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Steady. Kind. With something heavy inside. His. Used with kind permission of @playpausephoto

From Fire – Part II

Master Henry

Contains a love scene. Tender. Explicit. And very much theirs.

—

Two riders rode slowly through the streets of Rattay. The town still lay half-sunk in morning mist, but bright streaks across the sky hinted that sunlight would soon take hold.

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Hans said, casting a glance at Henry beside him. Yet the warmth in his eyes betrayed how glad he was that he had.

“I didn’t,” Henry replied, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “But I wanted to.”

Hans fell silent for a moment, his eyes resting on the reins in his hands. Then a trace of a smile returned to his face.

“I’ll try to be back as soon as I can. But you’ll have plenty to keep you busy. Take a look around Pirkstein—get to know the place. It’s yours too now. And if anything comes to mind… don’t wait. Just get on with it.”

Henry gave a brief nod. “I’ll see to it. Whatever I can.”

They came to a halt before the upper castle. The mist had sunk somewhere below, and here, higher up, the autumn morning had already broken clear and bright.

For a while they simply sat there, facing one another, the reins loose in their hands. It would have been so easy to reach out, to touch, to say something more. But none of that could be allowed. And still—it was there between them, as present as breath.

“Good luck,” Henry said.

He turned his horse and rode on. He didn’t look back.

Hans watched him for a time, until the mist swallowed him, the lower part of the town still lost in its depths. He lowered his head, closed his eyes for a moment—then nudged his horse forward. Pirkstein lay still.

Henry rode through the gate into the courtyard, dismounted, and looped the reins over a post by the shelter. It wasn’t empty—soldiers lingered in a corner, someone was sweeping, horses stood beneath the awning—but the whole place drifted in a slow, drowsy rhythm.

A few faces lifted toward him, greeting him with slight nods. Word of him had spread since yesterday.

It was clear that the weight of power had shifted uphill, to the upper castle. And the real stir belonged now to the town between them—the merchants, the craftsmen, and likely the pickpockets too.

Pirkstein still held its dignity, but it felt like a house only half-abandoned.

A small commotion by the stables caught Henry’s eye. A young stablehand was struggling with a harness, the horse tossing its head impatiently, and the boy barely managing to keep the bridle from slipping from his grasp.

Henry made his way over at an easy pace.

“Let me,” he said, reaching out.

The boy hesitated only for a heartbeat before handing him the bridle. Henry took hold of the leather and smoothed the straps with practiced hands, as if he’d done it all his life.

“Here,” he murmured, pointing to a buckle. “If you leave this too loose, it’ll slip.” He fixed it, pulled it tight, and flipped the strap across. “And this needs to sit firm. Otherwise the horse will fight you the whole way.”

He fastened the last clasp, checked the bridle, and gave a small nod.

“There. That’s done.”

The boy lowered his gaze and nodded. “Thank you, Master Henry.”

Henry paused, his expression faint and slightly awkward. He still wasn’t used to the title.

“Think nothing of it,” he said, and set off toward the stairs.

He climbed to the floor below their chambers and followed the corridor along the outer wall.

Stone walls, the chill beneath his boots, muted light slicing through narrow windows. He passed the kitchens, where the familiar scent of smoke and something simmering drifted into the hall. A young maid appeared in the doorway, a bucket cradled in her arms. For a moment, their eyes met. She dipped her head in a quick curtsey.

“Master Henry.”

He returned the greeting with a nod and kept walking.

It felt strange to see Pirkstein like this—not as a stranger, not as a guest, not even as part of the garrison, but as someone for whom the castle had become, in some way, a responsibility.

The corridor stretched on past a row of unremarkable doors. As he passed one left slightly ajar, he let his gaze drift inside.

A bright, spacious chamber. Simple, but tasteful. A comfortable bed, a chest, a table, a wardrobe. The room was clearly well kept, though no one was living there now.

He tarried only briefly, then eased the door shut and made his way back toward the stairs. He stepped into his chamber.

He crossed to the bed and began to straighten the covers and pillows. That morning, he and Hans had lingered too long in the warmth of the embrace they’d woken in, losing time to slow touches and unhurried kisses.

And then, at last, they’d both left in something of a rush.

A fleeting smile tugged at Henry’s mouth.

He moved along the walls, his hand trailing over faded paintings—hunters, riders, hounds, a stag caught mid-leap. He knew them by now. He’d seen them often enough, though he had never really stopped to look.

He came to a halt beside the hearth, where a small niche was set into the wall. On the shelf stood two earthenware jugs, a bowl, and a scattering of small things. His eyes drifted over them, and without thinking, he let his hand drift lower, along the cold surface of the wall beneath.

He froze for a moment. What met his touch wasn’t stone, but something else. He rapped his knuckles lightly against it, and the sound was not what one would expect from solid wall. Hollow.

His brow furrowed. He stretched out his hand and tapped the wall beside the niche. This time the sound was duller, heavier. He thought for a moment, then stepped back to the niche. Another tap—clear, too sharp, too wrong.

He stood still, one hand braced against the niche.

He stepped out of his chamber and made his way along the corridor toward the main hall and the entrance to the Hans’s room. The guard stationed there gave him a polite nod.

“I’m going into Sir Hans’s room,” Henry said.

It wasn’t a question.

The guard hesitated, then gave a brief nod and opened the door for him. Henry stepped inside and closed it behind him.

At once, his eyes went to the niche in the wall—set in the exact same place as the one he’d examined in his own chamber.

He crossed the room and ran his hand lightly over the back of it.

He was nearly certain now. What met his touch was wood, buried under thick layers of paint.

He stepped out again and made his way back to his own room. He sifted through his things until he found what he was looking for: an awl.

Carefully, he lifted the vessels from the niche, then the shelf itself.

He knelt, his hand searching across the back wall until he found the line he’d felt before. Then he took the awl and began to scrape away the paint—slowly, cautiously. A moment later, the trace of a satisfied smile pulled at his mouth as the shape of a keyhole came into view.

He paused, thought for a moment, then crossed to the door and slid the bolt. Returning to the niche, he took up his lockpicks and knelt once more.

It wasn’t something he was proud of, but he knew his way around locks well enough. It didn’t take long before there came a soft click.

Henry straightened and pressed his palm carefully—firmly—against the wall. Nothing happened. He glanced around, then leaned in again, this time adding his weight.

The hinges, buried under thick paint, groaned faintly, and slowly the hidden door creaked open.

Henry found himself looking into Hans’s chamber.

A faint smile pulled at his mouth. He tilted his head slightly. Something occurred to him.

He stepped outside quickly and beckoned to a young servant. “Come with me, lad.”

The boy dipped his head in reply and fell in behind him. Henry set off through the gate, the lad trailing two steps behind.

“We need to buy something,” Henry called over his shoulder as they walked toward Rattay’s market square.

They entered a small merchant’s shop.

Could be Elishka’s father, Henry thought, the memory of that tense meeting in the woods flickering by.

The shop was small, but neat and welcoming. Bolts of fabric hung along the walls, finished garments were stacked in one corner, and behind the counter the merchant looked up and rose to his feet.

Henry paused by the neatly arranged cloths, his fingers trailing across the fabric. Wool—heavy, sturdy, practical. Brocade—dark green, with a fine woven pattern: muted, but beautiful.

“This one,” Henry said, pointing to the brocade. “And the wool as well. Five ells of each.”

The merchant nodded. The servant helped roll the cloth while Henry counted out the coin.

Outside, at the foot of the steps, Henry handed the bundle of wool to the boy and slung the brocade over his arm. “Come on,” he said, and set off back toward the castle. Back at Pirkstein, Henry set a few maids to work, having them fashion two curtains from the cloth he’d brought: one of dark green brocade for Hans’s chamber, the other of heavy wool for his own.

Once they were finished, he brought in two servants, and together they hammered sturdy nails into the walls above each niche. The curtains were hung, the fabric carefully arranged so it would fall clean and straight.

The brocade in Hans’s chamber hung loosely, catching the firelight with a subtle sheen—almost festive in its grace. The wool in Henry’s room was heavier, plainer, but still discreet—exactly as he had wanted it.

Most importantly, in both rooms there was no longer any sign of a niche in the wall.

The next few hours, Henry spent walking the castle, learning how things were done at Pirkstein. He spoke with the maids, with the cook, with a handful of soldiers, and little by little, began to form a picture of what was missing—or what might run short if the upper castle chose to stop cooperating.

The thought came easily enough. He had no way of knowing how long the fragile truce with Hanush would hold. And if they were to become more self-reliant at Pirkstein, it only made sense to have the stores replenished—flour, pulses, buckwheat, oats, wine, salt, firewood. When Hans rode into the courtyard, returning from the upper castle, he found Henry giving final instructions to two men by a cart, readying them for a supply run into town.

Hans dismounted, folded his arms, and watched him, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

A moment later, Henry sent the men on their way, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and looked over at Hans.

“I see you’ve been keeping busy,” Hans said.

Henry shrugged lightly.

“Come,” Hans nodded, and Henry fell in beside him.

They stepped into Hans’s chamber, and Henry closed the door behind them.

Hans stopped at once. His gaze slid to the wall, where a new curtain of dark green brocade now hung, a faint, puzzled smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“What’s this…?” he asked, looking over at Henry.

Henry’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Have a look.”

He stepped to the curtain, drew the fabric aside, and opened the door hidden within the niche.

Hans stared for a moment, then his face lit with recognition. “I’d completely forgotten there was a door here! How did you even find it?”

Henry lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Pure chance, really. But once I did… I thought it might not be the worst idea to open it again. And hide it. Just in case.”

Hans stepped closer, stopping right beside him, slipped an arm around his waist, and brushed a quick kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Henry turned toward him, a playful glint in his eye. “There’s still one important decision that belongs to the lord of Pirkstein.”

Hans huffed a quiet laugh. “And that would be?”

Henry leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Deciding which chamber—and which bed—we’ll be sleeping in.”

Hans paused for a moment, thoughtful. “We could see which bed’s wider and take it from there,” he said with a shrug. “Though we’d better remember to lock the doors to both chambers.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “True enough, Hans.”

“Though really,” Hans said, “it’s not your chamber and my chamber anymore.” His touch skimmed along Henry’s arm. “They’re ours now.”

Hans fell silent for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the wall. “It’s good you’ve found your footing here so quickly,” he said.

Henry lifted his eyes to him, a faint twitch pulling at his mouth. “Why?”

Hans stepped closer and let his hand drift over Henry’s sleeve. “Because of the meeting I had today.”

Henry shifted, leaning a hip against the table. “How did it go?”

Hans shrugged without much care, the ghost of a smile touched his face, without warmth. “Pretty much as we expected. Formalities. Titles. Dowry… and a date for the wedding.”

Henry’s face sobered. “When?”

Hans hesitated for a moment, then shook his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Saturday afternoon. The twenty-ninth of October. Supposedly some saint’s day—not that I know which. But it seemed solemn enough for them.”

“So a little over three weeks,” Henry said, his voice thoughtful, before letting out a sigh.

“Shall we sit?” he asked after a pause, nodding slightly toward the bed.

Hans nodded and sat down beside him. For a while, neither of them spoke.

“Feels like I’ve just been told the date of my own execution,” Hans said at last with a bitter laugh, his gaze dropping to the tips of his boots.

Henry slid a hand silently along his back.

Hans looked up at him, a faint, tired smile on his lips. “But you already helped me survive one execution, Henry. So I reckon I’ll survive this too—with you.”

Henry held his gaze—steady, calm.

For a moment he said nothing.

“We’ve both been bracing for it. Somewhere deep down. For months. Maybe since the very beginning.”

He reached out, let his hand drift lightly along Hans’s arm—no pressure, no insistence, but left them resting there. “We’ll get through it, Hans.”

Hans turned his head toward him, eyes closing for a moment. Then he leaned in slightly, his shoulder settling against Henry. He said nothing more.

After a while, as the silence stretched between them, Henry lowered his gaze, hesitant still. “What is she like?” he asked. “Jitka.”

Hans stared ahead, his eyes fixed on a blank stretch of wall. “She seems… like a fairly ordinary girl,” he said after a moment. “I haven’t really spoken with her much yet. But I don’t get the sense she’s any happier about all this than I am.”

“But it’s settled. For all of us.”

Henry reached out, laid his hand back on Hans’s arm.

Hans glanced at him, a flicker of something wry touched his face. “And it’s true—she’s actually a pretty girl… well—young woman.”

Henry froze for a moment. He drew his hand back, folded it with the other in his lap, and lowered his eyes to his fingers. “Then that’s probably good for you, Hans,” he said at last, his voice tinged with sadness.

Hans looked at him, his expression darkening for a moment. His brow furrowed slightly. “That’s not fair,” he said, voice low. “You know there are things I’ll only do because I have to.”

Henry lifted his gaze, regret flickering in his eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I—”

He exhaled slowly and shrugged, searching for words. “I know what the wedding means. And I’ve made my peace with it…”

He swallowed. “It’s just… the thought of it. Of you… with her.” His voice frayed at the edges. “I can’t make it so it doesn’t hurt, Hans.”

Hans reached for Henry’s hand, their fingers weaving together. “It won’t hurt me any less than it hurts you,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “And knowing I’m the one who’ll do this to you…” His breath caught. “It tears me apart.”

Henry lowered his gaze, but this time he didn’t pull his hand away. When he looked back at Hans his eyes were damp. “I suppose that night I’ll drink until I can’t feel anything anymore.”

He dropped his gaze again. “And in the morning, I’ll probably carry on.”

Hans cupped his cheek, tilting his face up until their eyes met. “You’ll always be the only one for me, Henry.” “In everything.”

Henry steadied himself, and a fragile curve tugged at his mouth. It was still touched with sadness, but there was more life in it now.

“Good thing I’ve ordered enough wine,” he said. “And a few other things—supplies, for the people, for the animals. So there’s enough here if Hanush tries anything underhanded.”

Hans looked at him, the corners of his mouth quirking upward—half amused, half something softer. “Pirkstein is lucky to have Master Henry,” he said. “The castle… and the man who bears its name. Though none more so than him.”

He reached out and his fingers ghosted across Henry’s cheek. “And since Master Henry seems to be running things these days, I might need his help with something of vital importance.”

Henry raised his eyes to him. “And what would that be?” he asked.

Hans’s mouth curved faintly, though the shadow of weariness lingered in his eyes. “I’ll need your help deciding where Jitka will live. When… when it happens.”

Henry looked up at him, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Shouldn’t she be somewhere near you?”

Hans shook his head, his gaze drifting aside for a moment. “That would seem… out of place. It’s not how noble marriages work. It never has been.”

He fell silent, his touch falling away from Henry’s cheek, though he stayed close. “They’re… alliances between houses, between names. Diplomacy. Trade. Sometimes friendship… but closeness? Love? That’s rare.”

Henry watched him, a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

“And in our particular case, it would be… even less convenient.”

Henry was silent for a moment. “I suppose I never really thought about how it works for nobles, in these things.”

He looked at him, and after a moment the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “But I won’t lie… for the sake of the two of us, I’m glad of it.”

Hans glanced at him, his own smile softening. Henry gave him a small wink—almost playful. “So… we can keep the connected chambers?”

Hans gave a low chuckle. “They’ll stay ours, Henry. Just ours.”

Something crossed Henry’s mind. He smiled to himself and rose from the bed. “I think I know of a chamber for Jitka,” he said. “Come on.”

Hans got to his feet, a little surprised, but followed without question.

They stepped outside, down the stairs, and Henry led the way along the corridor toward the room he had come across during his morning walk through the castle. He opened the door and stepped aside, letting Hans enter first.

Hans looked around. He moved slowly through the room, brushing his hand over the back of a chair. He checked the sturdiness of a chest by the wall and cast an eye over the wardrobe. His fingers skimmed across the faded paintings on the walls, and for a moment he stopped by the window. He stood there in silence, his eyes resting on the view.

Then he straightened and glanced back over his shoulder at Henry. “Perhaps a few small changes… some decoration… something a little grander. But otherwise—it’s just right.”

Henry gave a nod. “I’ll see to it.”

Hans turned to him fully, his expression calm but more serious. “You know, Henry… I’d actually like you to oversee all the arrangements concerning Jitka. Including handling things with her directly.”

Henry hesitated and briefly glanced away. “Why me?” he asked. “Shouldn’t that be your concern?”

Hans’s mouth curved faintly, though his voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. “According to court etiquette, it wouldn’t be proper. The groom isn’t meant to spend too much time with the bride before the wedding. Least of all dealing with practical matters like this. It’s just… not done.”

Henry’s face was thoughtful rather than troubled. “All right,” he said quietly. “Then I suppose… I should meet her.”

Hans dipped his head. “You’ll have the chance soon enough. She’s arriving this evening. For supper.”

Henry met his eyes, blinking in mild surprise. “Today?”

“Just her and her escort,” Hans clarified. “Formally. Just to look over Pirkstein.”

Henry met his eyes and after a moment frowned slightly. “And Hanush?”

Hans leaned against the doorframe. “He left right after the meeting. Off on one of his… forays.”

He didn’t look away. “And I’d like you there by my side, Henry.”

Henry nodded. “You can count on it.”

Hans huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ll go give the kitchen their instructions and see to the supper preparations. And you—get some rest, then get ready. Put on something nice, Henry.”

He let his eyes wander, taking him in, before he leaned in closer. “God, how I’d rather undress you myself,” he whispered.

Something flickered in Henry’s eyes. “I think we’d only get as far as the undressing, love,” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of Hans’s ear. The great hall at Pirkstein stood prepared. A tall fire burned in the hearth, casting its glow across the stone walls, where faded but carefully kept paintings still held their place. The tapestries along the walls bore deep, rich colours, and the fabric at the windows was heavy, luxurious.

The table was laid with the kind of care expected from the seat of a noble house—ornate jugs, goblets of pewter and glass, bowls with carved rims. It wasn’t a display meant to dazzle, but one of dignity and order—the things that mattered.

A few servants stood along the walls. One was refilling wine, another brought in a fresh basket of bread and offered a brief bow before stepping silently back.

Hans sat at the head of the table, his hands set lightly on the arms of his chair, a cup of wine set before him. He looked composed, upright, dressed in a dark doublet trimmed with fine embroidery.

Henry sat at his right hand, his own hands folded in his lap, his gaze lowered to the table. He wore a deep green nobleman’s coat, silk hose fitted neatly to his legs, and an embroidered brocade hood on his shoulders.

Hans inclined his head slightly toward him. “You look incredible,” he murmured at the corner of his mouth.

Henry gave the barest hint of a smile, his eyes still fixed ahead. “Just trying to please the handsomest lord in Pirkstein,” he whispered, barely audible.

Under the table, Hans nudged him discreetly. “How’s that lord supposed to concentrate, then,” he whispered back near his ear.

The curve of Henry’s mouth deepened faintly. His thumb circled the edge of his cup. He said nothing more, his eyes settling on the door.

The fire cracked in the hearth. The servants stood along the walls, half in shadow.

Henry cast him a brief sidelong glance. “I’m a little uneasy about all of this,” he admitted.

Hans remained steady. “Just be exactly as you are, Henry. Trust me.”

The door to the hall opened. The guard straightened. “Lady Jitka of Kunstadt.”

Both Hans and Henry rose to their feet. Hans with calm elegance, Henry a little slower. They turned to face the entrance.

Jitka entered, a quiet maid at her side, and a single man-at-arms following at a respectful distance.

Henry’s eyes locked on the young noblewoman.

And he felt his stomach twist as cold spread through him.

A slender young woman, dressed in dark blue velvet trimmed with gold embroidery. At her throat, a necklace of pearls; pearls too glimmered in the delicate circlet resting over her dark brown hair, which was braided and pinned neatly at the back.

Her face was pretty, lightly freckled. And in it— Blue-green eyes, with tiny flecks of gold scattered through the irises.

Her eyes came to rest on Henry, who swallowed nervously.

And for a heartbeat— It seemed she too was caught off guard. But then a polite smile touched her face and she offered a graceful curtsy.

“Welcome to Pirkstein, Lady Jitka,” Hans said, his expression warm.

A servant pulled out a chair for her.

Hans sat as well, casting a quick glance at Henry, who was still standing as if struck.

“Sit down,” he hissed under his breath.

Henry blinked, gathered himself, and sat.

“Allow me, my lady, to introduce the most trusted man in Pirkstein—my right hand, Master Henry,” Hans said, motioning toward him.

Jitka smiled politely. “I see Pirkstein is in good hands.”

A short pause followed as Henry opened his mouth—and then closed it again.

Hans shot him a brief look.

“I… I’m pleased to finally meet you, my lady,” Henry stammered at last.

Her expression warmed slightly. “I’m pleased to meet you too, Master Henry. It’s an honour.”

Her voice was calm, natural, carrying the polish of courtly courtesy.

Henry drew a shaky breath, straightened his back, and gave a stiff nod in return. “Welcome to Pirkstein, my lady.”

Jitka offered a graceful curtsy.

“Henry will be your main contact here, my lady,” Hans went on. “He’ll handle all the necessary preparations with you.”

He turned briefly toward Henry, then back to her, a soft smile on his lips. “We can both rely on him completely,” he added.

“Sounds like I’m in good hands as well, my lord,” she said lightly. “I’ll do my best not to take undue advantage of such kindness.”

For an instant, something unguarded crossed her face. The supper passed in muted formality.

Servants moved soundlessly, bringing course after course—fish, game, bread, fruit. The wine jugs were switched out now and then, but otherwise the air held more weight than any words.

Few words were exchanged. Most were formal—polite remarks about the weather, about Kunstadt, about Rattay, about how dignified a place Pirkstein was. Occasionally Hans posed a light question, and Jitka answered. Henry mostly listened, adding a word here or there when something practical was discussed.

No one hurried. It was exactly the kind of evening such occasions were meant to be—masked silences, conversation held more for the sake of appearance than for any real sharing.

And Hans didn’t miss the shift in Henry’s manner.

He knew every detail of his face, could read every gesture, could hear the slightest change in the tone of his voice—even when no one else in the room noticed a thing.

And he hadn’t seen Henry this tense, this unsettled, in a long time.

“My lady,” Hans said at one point, standing with unhurried grace, “forgive me—and Master Henry as well. We’ll only be a moment.”

He shot Henry a brief look and tilted his head slightly toward his chamber. Henry rose and followed.

Once the door closed behind them, Hans turned to Henry, worry etched across his face. “What is it, love?” he whispered.

Henry met his eyes, something between uncertainty and alarm flickering there. “Hans—” he breathed. “Jitka… she’s the girl—Elishka!”

“Who?” Hans frowned, shaking his head.

“The girl from the woods—the one I saved from the wolves near Rattay, the one I brought back to town!”

Hans blinked, stunned. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” Henry said at once. “And—she recognised me too. You must have seen it.”

Hans exhaled sharply, he looked off, unfocused— “Fuck,” he muttered.

Words failed him for a beat.

“Did you… did you say anything to her back then that could cause trouble now?”

Henry shook his head. “No. Just that I’d once served as your squire.”

He hesitated. “But now I realise… that’s why she kept asking about you.”

“And what did you tell her?” Hans asked.

“Only the truth—that you’re a good man. And a good lord,” Henry said, a faint, apologetic grin tugging at his lips.

Hans’s mouth twitched faintly before the expression faded. “You’ll probably have to speak with her about it, Henry. When there’s a chance.”

Henry dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

“Come on,” Hans said quietly, pushing the door open and stepping back into the hall. The supper wound down into quiet.

The cups were emptied, the last courses cleared away. The conversation faded into a silence no one felt the need to fill.

When it was possible to excuse himself without offence, Henry rose to his feet. “Permit me a breath of air, my lady. Hans.”

He gave a small twitch of a smile and stepped away.

The battlements were still. The landscape below sank into deepening dusk, the last scraps of daylight vanishing beyond the horizon. Henry stood with his hands pressed flat to the stone ledge, staring out into the dark.

The sound of footsteps made him turn. “Good evening, my lady… or should I say Elishka?”

Jitka paused just a few steps from him. She sighed and let a faint smile cross her lips. “And you’re not just any former squire of Sir Hans, are you, Henry.”

Henry’s mouth tugged into a wry half-smile, something between awkwardness and relief still in his eyes. “Fair enough.”

His fingertips grazed the stone. “It caught me off guard. This evening. I wasn’t expecting you here.”

Jitka smiled, her gaze calm, a little tired. “I wasn’t expecting you either. But… I’m glad.”

“Why didn’t you tell me back then? Who you were,” Henry asked.

Her eyes lost focus, settling on the darkness below. “Isn’t it obvious? I was alone, in the woods, with a stranger… I didn’t know who you were, Henry.”

“You’re right. That was wise of you.”

“And you, Henry,” Jitka said, her hand brushing lightly against his forearm, “why didn’t you tell me you were Sir Hans’s right hand?”

Henry hesitated, weighing his words. “Honestly, that was for safety too,” he answered after a moment, casting a quick look around, as if searching for a way to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“I’ve been asked to prepare your chamber. Would you like me to show you?”

Jitka let out a low breath of laughter. “Seems Master Henry is a touch more serious than the Henry from Skalitz.”

Henry gave a careless tilt of his head. “I’ve been tasked with taking care of you.”

A little while later they stood together in what would soon be Jitka’s chamber. The young noblewoman looked around, then sat lightly on the edge of the bed.

Henry lingered in the middle of the room, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “Is everything all right?”

Jitka exhaled. “I suppose so. It’s just…”

She looked down on her hands. “It’s nothing, Henry,” she said when she looked back up at him. “I know what’s expected of me. And I’ll do my duty.”

Henry shifted his weight uneasily. “I don’t… I don’t really know what to say.”

Jitka offered a small, apologetic smile. “Don’t say anything. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

She rose and touched his arm lightly with her hand. “Would you take me riding tomorrow, Henry? Just around the countryside.”

“I don’t know if that would be proper,” Henry said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Please,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Since Vincek… since you buried him… I’ve been stuck in Rattay with nothing.”

Her voice faltered for a moment.

“And you, Henry… you’re the only one who spoke to me like I was just an ordinary girl. Not… the bride they carted in.”

“All right. I’ll come for you in the morning. At the upper castle.”

“Thank you, Henry. I truly appreciate it.” By the time they returned to the hall, the supper was nearly over. Only a few cups remained, the last traces of the meal, and the low shimmer of candlelight.

Jitka rose with a polite smile. “It’s time I returned,” she said. “Thank you, Sir Hans, for a pleasant evening. And you as well, Henry.”

Hans answered her with a slight bow, and Henry gave a brief nod.

“And Henry,” she added, her smile lingering. “I do hope you’ll remain in my future husband’s service for many years to come.”

With that, she turned and withdrew.

Together they accompanied her, her maid, and the man-at-arms out to the courtyard. The night was cold, the black horses shifting restlessly. Servants helped the women into their saddles; Jitka cast one last glance back and lifted a hand in farewell.

Then they set off toward the upper castle, footsteps and voices fading into the night.

Hans turned to Henry, a question in his eyes.

“Shall we go to yours?” Henry asked. The chamber smelled of smoke and wax. The fire hissed and popped in the hearth as Hans sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck wearily.

Henry sat down beside him, his hands resting still in his lap, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“Well, what an evening,” Hans muttered at last.

“Ay.”

“You looked like you’d seen a ghost when she walked in,” Hans chuckled.

Henry shot him a mock-reproachful look and gave him a light slap on the thigh. “Don’t you start teasing me too, love,” he said before leaning in to press a slow kiss to his mouth.

For a while they just sat there in silence. Hans let out a breath, his eyes drifting to the flames. “How did it go with her?” His voice was soft, without pressure.

Henry toyed idly with his fingers. “We cleared the air. Why neither of us said who we were in the woods… And I showed her the chamber.”

Hans only nodded, the corners of his mouth drawn slightly in thought. “That’s good. Thank you.”

“And…” Henry lifted his eyes to meet Hans’s, “I promised her a ride tomorrow.”

Hans stilled. He turned his head, an eyebrow lifting. “A ride? I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

Henry met his gaze without flinching. “She just wants a bit of air. She’s been stuck here for weeks.”

Hans’s mouth tightened with hesitation. “But that’s not supposed to be the task of her future husband’s right hand.”

Henry reached, fingers curling gently around Hans’s hand. “Hans… she’s in the same place, really. She’s a prisoner of this marriage, just like you.”

“Just like us.”

Hans remained silent. His fingers traced the hem of the bedcover.

“So you think we’re… doing something wrong, then?” The words held no accusation—only a question.

Henry gave a small shake of his head. “No. Not that.”

He faltered. “I just understand that she’s unhappy too. And… if I can give her even a little kindness in all this, why wouldn’t I?”

Hans studied him. Something moved through his eyes, something soft. He reached out and laid a hand on Henry’s knee. “You know that’s one of the reasons I love you, don’t you?”

Henry smiled, saying nothing. His hand came up to cover Hans’s.

“What about you?” he asked after a moment. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

Hans looked off for a moment, his lips pressing together. “Honestly… I don’t know anymore. I’d meant to spend the day with you, you know.” “But you’ll be otherwise occupied,” he added with a small shrug.

Henry answered with a crooked smile. “Only in the morning. After that, I’ll be yours.”

He pressed a brief kiss to Hans’s neck—light, but enough to leave him breathless.

“I miss you, Henry,” he whispered. “I mean… you know how.”

Henry fell quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “I should go to my room,” he said at last. “I ought to get out of these clothes before I ruin them.”

He lifted his eyes to Hans and his mouth twitched. “And get some sleep,” he added, with the faintest flicker of a wink.

He rose and headed for the door.

Hans’s gaze followed him, unreadable. Henry crossed the hall and the corridor to his chamber, pushed the door open— and found Hans standing in the middle of the room. The curtain covering the passage between their chambers still swayed.

Henry’s face broke into a grin. He closed the door behind him and locked.

Hans was watching him, a slow smile playing at his lips. “Didn’t you say you needed to get out of those clothes, Master Henry?”

Henry didn’t hesitate. He strode over, pulled Hans into his arms, and kissed him—hard and without warning.

Hans responded instantly, his hands roaming over Henry’s body in frantic need, pulling him closer still.

Their mouths crashed together—hungry, unrelenting. Henry’s fingers tangled in Hans’s hair, his lips dragged along jaw and throat, their breaths sharp and uneven, gasping against skin and lips.

Everything was taut, pressing—driven by a fire already lit, hungry to consume them both.

Hans pulled Henry’s coat off and let it fall to the floor. His palms swept lower, tracing the shape of him—needy, unsteady. Henry stood in his shirt and tight hose, every line of strain and desire visible through the thin fabric.

Hans’s gaze flicked over him—hot, hungry. In the next breath, he pressed in—claiming Henry’s mouth in another bruising kiss.

Henry’s hands slid under Hans’s doublet, gripping him by the arse, dragging him close. Their hips slammed together—urgent, unyielding—and Hans moaned into his mouth.

Their kisses broke and reformed—sharp, hungry, breathless—hands yanking at laces, frantic to get closer. Henry gasped as Hans’s hands slid under his shirt, palms against hot skin, and answered in kind—his own fingers slipping down, tugging blindly at the fastenings of Hans’s hose.

His hands fumbled, clumsy with urgency, but they were laughing against each other’s mouths, too far gone to care.

A low growl rumbled in Henry’s throat. He gripped Hans’s hips, rough and sure, and pushed him back—mouth still locked to his—driving him toward the bed.

Hans went with him—half meeting, half surrendering—until Henry eased him down at the edge.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, pulled Hans’s hose down, and freed him—hard, hot, aching. Hans’s fingers dug into the bedcover, breath catching sharp in his throat.

Henry glanced up, the ghost of a smile on his lips—then, wordless, ran his palm slow along the insides of his thighs.

He felt it. Felt the need coiled tight between them—his, and Hans’s both.

But not yet. Not just yet.

He raised his eyes. One hand slid behind Hans’s neck, drawing him in— for a kiss—soft, searing, breathless.

Hans caught his face, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, opened—but beneath the heat, something truer flickered: more than want alone.

Henry’s hands roamed over bare skin—waist, hips, thighs—but he kept close to Hans’s mouth. Hot lips, the slide of tongues, breathless laughter catching between kisses when they tipped, for a moment, into something playful—something sweet.

Then his mouth drifted to Hans’s jaw, to his throat—where the pulse beat quick and strong beneath soft skin. And he looked up at him again.

Hans’s arousal pressed hard and burning against his thigh. Henry tilted his face up, breath caught on a smile—fragile, stunned.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Hans’s breath faltered—his hands stilling for a heartbeat as his eyes met Henry’s. Something flickered there—raw, unguarded. Then he moved, pulling Henry’s shirt over his head and letting it fall to the floor.

Then he smiled—faint, breathless—as his hand drifted down between them. Through the thin fabric he found him, fingers closing around heat and weight— and a shiver ran through him at the touch.

Henry exhaled against his jaw, his hands heavy on Hans’s hips.

Hans’s fingers traced the edge of Henry’s hose—quick, unhesitating. The fine silk slid down without resistance. He freed him, fingertips brushing bare skin—hot, urgent— and he quaked with need at the contact alone.

Henry’s breath hitched, his forehead resting against Hans’s temple, his hands still clutching at him—his hips pressing closer, fitted tight between Hans’s thighs.

“Come here,” Hans whispered, voice low and rough. He pulled him down onto the bed, mouth seeking Henry’s, fingers restless over bare skin that tensed and arched beneath every touch.

Henry breathed warm against his cheek, eyes half-lidded, his hands gliding over hips and belly, slipping beneath the open fall of Hans’s shirt—seeking the warmth of bare skin.

Hans let himself sink back onto the covers, his hands never still—touching, guiding, drawing him closer with every breath. “Henry,” he whispered, voice catching as Henry’s mouth brushed along his throat, across his collarbone, then lower, lips soft where they found the rise of his chest.

Henry smiled against his skin, his teeth grazing lightly at the hollow of his collarbone, but still he didn’t rush. His hands slid beneath Hans—slow and careful—his thumbs tracing over his hips, down his thighs, his touch feather-light where bare skin quivered beneath it.

Hans caught his face between gentle hands and brought him back—another kiss, deeper, but still tender. Their hips moved together, breath quickening, but everything in him ached not just for the touch, but for him. “I need you…” he breathed, soft as a prayer.

Henry gave a soft, breathless smile above him, his eyes dark, shining with warmth. “You’ve no idea,” he murmured, barely more than a whisper, “how much I want you.”

He bent to him again, his mouth trailing kisses from jaw to throat, across his chest—hot lips, the soft graze of teeth, tongue lingering over every line, every curve.

Hans let out a shaky breath beneath him, his hands sliding into Henry’s hair, fingers twisting gently there as Henry’s mouth drifted lower—over his stomach, his hips, and down.

Henry knew exactly what he wanted.

One hand swept along Hans’s thigh, the other resting at his hip— and then he pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the hard heat of him.

At first it was just lips—feather-light, reverent— then the slow drag of tongue, deliberate, hungry, drawing a breathless moan from Hans’s lips.

Hans arched, his head tipping back, hands still cradling Henry’s head—holding on to the one he loved.

Henry took his time. Every movement of his mouth, every brush of tongue, every sharp twitch of Hans’s hips teased something warm and breathless from deep inside him—tender in a way that burned deeper than anything raw could.

And when he felt Hans trembling beneath him, he lifted his eyes—mouth still slow, still hungry. Every stroke, every soft press pulled breathless sounds from Hans’s throat.

Hans’s fingers curled tight in Henry’s hair, his hips quivering, breath catching—and still he held on. He didn’t want it to end. Not yet.

“God… Henry…” he gasped, voice breaking—half laughter, half need.

When his hips bucked again, sharper this time, he shivered and tugged gently at Henry’s hair, urging him to look up.

“If you don’t stop…” he managed between ragged breaths, “I won’t last.”

Henry looked up at him—hair falling into his face, lips wet, eyes shining dark with desire.

Hans reached for him, drawing him close, hands guiding until their bare bodies met again in the heat of touch. Henry leaned over him, their foreheads brushing.

“I want you, love,” Hans whispered, breath soft against his skin.

Their mouths met—slower this time, deeper, unhurried. When Henry drew back, his breath came hot, his cheeks flushed, his gaze steady despite the heat still burning in his eyes.

His fingers drifted over Hans’s chest, down the line of his belly, then slid beneath him—lifting him gently as he shifted to settle astride.

Hans lay back, watching him—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, breath uneven.

His hands glided along Henry’s sides, then down over his thighs and back again, slow and reverent. He smoothed over skin, held him, feeling every shift, every breath.

Henry’s fingers tightened on the bedcover, his knees braced to either side. When his eyes lifted, they were soft—and full of something deeper than want.

Henry took Hans in hand and sank down onto him—slow, careful, steady with tenderness.

Hans let out a low, broken sound, breath catching sharp as Henry moved—his touch, his presence, everything about him deliberate and full of care.

For a moment, they stilled—held in that breathless space between one heartbeat and the next.

Henry’s hands rested over Hans’s chest, feeling the rapid thrum beneath his palms. His head was bowed, breath uneven, as if the weight of the moment pressed deeper than just body alone.

Hans kept hold of him—one hand gentle at his side, the other brushing up to cup his face. He lifted his eyes to him. “You all right, love?” he whispered, voice soft, warm.

Henry’s lips curved—small, real—and he nodded, their eyes meeting in quiet understanding.

Hans drew him down into a kiss—slow, careful, lingering—a promise as much as a touch. And when he lay back again, his hands never left Henry’s skin. They moved in tender strokes—over his chest, along his sides, mapping the warmth of him with reverence, holding him close with every shift and breath.

Their breathing steadied. The rhythm began—slow, easy, unhurried—each movement less about urgency than about the need to be close, to be joined, to be held.

No words. Only this: body to body, heart to heart.

Henry moved above him, hands braced on Hans’s thighs for balance, breath ragged, cheeks flushed, eyes half-closed—lost in sensation, in him.

Every slow roll of his hips was deep, fluid—his hands brushing over Hans’s skin as if he needed the contact as much as the rhythm itself. Every touch left its mark, every breath shared between them.

Hans let out a low moan, one hand sliding down to close around Henry—his strokes slick, slow, deliberate. His thumb glided over the tip, his palm wrapping him firm, moving in time with the steady thrust of Henry’s hips as he sank down again and again.

Henry’s chest tightened, breath catching. One hand clutched harder at Hans’s thigh; the other curled into a fist, pressed hard against his mouth as if he couldn’t contain it, as if the feeling was too much, too sharp, too close.

And still Hans touched him, teased him, every caress driving him higher, until the pleasure rose sharp and hot—coiling tight inside him, breathless and unbearable. His whole body tensed, muscles straining, shaking on the edge.

He bit down on his knuckles, desperate to stifle the moan clawing up his throat, his eyes squeezed shut—drowning in the rush of it, in the sheer, unbearable closeness of the man beneath him.

Hans’s gaze was heavy-lidded, his hands gripping him, guiding him, stroking him—each movement raw with need, every breath jagged and hot.

Henry shivered above him, his hips faltering, skin slick with sweat. Droplets slid over his collarbones, down his chest, tracing the tight, quivering lines of muscle as pleasure knotted sharp and breathless inside him.

His fingers dug hard into Hans’s thighs, head tipping back, breath shattering, shoulders trembling with every frantic thrust.

Hans moaned—hoarse, desperate. His body locked, hips slamming up as release tore through him—brutal, raw. His hands clutched at Henry’s waist, breath ripping from his lips in sharp gasps as tremors tore through him.

But he didn’t stop. Not for a moment.

Eyes glazed, hands still gripping him tight, his hips kept moving—slow, unrelenting, deep—while one hand slipped back between them, closing around Henry once more.

Henry moaned—high-pitched, unsteady—his fingers clenching hard. It was close—too close. Hans’s touch was slick, steady, the roll of their hips matching the sure pull of his strokes.

Henry’s breath hitched, his whole body tensing as he fought the rush. His hips jolted, muscles taut, a muffled cry breaking loose. But he held on—barely—caught in the rising, unbearable heat.

Hans pushed up, dragged him down into a kiss—deep, fierce, their mouths colliding in breathless need. Henry quaked, his hands gripping Hans’s shoulders, forehead pressed to his temple as their breath tangled, bodies locked tight.

And then it crashed through him—hard, searing, unstoppable. Henry’s head fell back, a ragged cry ripping from his throat as his body snapped tight, shuddering hard in the crash of release.

Hans held him, hips still rocking through the aftershocks—slow, uneven—until Henry sagged against him, shivering, breathless, undone.

Hans felt the heat of Henry’s breath against his neck—uneven, gasping, his skin still quivering with the last tremors.

Henry stayed—boneless, wrecked—his face pressed to the curve of Hans’s throat, heartbeat hammering beneath sweat-slick skin. His body still twitched faintly, muscles tightening and loosening in soft, helpless aftershocks.

Hans held him close, both palms flat and steady on his back, his own breath catching as he pressed his face to Henry’s temple, their damp skin sliding together in the heat.

“I love you, Jindro,” he whispered, voice hoarse, wrecked with it. “I love you. So much.”

Henry’s eyes closed. His hand drifted over the warm, sweat-damp stretch of Hans’s back, fingertips grazing the ridge of his spine, tracing him without thought—then he pressed a kiss to the hollow of his neck. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that asked for nothing, only gave.

They stayed like that—bodies still joined, breath slowing, the air thick with warmth, the faint sheen of sweat clinging to their skin. Their hands kept moving—restless in the quiet—touching without urgency, without need, only for the sake of not letting go.

Eventually they lay down. Naked, flushed, limbs heavy, skin sticky in places, their bodies still warm, still close.

Entwined. Legs tangled, arms wrapped, Hans’s lips brushing through Henry’s hair, Henry’s palm resting over the steady rise and fall of Hans’s chest.

“Hans,” Henry mumbled sleepily. “Can I fall asleep like this?”

“Sleep, love,” Hans whispered.

And pressed a kiss into his damp hair, holding him close as they drifted down into sleep. In the morning, Henry rose early to keep his promise to Jitka and take her riding through the meadows and woods around Rattay.

The forest was calm. Only the brittle crack of twigs beneath their horses’ hooves and the distant call of a jay broke the stillness. They rode side by side—Henry and Jitka—at an easy pace, without needless words.

“I almost didn’t dare hope you’d say yes,” Jitka said at last, her gaze fixed ahead.

“Sometimes it’s good to get out. Clears the head,” Henry answered.

Jitka smiled. “Or maybe you were afraid the wolves would get me again.”

Henry glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, the first trace of a smile pulling at his lips. “That would be a disgrace. Losing the future Lady of Pirkstein before you even get the chance to become one.”

She laughed—with a lightness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I ought to thank you again. Now that I know who you are—and you know who I am.”

Henry shook his head. “No need. Anyone would have done the same.”

“They wouldn’t,” she said simply.

For a while they rode on in silence. Hooves clicked over the stony path, sunlight filtering down through the branches.

They skirted Rattay through the woods until the view opened before them—Pirkstein, and the town beyond, bathed in the warm glow of the autumn sun.

Jitka pulled her horse to a halt and turned to Henry with a sudden spark in her eyes.

“Race me,” she said.

Henry blinked. “What—seriously?”

She smiled—brighter, livelier than he’d seen her before. “From here to that far tree line,” she pointed ahead. “Unless you’re afraid to lose.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but shifted in the saddle. “It’s not that,” he said. “I’d rather not have to explain to Sir Hans how his bride broke her neck under my watch.”

Jitka rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine, Henry. I’ve been riding since before I could read.”

And before he could object again, she clicked her tongue and spurred her horse into motion—speeding off with a burst of laughter, her hair catching the wind like a banner.

“Christ above,” Henry muttered—and followed.

He urged his horse forward, hooves thundering over the grassy slope, but Jitka was fast. The distance between them stretched, her mount light and swift beneath her as if it barely touched the ground. Her laughter rang through the air—clear and unguarded.

By the time he caught up to her at the treeline, his breath was short and his heart pounding.

She reined in, breathless and flushed, eyes shining.

“I told you,” she teased, wiping a loose strand of hair from her face.

Henry shook his head, grinning despite himself. “You weren’t wrong,” he said. “That was impressive.”

She gave a little shrug, still catching her breath. “I’ve always loved riding. There’s nothing else like it.”

Henry’s smile softened—something unguarded passing through his face for the briefest moment. “You remind me of him,” he said quietly, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Jitka glanced at him, her brows lifting. “Hans?”

He nodded, his eyes dropping, voice lowering. “Ay. He’s… the best rider I know.” A breath. “Always looks like he was born for it. Like the horse and the wind belong to him, somehow.”

A small, almost absent smile touched Henry’s lips as he added, without quite thinking: “And… that’s when he looks happiest, I suppose.”

The words seemed to hang there—too soft, too true.

Jitka’s expression shifted. She looked away, her fingers brushing over the reins, something thoughtful in her face.

“Maybe that’s something we have in common,” she said softly after a pause. “Liking the ride better than the place we’re meant to stop.”

Henry blinked, as if waking from a thought, and gave a faint nod. “Maybe.”

A fragile quiet stretched between them. For a while, they rode on without speaking, the only sounds the steady rhythm of hooves and the soft rustle of wind through the trees.

Then the forest gave way once more, the path opening onto a gentle slope with the town and Pirkstein spread out ahead.

“Shall we take a break?” Henry suggested.

Jitka nodded. They dismounted and sat side by side in the grass. Wordlessly, they gazed at the castle before them.

“What’s Kunstadt like?” Henry asked after a moment.

Jitka smiled faintly, her expression thoughtful. “The castle’s a bit larger than Pirkstein,” she said at last. “And not quite so buried in forests.”

“And do you like it here, in Rattay?” Henry went on.

Jitka lifted one shoulder and looked out ahead.

“Does it matter what I like?”

She lowered her eyes. “Or what I want?” she added softly.

Henry cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s all right, Henry,” she replied, offering him a tired smile. “Since I was little, I’ve known I’d either end up a nun or a nobleman’s bride.” She shook her head.

“So this—” she tilted her chin toward Rattay, “this is what I was born for.”

She paused. “And Hans Capon…”

Henry looked at her sideways.

“He’s a handsome man,” she went on thoughtfully, “and there’s plenty who’d gladly have him.”

Henry kept his eyes fixed on his hands. For a heartbeat, unbidden, his mind drifted— —to the night before.

To Hans, breathless beneath him, his body all sharp lines and flushed skin and the kind of beauty that had nothing to do with titles or names.

The way his eyes had looked up at him—unguarded, alight with something deeper, something more than desire.

A sharp breath escaped him. He dropped his gaze lower, his fingers brushing over the seam of his glove—seeking somewhere to anchor himself.

“And also,” she added, “he doesn’t seem like some drunken, skirt-chasing brat the way people like to say.”

Henry looked at her then. “Because he isn’t, Jitka.”

She smiled at him. “Ay, I remember you spoke well of him—though I suppose I couldn’t expect anything else from his right hand, could I?”

Henry shook his head. “It’s not because I’m in his service… it’s not that,” he said, hesitating as he searched for the words. “He’s… he’s fair. And he’s wise.”

His eyes fell to his hands again. “And I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so… so kind to the ones who have no luck, no power. The ones most people wouldn’t give a second glance.”

He lifted his eyes to her, a small smile touching his lips. “And he’s clever. Funny too,” he added.

The smile stayed, but for a moment something shifted in his gaze—something deeper, heavier—before his eyes drifted back toward the castle.

Jitka studied his face for a while. “You know… Henry…” she said at last, her tone thoughtful, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone speak like that… about their lord.”

Henry felt the heat rise in his face. He looked away, giving a faint, awkward laugh. “Well—like you said. What else would you expect from his right hand?”

Jitka said nothing.

Henry brushed off his breeches. “We ought to head back—after your last run-in with wolves, they might send out a search party for you, my lady,” he said with a quick grin. The ride back was quiet. They passed through Rattay, and Henry took his leave of her at the upper castle.

“Thank you, Henry,” she said. “It was a very pleasant morning.”

Henry gave a brief bow. “The honour—and the pleasure—were mine.”

He hesitated, then added, “Whenever you wish, my lady.”

Jitka gave him a polite nod, and disappeared into the castle.

Henry swung back into the saddle and turned his horse toward Pirkstein. Toward Hans. Toward home. He stepped into his chamber, shrugged off his doublet, and stood for a moment, thoughtful. Then he drew the curtain aside and tapped lightly on the door hidden in the alcove.

It opened a moment later, and Hans stood there, a smile tugging on his lips. “Well now—who’s this, dragged in by the Devil himself,” he murmured, though there was more love in his voice than anything else.

Henry stepped through into his chamber. They embraced, and their lips met in a kiss.

“So?” Hans prompted with a crooked smile. “How was your morning meeting with Jitka?”

Henry crossed to the table and poured himself some wine. “Better than I expected, actually.”

He raised the cup, glanced briefly at Hans, and sat beside him on the bed. His gaze drifted to the firelight. “She’s… likeable. Clever,” he said at last.

He fell silent, fingertips tracing the rim of the cup. “And… truthfully, I’m still a bit unsettled by it,” he added.

Hans looked at him, one brow slightly raised.

Henry gave a weak smile, with a bitter edge beneath it. “I think… somewhere deep down, I was hoping she’d be different. That I could… not like her. So I’d make it easier on myself.”

“But instead… I just feel sorry for her.”

Hans let out a quiet breath, his gaze slipping sideways for a moment. Then he shook his head, something gentle in his look.

“Well… seems we’ve got that in common.”

For a while they sat in silence. Henry took a sip of wine; Hans watched the firelight.

“You look tired,” Hans said, almost in a whisper.

Henry smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching in the hint of a laugh. “Not really,” he murmured, shaking his head. “It’s just… everything around us is happening so fast all of a sudden… and everything’s about to change.”

Hans gave a short, humourless laugh. He reached out, laying a hand on Henry’s thigh.

“We won’t change.”

Henry looked at him, the barest hint of a smile. His hand slipped down over Hans’s, fingers closing around it.

They sat that way for a while longer, the silence peaceful, the fire crackling.

Henry’s fingertips traced absently over Hans’s palm—light, distracted, the kind of motion a man makes when there’s something on his mind he doesn’t quite know how to say.

“Hans…” The words came low. “When… when it happens.”

He paused. “When the wedding comes…”

Hans turned to him slowly, his gaze calm. He waited.

“Do you want me there?” Henry asked.

Hans drew a deep breath, his gaze drifting aside for a moment. His fingers on Henry’s hand stayed still, save for a faint tightening.

“I do,” he said. “I’d want that very much.”

Henry exhaled, his eyes cast down. “I… I don’t know which would be worse,” he admitted. “Being there… watching you… or not being there, and not being close to you.”

His voice stayed steady—but something beneath it faltered.

Hans said nothing, but pressed a kiss to his temple.

“My wedding wouldn’t be right without the one I love,” he whispered.

Henry nodded, eyes closed.

Then he lifted his head, and there was more calm in his expression.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

Hans smiled, his palm brushing along Henry’s cheek, thumb grazing lightly over the corner of his mouth. Then he let out a breath of laughter—tired, but real.

“You’ll be the most important guest.”

Henry’s face lit up—this time even in his eyes. “Will your family be there?”

“You mean besides my dear uncle Hanush?” Hans smirked. “Probably. Some branch of the Lords of Leipa, I imagine. Maybe one of those who call themselves my cousins—though most of them have seen me twice, if that.”

He paused. “Truth is… no one knows me the way you do.”

He breathed in deep. “So for me it doesn’t much matter who’s there, so long as you are, Henry.”

Henry smiled—but something inside him tightened all the same.

A moment of silence passed. “And what about Godwin?”

Hans looked up, with real warmth in his face. “See—you’re right. I have to invite him. And a few others… from Devil’s Den. We should definitely invite them.”

Henry nodded.

“I’ll send a messenger tomorrow,” Hans said.

Henry fell quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the fire. His fingers brushed idly over Hans’s hand.

Then he looked up. “But… why send a messenger?” he asked. “Why couldn’t we go ourselves?”

Hans lifted his head, something bright sparking in his eyes. “Now?”

Henry grinned. “Why not? Everything’s settled, the wedding’s three weeks away… Is there anything holding you here?”

They looked at each other for a moment. Then Hans’s grin widened—bright, almost boyish.

“That’s a bloody brilliant idea,” he said. “To hell with it. Let’s do it.”

He laughed and ran his hand over Henry’s back. “It’s a fair bit of road, though,” he added, his voice warmer. “We should break the journey and stop at Foxburrow.”

Henry’s fingers tightened around Hans’s hand.

“I love you so much,” he said, the words breaking into a smile that brought light back into his eyes.

Hans held his gaze and kissed him.

“So then, my Henry,” he grinned. “Tomorrow—just you, me… and Foxburrow.”

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