his own escalating desire, pulling him further into the vortex.

He wanted to scream, to roar his pleasure to the heavens, to unleash the primal sound building in his chest, but all that escaped was a ragged gasp, a half-formed plea torn from his lungs as he finally surrendered. 

He exploded into her mouth, a torrent of hot, pulsing release, his body arching, his fingers digging into her hair, holding her fast as he poured himself into her, emptying himself of all the tension and despair that had plagued him for so long. 

The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of swirling colors and fragmented sensations, then slowly, mercifully, faded to black, leaving him spent, utterly sated, and adrift in the aftermath of pure, unadulterated sensation. A profound, almost spiritual calm settled over him, the echoes of his climax still reverberating through his body.

***

As the night wore on, and the brandy bottle grew lighter, Harry found himself talking, something he rarely did with his temporary companions. He spoke of his brother, Edward, the quiet, dutiful heir. He spoke of his father, the tyrannical old man who had always seen him as a disappointment. And he spoke of Ida Elmore, the commoner bride, the symbol of his father's final, cruel joke.

Eliza listened, her presence a silent, comforting anchor. She didn't offer platitudes or empty reassurances. She simply listened, her eyes reflecting a profound understanding that Harry found unsettling.

"And now," Harry slurred, running a hand through his disheveled hair, "I am to be King. King Henry. God help us all." He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "And married to a commoner, no less. A 'humbling influence,' my father called her. As if I need to be humbled."

Eliza reached out, her fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. "Perhaps," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "it is not about humbling, Your Royal Highness. Perhaps it is about finding something real, something grounded, amidst all this… pretense."

Harry snorted. "Pretense is all I know, Eliza. And it's all this court knows. A commoner will be swallowed whole."

"Or she will be the anchor," Eliza countered softly, her gaze piercing his. "The one thing that keeps you from floating away entirely."

Harry pulled away, a sudden chill running through him. Her words, so unexpected, had struck an uncomfortable chord. He didn't want an anchor. He wanted to float away, to escape this suffocating reality.

"Enough," he said, his voice sharper than he intended. "The night is over. You have served your purpose."

Eliza withdrew, her expression unreadable once more. She dressed quickly, her movements graceful and silent. As she veiled herself, Harry felt a strange pang of regret, a fleeting desire to ask her to stay, to continue the conversation that had unexpectedly veered into uncomfortable truths. But he squashed the feeling. He didn't need truth; he needed oblivion.

"Arthur will see you out," Harry said, turning his back to her, unwilling to meet her knowing gaze again.

"May you find the peace you seek, Your Royal Highness," Eliza said, her voice soft but clear.

Harry heard the door close behind her, leaving him alone in the quiet chambers. The effects of the brandy were beginning to wear off, and the crushing weight of his reality descended once more. The physical release had been temporary, the fleeting oblivion already fading. Eliza's words, however, lingered in his mind, unwelcome and unsettling.

He stumbled to his bed, the silken sheets feeling cold beneath him. He was Prince Henry, soon to be King Henry, and he had just sought solace in the arms of a stranger. 

Yet, instead of finding peace, he felt a deeper emptiness, a chilling premonition that this desperate need for distraction would be a constant companion in the gilded cage that was now his life. 

He closed his eyes, picturing the serious face of his dead brother, the stern visage of his dying father, and the unknown face of the commoner woman who was destined to be his queen. 

The nightmare, he realized, had only just begun. And no amount of brandy, no amount of fleeting pleasure, would be enough to wake him from it.

He lay there for a long time, the silence of the room amplifying the tumultuous thoughts in his head. The early morning light, usually a gentle harbinger of a new day, now felt harsh and unforgiving, stripping away the last illusions of his freedom. He was no longer Harry, the carefree rogue, but Henry, the unwilling king, a puppet of fate and a prisoner of circumstance.

He finally pushed himself out of bed, the silk sheets tangling around his legs like chains. He needed to prepare, to face the day and the grim realities it held. 

Arthur, ever punctual, would be arriving soon with his morning ablutions, and Harry dreaded the silent judgment he knew would be in his valet’s eyes. Arthur had always been a man of quiet observation, and Harry knew he saw through all the pretense.

A knock echoed at the door, confirming his suspicions. "Enter," Harry called, his voice rough.

Arthur entered, a silver basin and fresh towels in hand, his face impassive. He laid out a clean shirt, a meticulously pressed waistcoat, and a new cravat on the valet stand. "Good morning, Your Royal Highness," he said, his voice as neutral as ever.

Harry merely grunted in response, splashing cold water on his face. The chill did little to clear his head. He looked at his reflection in the mirror – a haunted man staring back, lines of dissipation etched around his eyes, a shadow of the carefree youth he had once been.

"Lord Pembroke will be arriving shortly to discuss the funeral arrangements and the immediate plans for the coronation, Your Royal Highness," Arthur informed him, his tone brisk and efficient.

Harry winced. "Of course. More pleasant news, I’m sure." He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, then sighed, letting Arthur take over, allowing the familiar ritual of dressing to be a momentary distraction from the storm brewing within him.

As Arthur deftly fastened his cravat, Harry’s mind drifted to Edward. His brother. A pang of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, pierced him. He hadn’t truly mourned Edward. Not yet. He had been too consumed by his own impending doom, too caught up in the grotesque absurdity of his new reality. 

Edward, the good son, the diligent heir, taken by a fever while Harry was living in blissful ignorance, indulging in every vice. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth.

He wondered if Edward had known, in his final moments, that Harry would be forced to take his place. Had he, even then, felt a flicker of pity for his dissolute younger brother? Or perhaps, Harry thought with a cynical twist of his lips, Edward had simply accepted his fate, as he always had, with quiet dignity.

A sudden, sharp memory surfaced. Edward, patiently teaching him to ride, his firm hand on Harry’s, guiding the reins. Edward, defending him to their father after one of Harry’s many youthful transgressions. Edward, the anchor, the steady presence, now gone. The thought brought a fresh wave of grief, raw and unbidden, threatening to overwhelm him.

Just then, another knock sounded, and Pembroke’s grim face appeared in the doorway. "Your Royal Highness," he said, bowing low. "A moment of your time, if you please."

Harry waved a hand dismissively. "Come in, Pembroke. Let’s get this over with." He settled into a chair, trying to project an air of bored indifference, though his heart hammered against his ribs.

Pembroke approached, carrying a roll of parchment tied with a velvet ribbon. "His Majesty’s final wishes, Your Royal Highness. Regarding the succession and… the union."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "The union. Yes, the infamous Miss Elmore."

Pembroke cleared his throat. "Indeed. Her arrival at the palace has been… discreet. She is currently residing in the East Wing, under the care of Lady Agatha, your late mother’s former lady-in-waiting."

Lady Agatha. Harry remembered her as a stern, unsmiling woman, obsessed with propriety. A perfect choice to groom a commoner into a queen. He almost pitied Miss Elmore. Almost.

"So, what are the specifics of this ‘union’?" Harry asked, forcing a casual tone. "When is this farce to commence?"

"His Majesty decreed a period of two weeks following his passing for the marriage to take place, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke explained, unrolling the parchment. "A swift transition is paramount for the stability of the realm. The coronation will follow immediately thereafter."

Two weeks. Harry felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Two weeks until he was bound, irrevocably, to a woman he didn’t know, and to a crown he didn’t want. 

"And the lady herself? What do we know of her? Beyond her ‘simplicity and grounded nature,’ as my father so poetically put it."

Pembroke hesitated, his gaze briefly flickering towards Arthur, who stood silently by the door. "Miss Elmore… she is the daughter of a prominent merchant family from the western territories, Your Royal Highness. A respectable family, albeit not of noble birth. She is known for her… quiet demeanor and her charitable works within her community."

Quiet demeanor. Charitable works. Harry stifled a laugh. Sounds absolutely thrilling. He pictured her as a meek, mouse-like creature, easily intimidated by the opulence and intrigue of court. He could already imagine the whispers, the sneers, the thinly veiled insults from the ladies of the court, eager to tear down the commoner queen.

"And she is… amenable to this arrangement?" Harry asked, a flicker of morbid curiosity.

"She has expressed her understanding of the gravity of the situation and her willingness to fulfill her duty to the Crown, Your Royal Highness," Pembroke replied, his voice carefully devoid of emotion.

Duty. That word again. Harry hated it. His entire life had been defined by a joyful avoidance of duty. And now, duty was a cage, closing in on him.

"Very well," Harry said, waving a hand. "Proceed with the arrangements. The sooner this charade is over, the sooner I can… embrace my new reality." The words tasted like ash on his tongue.

Pembroke bowed. "As you wish, Your Royal Highness. I shall inform Lady Agatha to begin the necessary preparations for Miss Elmore’s presentation." 

He paused at the door. "And, Your Royal Highness, a delegation from the Northern Alliance has arrived. They request an audience to offer their condolences and reaffirm their loyalty."

Harry groaned inwardly. Diplomatic duties already. "Send them to the grand hall. I’ll meet with them after… after I’ve had a moment to collect myself."

As Pembroke exited, the room fell silent again, save for the soft rustle of Arthur tidying Harry’s discarded nightclothes. Harry walked to the window, staring out at the gardens, now bathed in the full light of day. The sun was high, the sky a brilliant, indifferent blue. It was a beautiful day, a day that mocked his inner turmoil.

He, Prince Henry, was no longer free. He was King Henry, and the gilded cage had just slammed shut. The image of Eliza, her knowing eyes, her quiet strength, flickered in his mind. 

"Perhaps it is about finding something real, something grounded…" 

Her words echoed, a discordant note in the symphony of his despair. He scoffed. Real? Grounded? He was about to marry a woman chosen for her ability to humble him, to remind him of his failures. There was nothing real about this. It was a punishment, a perpetual penance for a life lived too freely.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble. He needed a shave, a fresh start. He needed to look the part of a king, even if he didn’t feel it. He was a prisoner, yes, but he would be a king in chains, not a pauper. He would wear the crown, endure the ceremonies, and play the part. But he would never, not for a moment, forget what he had lost. And he would never forgive his father for this final, devastating blow.

The Fae King draped himself casually atop the ancient throne, his shadows humming through the walls, clawing at their invisible shackles in an attempt to strangle the woman for approaching the King so brazenly. But he remained unbothered, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as his emerald eyes soaked in her appearance. Everything about his demeanour was the least bit regal, as if he was merely a young prince playing up to a title, he would one day inherit, even his crown lay crooked atop his mess of curls. He maintained slouched against the throne while she approached, almost as if it burdened him to be cursed with such beauty his entire immortal life and the warrior scoffed at such petty vanity the King harboured.

But despite such a relaxed demeanour, the woman knew of the horrors that lay behind those gorgeous green eyes. This man was lethal, his shadows alone could smother the entire room in seconds, killing her instantly if she let her starlight dim under his watch.

Sweat and blood smeared across her dark skin, twinkling like stars as the rows of candles flickered in the breeze that swept through the building upon her entrance. Every slow, confident step forward made it harder for her to keep control of her power, tendrils of night eager to land a lethal strike.

"My, my, aren't you a sight for sore eyes." He purred, his sharp gaze dragging down her body to take in her blood-soaked armour with amusement. Swirls of shadows snaked their ways around his forearms, summoned silently by the King as a reminder of his potential power and to intimidate the Fae assassin refusing to bow at his feet.

It had been years since she had seen his face and as much as she hated to admit it, he still looked just as beautiful as when she'd left. His thick curls were shorter, no longer dusting the tops of his shoulders but sat messily atop his head in a way that emphasised his sharp jawline. Her brown eyes flared with specs of starlight as she forced herself not to succumb to his beauty - it was how she'd gotten tangled up in this mess in the first place and she couldn't afford to let him charm her again. Not when the fate of the entire kingdom rested upon her shoulders.

The shadow's whispers seemed to fall silent while the King taunted the warrior, waiting with bated breath for her to react to his cunning words.

"The little assassin returns." Harry mused softly. His legs swung over the arm of the chair so that he swivelled around to sit properly, his knees parted as he leaned forward with a sinister smirk. "I must admit, twenty years to seek out an oracle is a little excessive, is it not Odile?"

Every sentence that rolled off his tongue was meticulously planned, specifically chosen to tempt her into giving in to the rage he could see flowing through her bloodstream. The assassin felt her grip tighten around the handle of her weapon, a deep breath rattling her chest as she refused to let him affect her. The King chuckled lowly, emerald eyes darkening slightly they flickered over her body once more.

"And no babe in your arms, either." He mocked, shaking his head condescendingly as he stared at Odile's tense form, "What a wasted journey."

Odile fought the urge to stiffen at the reminder of the past, of her old self who was so foolishly naive and trusting in the Fae King that she wandered blindly into the forest twenty years ago seeking confirmation of a life she thought she wanted. But the answers she found were not what she expected. And judging by Harry's proud smirk, he too knew the prophecy that was handed to her instead - one that had changed her forever.

No longer was she a shy, timid woman that remained blindsided by the true extent of the King's powers. She was Eroda's assassin and she was here to kill the treacherous bastard that had reigned for far too long.

"Look at you, burning with rage." A deep chuckle rumbled in Harry's chest, only making Odile's power ripple with anger. Tendrils of night rolled off her body, inching their way closer to the throne where speckled starlight waited to strike the King's shadows. "I think I like this new you, it's more...enticing."

Honeyed words dripped off his tongue and Odile had to force herself to keep her eyes locked on his, resisting the urge to glance down at her feet under his intense glare. He knew exactly the right thing to say to charm people, to get them on his side and that was the exact reason she was in this position in the first place. But she refused to fall for it any longer, he was a brutal murderer and she wouldn't let him continue the vicious cycle for centuries to come. The prophecy would end here today. By her hand.

The Kingdom of Eroda shall fall by the hands of darkness if not stopped by the light. Centuries of bloodshed and corruption will end when stars and shadows join once more and create shadowed starlight. The palace will stand tall among the ashes, ready to rebuild a world that was lost to evil- a world where the stars will shine anew.

"You deserve to die for what you've done." Odile's voice was steady and confident, revenge dominating every inch of her body and making her eyes darken with deadly intent.

"What I've done?" Harry snickered lightly, no sense of remorse at all. "I think we should start with what you've done, darling."

The ripples of shadows swirling around his hands slowly drifted towards her, snaking their way around her feet and up her legs as the King took in her bloodied appearance. Crimson soaked her leather armour, splashed across her skin and drenched her locs but not a single drop of it was hers. Odile was untouched, unharmed and standing tense as the shadows settled around her neck - the ghost of Harry's touch taunting her with the possibility of what he could do.

A chill ran down her spine as her breath caught in her throat at the feeling of his power calling to hers, her inner starlight singing to the shadows and threatening to give in to him once more. She had felt these shadows brush against her skin many times before, but she refused to give in to their touch - not when the prophecy rang clear in her mind.

"Your governors are dead by my hand. They serve Hel now." She announced coldly, allowing her eyes to flare white with starlight so the King could see the threat she posed to his position on the throne - reminding him she was no longer the timid woman he knew twenty years ago. She felt his shadows squirm slightly as her power surged but the King remained relaxed. "You are next to join them."

"Well, you have been busy, haven't you?" He mused, sitting up straight in his throne and finally taking this seriously. It appeared the threat on his life was something to worry about.

No doubt he had heard whispers of the assassin rampaging through his lands the past two decades, training in the woods for the mission of a lifetime before hunting down every corrupt government official that served under the King. All of them were attacked when they least expected, brutally murdered and their bodies hung outside their houses as a warning to those that remained.

No longer would the poor be squeezed for every piece of copper they owned, no longer would the King's guards turn a blind eye to crime and no longer would the black-market fuel the underworld of illegal drugs and fighting rings. Eroda could go back to being the beautiful land, enriched with magic and beauty like the history books had once reported to the world.

All that was left was for the King to fall and the prophecy would be changed.

"I applaud you for your success, my darling. But I must address the little fault in your plan."

"If you intend to beg for your life then you underestimate my power." Odile's hand gripped the leather handle of her sword and carried a certain lightness in her feet as she prepared herself for the attack. Her best bet was to keep him talking, his ego was his downfall and all Odile had to do was catch him when his guard was down.

She was going to slit his throat where he sat and sit on the throne soaked with his blood as the Queen of Eroda - ready to rebuild the kingdom to its former glory.

"Not at all, Odile. I have always known what power you possess; you were just too blind to see it." His words were cocky, full of confidence that he shouldn't have in such a moment before his death. For many, it would be unnerving but for Odile it only made her all the more determined. "I simply intend to ask how you think the prophecy will play out when you kill your mate."

Odile felt her heart lurch at the reminder that the beautiful man in front of her was in fact her mate, the person fate decided was her other-half for all eternity - the person that completed her soul. When she had first met him twenty years ago, their bond snapped into place the moment their eyes locked and everything in her life seemed to fall into place. She was given a purpose, a lover and someone that mirrored her level of devotion.

Her love had blinded her from seeing what a despicable man Harry truly was, that was until the Oracle allowed her to see what she had been oblivious to the entire time. The bond still hummed within her, urging her to embrace his love after such time apart. The pining had almost driven her mad at first, unable to block out her power calling out to him at all hours of the day. Her magic needed him and his shadows needed hers. It would bring such pain to her heart to live on while her mate was killed - their bonded souls torn apart for the rest of eternity.

"You may be my mate and my husband, but I reject anything that binds me to such a cold-hearted leader as you. I would live with such pain knowing I had saved thousands from your blighted power."

Suddenly, bright starlight flooded the throne room, Odile's light bouncing off the golden accents of the entire room and blinding the King in an instant. His shadows recoiled with a hiss, leaving Harry unprotected long enough for the assassin to spring into action. One minute she was standing tall in front of the throne, the next she was straddling her mate's lap, pinning his shoulders against the back of the throne with the bloodied blade of her weapon digging uncomfortably into his neck.

Stars melted around them, revealing the rage filled warrior to the King so he could truly see her now. Honey brown eyes had darkened with anger, tendrils of night snaked up Harry's arms and pinned him in place so he could do little to overpower her.

Blood smeared against the King's face as Odile's left hand gripped his jaw, bringing her face so close to his that their lips almost touched.

Harry's pink lips curled upwards at the closeness of his wife, the twenty years of silent pining for her return finally silenced under her touch. Albeit because she was holding a sword to his throat and threatening his life. But he wasn't worried, he knew she still loved him dearly and had felt the same hollowness in her heart while she was away.

"I am not the man you think I am."

"It is your shadows the prophecy speaks of; you are the dark hands that have tainted this kingdom with corruption." She spat, starlight fizzling off her body and landing in sparks on the floor around her. Harry's eyes drifted down to glance at her lips before meeting her intense stare once again - he'd be lying if he said this new side to her wasn't turning him on.

"You are my lover and with your death Eroda will finally be free."

"I have protected this kingdom for five-hundred years, darling. You truly haven't worked it out yet, have you? We're supposed to save Eroda together. Why do you think I sent you out to the Oracle that day?"

No matter how much she tried to hide her confusion at her mate's words, there was little she could do to suppress the frown that tugged at her brows.

Harry had not sent her to seek out an Oracle, she had done that herself. She had thought she was pregnant and went to ask for confirmation that she was carrying the future heir to Eroda's throne. Secrecy was key if she truly was with child, the last thing she wanted was for rival kingdoms finding out and putting her and her baby's lives in danger. Odile hadn't even mentioned anything to her maid before she slipped out of the palace under the cover of darkness - how Harry had found out she had no idea.

"I never told you I thought I might be pregnant. You didn't send me anywhere."

"You think those books about royal bloodlines just appeared on my nightstand out of nowhere? You think the fact you overheard the royal reports about an Oracle causing havoc in the forest was a coincidence?" Harry's demeanour shifted for the first time since Odile had returned, no longer teasing her but completely serious. "I planted that idea into your head, Odile. I knew what the Oracle would tell you and I needed you to hear it. Because you held the power to save Eroda."

Harry shifted slightly under Odile's thighs, straining against her power and glancing down at the sword pressed against his neck uncomfortably.

"Darling, you already saved us. The darkness has been eradicated." Harry explained softly, making Odile's restraints falter long enough for him to free his hands, his warm touch ghosting her thighs as he rubbed them slowly. "Please, put the sword down.

"Y-you're the darkness. You rule over the kingdom, it's your fault corruption has plagued these lands. This room itself lays testament to the centuries of pain you and your family have inflicted on people."

"Odile, I've always wanted to be different from my ancestors, it sickens me to be surrounded by the monstrosities they carried out under my family name. I have dreamt of a kingdom that was filled with magic and laughter since I was a boy but that was not the plan of my father. He changed the laws of the council so I would not influence their decisions over my people, I became a King by title but with no power." Harry's voice carried a sense of vulnerability within it that Odile had only ever heard when she was with him. To others he maintained an air of arrogance within himself but with her, he was completely different. "I sought out the Oracle two hundred years ago, hoping for a way to save Eroda and that is when I learnt of the prophecy. Of you."

Odile's mind was reeling. She had spent twenty years with only the words that the Oracle had told her to understand the gravity of the situation thrust upon her. She had asked for an explanation, some kind of guidance but little was given outside the prophecy recounted throughout history. Hate had been forced to fester in her heart towards her husband - her mate - and that kind of pain was almost impossible to cope with.

"How can I believe you?"

Harry's lips twitched upwards slightly with a coy smirk, his eyes darkening in the way Odile recognised far too well. His touch grew stronger against her thighs, trailing closer to the place he knew she wanted him but was too stubborn to admit. He could sense her arousal from the moment she'd straddled his lap, no doubt fighting the memories of being in such a position countless times before.

"Because you're my mate and I know in your heart you feel this is right." Harry whispered lowly, leaning in slightly so that his lips ghosted against hers. The sharp blade of her sword dug harder into his skin, no doubt leaving a mark but he didn't care, not when he finally got to touch his mate after pining for her these past twenty years.

Odile gasped slightly in surprise as his lips finally met hers, warmth flooding through her body as she let her husband kiss her with as much love as he physically could. Their lips moved in sync together, the blade at Harry's throat slipping slightly as Odile let her focus drift to how perfect this moment felt. Her heart was thumping erratically in her chest, finally at peace after being torn apart by such distance for so long.

Misted shadows curled around the pair, ghosting touches along Odile's soft neck in a way that made her moan in anticipation while Harry's palms continued to tease the tops of her thighs, occasionally brushing her warm arousal over the top of her fighting leathers. Gods, she'd missed this. No matter how much she'd tried to hate him the last twenty years, she'd always drift into the land of dreams where his touch would be waiting for her. She'd dream of riding his cock once more, hearing his grunts of pleasure ring into the night as she pleasured herself until years of pining was eventually satisfied.

"Look at you, giving in so easily. I knew you'd see sense." Lustful amusement hung off every word that escaped Harry's lips. "Let me fuck you, baby. Ride my cock and claim your throne."

And then it suddenly hit Odile - this was what the prophecy had spoken of this entire time.

The Kingdom of Eroda shall fall by the hands of darkness if not stopped by the light.

She had been the one to murder the corrupt governors and her starlight had sung her victory every time. Nobody was left to rule over the kingdom and so the laws were now irrelevant, all power was now reinstated to the crown. Harry was free to be the ruler that Eroda had desperately needed for thousands of years.

Centuries of bloodshed and corruption will end when stars and shadows join once more and create shadowed starlight.

Odile had previously thought it meant the final death must be Harry's, a final test to eradicate the plague of shadows over the kingdom before she could build Eroda from scratch. But with how things were currently playing out, it appeared to be referencing the passions of reunited lovers, perhaps about to conceive the first heir to the new world she had secured for the future.

The palace will stand tall among the ashes, ready to rebuild a world that was lost to evil- a world where the stars will shine anew.

The loud clatter of metal against marble echoed about the throne room as the weapon finally tumbled from Odile's grasp to rest at the foot of the throne. Harry groaned in relief, rolling his head back slightly to stretch his neck out now he was no longer restricted, the harsh red mark of the blade standing prominent against his skin. Odile's hands cupped her lover's cheeks, smashing her lips into his as she ground her hips into his with a breathy moan as she gave in to her desire.

This was what she wanted, just her and Harry reunited once more and ready to rule Eroda by each other's side.

"Make me your Queen, Harry." She panted breathlessly, barely pulling apart from the King as she spoke her final demand. "Knock me up, give yourself an heir."

Harry's eyes darkened as his powers rumbled with desire, a lustful smirk appearing on his lips as he took in Odile's demands - his mind running rampant with all the possible ways to pleasure his mate after so long apart. He'd dreamed of the day he'd once more feel her wet cunt around his heavy cock, gorgeous tits bouncing in his face while her screams of pleasures rang out through the entire palace.

"You gonna be my good girl, yeah?" He breathed out, hands already trailing upwards to claim her body as his. Brushing her long, bloodied locs over her shoulder, Harry's lips met the exposed skin of her neck, sucking gently as his palms squeezed her heavy breasts. Odile squirmed in his lap in desperate need of some friction against her aching core, revelling in the feeling of her mate's hard cock brushing against her cunt through the layers of clothing in the way. "Bet you're dripping for me, aren't you?"

Odile whimpered at Harry's voice so deep and oozing with seduction, frantically nodding in agreement as she felt his hand slip down the waistband of her leather pants to confirm what he already knew. A soft hum of satisfaction vibrated against her skin as Harry continued to mark up her neck, his fingers toying with her wet folds while Odile was rendered breathless with desire. Speckled starlight flickered from her fingers as she tugged at her husband's curls, head tipping back slightly as she allowed him to take his claim over her body.

Her mind was a blur, uncontrollable whimpers escaped her lips as she rocked against Harry's fingers - chasing the pleasure that was already building in her core.

"Undress, Odile." The King's demand was clear, his fingers quickly removed from Odile's trousers as he pulled back to watch her carefully. The assassin let out a frustrated groan as the building wave subsided, her fingers desperately tearing at her leathers to obey her husband's instructions. The quicker she acted, the better behaved she was, the sooner she'd get to ride his cock. "Need you naked on my lap."

The moment her top hit the floor, Harry's eyes flicked downwards to take in her bare breasts, free from blood and tempting him with their perfection. He watched silently as they bounced slightly as Odile unbuttoned her trousers, lifting her hips off of Harry slightly so she could pull them off completely - exposing her naked cunt for him to admire. Ripples of shadows snaked up her body, teasing her hard nipples before settling around her pretty neck, waiting for the command to choke her just the way she liked and Odile let out a soft moan in anticipation, knowing Harry was going to fuck her senseless at any moment.

"Look at you, my pretty Queen." He hummed softly, dark emerald eyes sweeping over Odile's naked body as if he was committing it to memory.

"If I am your Queen, I shall need a crown." Odile stated boldly, her hands already gripping the golden halo framing her husband's curls and lifting it from his head. A subtle moan rumbled deep in his chest as he watched her place his crown atop her locs.

His cock stiffened even more in the confines of his trousers at the sight of his wife wearing nothing but the golden crown on her head, desire overtook him and he knew he couldn't drag this out like he'd originally planned.

"Now fuck me, my King. Show me how much you missed me." Odile gripped Harry's jaw, her brown eyes locked onto his green with such intent in an attempt to get him to submit. But that was not Harry, he did not submit to anyone - not even his mate. He smirked playfully as she felt his shadows squeeze her neck, restricting the air just enough to make her head go the perfect amount of fuzzy.

"You want my cock, then take it, sweetheart. It's all yours." Settling back against his ornate throne, he watched as Odile set to work unbuttoning his trousers and freeing his length from the confines of his pants. She didn't care he was still fully clothed, all she cared about was finally getting to fuck her mate after years of pining after this exact moment.

He hissed softly as she took him in her hand, tugging slowly at his cock just enough to tease him with pleasure as she ground her pussy against his thick thigh. Wetness seeped into the material of his trousers, leaving a patch of arousal as she continued to get herself off before taking what she really wanted. Breathless pants filled the air as the pair of them got lost in pleasure, blurts of precome collected on the dark skin of Odile's hand like sparkling pearls while Harry's shadows created a necklace of darkness around her pure neck.

Harry's mouth suddenly enveloped Odile's left nipple, teeth grazing softly over her skin as he sucked at her breast perfectly positioned in front of her face. The rhythm of her hips became uneven as she whimpered with sensitivity, already feeling herself hurtling towards the edge after such a long time of nothing.

"H-Harry..."

Stars and shadows snaked around the throne as both their powers were released from its confines, the bond between them growing the further Harry and Odile fell into their pleasure and healing their shattered souls.

"So, close, sweetheart. Such a good girl f'me." Harry mumbled breathlessly, obviously struggling just as much as his wife to last much longer. "Come on my thigh, darling. Let go."

And that was all it took for her to tumble over the edge, hips stilling as she came all over Harry's thigh. Her head tipped back as a loud moan escaped her lips, bright stars filling the room and almost blinded Harry as he watched her gorgeous features scrunch up in pleasure - a sight he had only dreamed of for twenty years. His own release followed almost instantly, spurting up his clothed torso as Odile's pretty moans filled his ears like his favourite melody.

"Fuck-" He choked on his own moans, unable to talk properly as he struggled to stop his power from clouding his mind and rendering him completely speechless. "Perfect girl, so perfect, sweetheart."

Slumped against her husband's body, Odile peppered gentle kisses along his exposed, sweaty collarbones - delicate fingers trailing over the inked swallows that were left on display after the material had fallen open in all the pleasure.

"Made a mess all over me." He chuckled lightly, running his hand over her thighs as he took in the wetness on his trousers. Instead of blushing with embarrassment, Odile simply raised her hand that was covered in her husband's come and made a show of licking it up with a satisfied smirk. The sight of her tongue dragging along the back of her hand, savouring the taste of his release made Harry's cock twitch once more as he felt himself grow half hard with every lick.

"And you." She hummed, "Just as desperate, darling. You're not kidding anyone."

Her hips began to grind against his both of them still sensitive to touch but neither caring. Odile needed to sit on Harry's cock and feel him fill her up for the rest of eternity - she'd been empty for too long and now she needed to satisfy her hunger.

Taking him in her hand once more, Odile lifted herself up just enough to position him at her entrance. Hungry eyes watched her eagerly as Harry waited for the bliss of feeling her tightness envelope him completely - both of them sighing with pleasure as their hips joined once more.

Shadows curled around Odile's wrists, forcing them upwards so that her hands tangled in Harry's messy curls in a silent demand before settling around her neck to choke her. Her head was spinning with lust at the feeling of Harry's power constricting the amount of air she could take in, all while revelling in being full to the brim with his aching cock. Their lips smashed together, tongues dancing in each other's mouths as she began to ride her husband with an eager rhythm, hands tugging at his curls just as the King liked it. Deep moans escaped his lips, filling the air as his hands gripped her butt tightly, helping her to grind harder against him for both their pleasure.

"So tight, so wet, sweetheart." Harry panted into the kiss, bucking up into her pussy to hit the sweet spot inside her. "Missed this perfect cunt."

"Harder, make me scream!" Odile pleaded as a dull ache settled in her thighs with all the effort it was taking to ride his cock with such energy. She needed him to take her, to fuck her so hard she saw stars and he was more than happy to oblige - but not without a little teasing first.

"Knew you wouldn't kill me, darling." He chuckled slowly in between trailing sloppy kisses along her collarbone towards her heavy breasts. His thumb teased her clit, rubbing slow circles to add to the building tension at her core that made her such a moaning mess. "Need my cock too bad, don't you?"

A sharp snap of his hips timed perfectly with her hips bouncing down on his cock filled her even deeper, causing a loud moan to echo about the room unexpectedly, only proving Harry right.

"Who else would fuck you this good, leave you screaming like I can?" He smirked against Odile's skin as her sounds of pleasure continued to ring out across the room, allowing his shadows to ghost over every inch of her body and enhance every delicate touch he was giving her. "You'd miss the warmth of my cock for all eternity."

"Uh-huh, you. Only you, baby." She replied breathlessly, unable to focus properly as her hips began to stutter. Sweat sparkled like glitter on her dark skin, making her appear like starlight itself, all gorgeous and addictive. Harry's cock ached at the sight, his chest heaving with desire as he let his shadows tangle with the stars rippling from her body, both their releases rapidly approaching with little warning.

"Look at you, so full of me." The King grunted with each powerful thrust upwards, his fingers digging into her hips so hard as he helped guide her cunt onto his cock there was no doubt bruises would be left in their wake. "Taking me like a good girl."

"All yours, belong to you!" Odile whimpered, her vision going blurry as she was practically blinded by the tight coil of pleasure that was threatening to explode at any second. With Harry's shadows wrapped tightly around her neck, his sharp thrusts timed perfectly to hit her g-spot and his ghosted touch on her clit, the woman could barely sit up straight - her forehead resting on Harry's shoulder for support as he helped her reach her peak.

"Harry-" Her moan was immediately cut off by another sharp thrust from Harry's hips, the King recognising all the signs that she was seconds from toppling over the edge. Her hips bucked frantically as she chased the rising feeling in her core, heavy pants filling the air between them as the pair turned animalistic in chasing their high.

"I know, sweetheart. Come for me darling." Harry demanded; his voice thick with lust as he felt ready to burst. "Soak my cock, milk me dry."

Shadowed starlight tore through the room as pleasure peaked in perfect waves, slamming into the walls and crumbling the dark paintings into tiny pieces. Their pleasured moans mixed together in a delightful tune as they rode out their highs, Odile collapsing into Harry's arms as her body felt weak after such a powerful orgasm. Soft kisses were pressed against her sweaty forehead as Harry's soft touch rubbed her shoulder soothingly.

Wrapped up in each other's warmth, with his cock still buried deep within his mate, Harry finally felt the peace he'd dreamt of since taking the throne five hundred years ago.

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ynfan2 WORLD = STOPPED

harryfan4 i’m crying

yoursister yes! yes! yes!

ynfan6 this is actually so iconic 😭

zendaya holy shit…i’m friends with the queen?

harryfan8 this means harry and y/n have to move back to the uk…

emmalouisecorrin i am never shutting up about this

ynfan3 THE HOTTEST ROYAL COUPLE EVER

harry_lambert screaming as i type this

harryfan5 y/n and harry’s friends being so excited for them is so cute omg

florencepugh the most iconic queen and king

ynfan9 twitter is in flames right now

harryfan11 i support this so much

alexademie 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

ynfan7 moving to london

alessandro_michele love!

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royalupdates Y/N AND HARRY AT A AIRPORT IN LOS ANGELES LAST NIGHT!

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harryfan14 THE WAY THEY ARE KING AND QUEEN NOW

ynfan16 harry and y/n aren’t even in the uk 🤭

harryfan18 you know harry is dreading moving back to london

ynfan13 diana is a princess now omg

harryfan15 i always forget their daughter is named diana 😭

ynfan17 same…

harryfan19 they are so cute together

ynfan21 i still can’t believe y/n and harry are king and queen

harryfan23 one of the best royal couples ever

ynfan25 this is really happening then 🥳

harryfan27 literally going insane

ynfan29 THEY ARE ON THEIR WAY

harryfan26 please stop sending me these pictures of my fiancé wrapped around another woman. this is not me and it's hard enough knowing this has happened without seeing it. enough now.

ynfan30 so many celebrities are posting about harry and y/n…

harryfan32 i will not stop talking about them

ynfan34 truly a moment to remember

After his grandmother passed away sadly yesterday, Harry now takes on the role of being King and his wife Y/N, Queen. A statement from The Royal Family released yesterday on behalf of Harry and Y/N becoming King and Queen. Many people seemed satisfied with the decision and expressed their feelings onto social media.

Out of all 39 generations of The Royal Family, the Styles couple received more praise than ever. It’s no surprise everyone loves them, their wedding was the most celebrated royal wedding without it being streamed on national television.

Many sources tell us Harry and Y/N are already moved into Buckingham Palace with their daughter Princess Diana. The new Royal Family is now settled in.

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ynharryupdates Y/N OUT IN LONDON TODAY!

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harryfan35 she literally slayed

ynfan35 I LOVE THIS SO MUCH 😭

harryfan37 our queen!!!!

ynfan39 this is such an iconic moment

harryfan41 YES YES YES YES

ynfan43 y/n really said team princess diana

harryfan45 she could run me over and i would not care at all

ynfan40 the queen in all her glory ✨

harryfan44 the only reason why i like royalty

ynfan46 this is giving princess diana’s revenge dress 🤭

harryfan48 LMAO RIGHT

ynfan42 y/n arrived in england and ate everyone up

harryfan50 one of our best queens yet

ynfan52 YESSS THIS IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING

harryfan54 y/n becoming queen is actually so amazing

ynfan51 I AM CELEBRATING ALL DAY BECAUSE OF THIS

harryfan53 national y/n and harry day

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stylesdaily Harry arriving at his wife’s coronation in London!

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ynfan59 HE IS SO HOT

harryfan61 ‘his wife’ don’t shove it in my face like this 😭

ynfan63 i want to be y/n

harryfan65 his glasses, his suit, him in general 🫠

ynfan67 harry’s smile has me sliding down the wall

harryfan69 he’s literally a dream

ynfan62 the most perfect man ever

harryfan64 y/n is so lucky to be married to him…i want her life

ynfan66 tell me about it

harryfan68 harry is so pretty omg

ynfan70 he can kill me already

harryfan72 DILF DILF DILF

ynfan74 you know he’s so happy right now

harryfan76 he seriously has me in a chokehold

ynfan78 everything about him is perfection

harryfan71 his dimples…🫡

ynfan73 the only man i’ll bow down too

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theroyalfamily Our Queen Y/N Styles with her mother at her sovereign’s consort.

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harryfan75 OH MY GOD

ynfan77 both are literal queens

florencepugh i’ve been waiting for this moment 🤍

harryfan80 this is the best thing ever

tchalamet can’t believe i’m friends with the damn queen

ynfan82 I LOVE THIS

harry_lambert two beauties!!! ✨

harryfan84 i’m loving y/n as queen

yoursister MY TWO FAVORITE WOMEN ❤️

ynfan86 why is this so cute

alexademie such an amazing moment

harryfan81 imagine having a daughter and she becomes the queen of england…

alesandro_michele so sweet 🍓

ynfan83 queen!y/n is such a slay

emmalouisecorrin AHHHHHHH

harryfan85 emma is all of us right now 😭

zendaya i’m literally crying

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updatingstyles Y/N AT HER CORONATION CEREMONY TONIGHT!

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ynfan91 she looks so happy

harryfan93 Y/N IS THE MOMENT!!!

ynfan95 i love this for her 🥹

harryfan97 going insane over this

ynfan99 SHE IS SO BEAUTIFUL

harryfan102 y/n is already eating up being queen

ynfan104 she was born to be queen

harryfan106 the way every celebrity was at her ceremony 😭

ynfan108 i aspire to be y/n one day

harryfan103 loving all the queen content today

ynfan105 SERIOUSLY NEVER GETTING OVER THIS

harryfan109 she married royalty and ended up becoming queen… now that’s what i call being god's favorite

ynfan113 best queen already

harryfan115 this is the biggest thing ever

ynfan110 happiest day 🥳

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variety Y/N Styles the new Queen of England gets interviewed and photographed by her husband, Harry Styles for her September Variety cover.

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ynfan122 queen elizabeth is shaking

harryfan125 Y/N IS SO BEAUTIFUL 🙏

harris_reed i need this magazine ASAP

ynfan127 harry took the photos?? i’m crying

hunterschafer i needed this in my life

harryfan129 y/n has the biggest chokehold on me

zendaya IN LOVE

ynfan131 she’s so breathtaking

yoursister amazing. amazing. amazing.

harryfan133 harry interviewing y/n is the cutest thing ever

nickkroll queen = model

ynfan135 i am going to need her on more covers

taylorswift MY QUEEN

harryfan137 harry giving y/n all the spotlight is so sweet 😭

kaiagerber loving this

ynfan139 i don’t know if i wanna be her or be with her

Never in her life would she expected to become the Queen of England, yet here she was moving back into The Buckingham Palace with her husband and daughter. When she left the United Kingdom and moved into a bungalow in Malibu she did not expect to be moving back so suddenly.

Taking the role of Queen earned many positive responses. But there were some people worried about a 28 year old running England.

“I understand the different points of views. Why would you want someone so young to become the Queen of England.” Y/N comments. “But people wouldn’t put me and Harry in charge if they knew we weren’t capable of being King and Queen. We know what we are doing.”

Becoming a mother just 11 months ago had the world discussing the Styles couple, especially when they named their baby after Princess Diana which left people in shock.

Majority of individuals praised the two for naming their daughter after Styles’s mother, but there had been rumors of some Royal members not liking the honored name.

The almost one year old princess Diana is adored by the world. One of Harry’s close friend’s Alessandro Michele constantly sends little Princess Diana custom clothes, in an interview he said she was the sweetest baby ever.

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