*King Alexander*
"What are my letters doing in your possession, Belinda!?" Alexander's voice erupted through the delicate tea room like thunder splitting silk, the sound reverberating off crystal decanters that trembled on their golden trays. His throat burned raw from the force of it. The four sealed letters crumpled slightly in his white-knuckled grip as he thrust them toward her face—his hand shaking not from weakness, but from the molten fury coursing through his veins like poison.
The scent of bergamot and honey still hung in the air, sickeningly sweet against the bitter taste of betrayal coating his tongue.
Physical proof. The very thing they needed. Golden afternoon light streaming through the tall arched windows caught the crimson wax seals, making them gleam like drops of fresh blood. Admiral Nugen's familiar chicken-scratch handwriting seemed to mock him from the parchment. They were real. They were damning.
Alexander's chest constricted with each shallow breath. He'd wanted to be wrong—Gods, how desperately he'd wanted Johan to find nothing in her chambers. But there they were, all four letters tucked beneath correspondence on Belinda's mahogany desk like guilty secrets, untouched and forgotten. The discovery had ripped the last shred of hope from his chest like flesh torn from bone.
The man had been writing all along. Four months of silence. Four months of Nugen believing himself abandoned, wondering why Alexander had stopped answering. Alexander's jaw clenched until his molars ached. The weight of those unread words pressed against his palm like hot coals.
"How long were you planning to do this?" The words scraped from his throat, rough and broken. He'd expected fury in his voice, but what emerged was something far worse—hurt so deep it made his bones ache. "How long, Belinda?"
Alexander braced himself for her reaction, expecting a fast and quick rebuttal or refusal on her part, perhaps the flash of guilt in those grey eyes, pleading for his mercy. A graceful collapse into remorse that he could expect from her.
But she gave him nothing. What he thought he still knew about the woman he called wife was transformed into a stranger before his eyes.
Belinda remained perfectly still at the head of the oval table, framed by cascades of pink peonies that seemed to mock her serenity. Her deep emerald gown caught the light like polished malachite, the velvet folds arranged around her legs with calculated precision. Not a single strand of her dark hair had escaped its intricate braiding. Her rouge-tinted lips curved in the barest suggestion of a smile—the same expression she wore when receiving foreign dignitaries.
The sight of her composure sent ice through his veins.
"I don't know how they got there," she said at last, her voice carrying the smooth cadence of silk sliding over steel. One manicured finger traced the rim of her teacup, the gentle clink of her silver ring against porcelain the only sound beyond Alexander's labored breathing. Even her breathing remained steady, controlled—a sharp contrast to his own ragged gasps.
The lie tasted like ash in the air between them.
"Don't." Alexander's voice cracked like a whip against glass. The word hung sharp and jagged, cutting through her facade. "Not about this."
It was one thing to be mad at him. Resent him for his choices. Alexander could take that.
But not this. Not when it hurt her.
That was where this cold new life between them drew the line. And Belinda knew that. Yet she still–
Belinda's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in what might have been surprise, or perhaps mild irritation—as if he'd accused her of stealing sugar cubes rather than intercepting vital intelligence. The casual dismissal in that gesture made Alexander's vision blur with rage.
"I'm not lying," she replied, her grey eyes casually drifting to the one other witness in the room. The older woman stood silently and perfectly straight at her spot at the wall.
But upon Belinda's acute attention, a slight waver flickered across Julia's wrinkled features as if already preparing for something.
"I'm sure this is just a mistake."
Julia stepped forward with ghost-like steps, her starched apron crisp against her black dress. She moved like someone walking to the gallows, each step deliberate and careful. "Yes, Your Majesty. You receive so many letters... they must have slipped in by accident."
"Slipped in?" Alexander echoed, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. The absurdity of it struck him like a physical blow. An accident. That was their excuse.
The air in the room felt thick as honey, hard to breathe. Behind him, he could feel Johan's tension radiating like heat from a forge, but his friend remained silent, letting the scene play out. Alexander's shirt clung to his back with perspiration despite the spring breeze through the windows.
"Do I need Postmaster Nettle to testify about where these letters were supposed to go?" His knuckles had gone white around the correspondence, the paper crackling under the pressure. "I'm sure he'll have quite a different story—"
Belinda waved her hand dismissively, like batting away a gnat. "That won't be necessary. It was a mistake. It doesn't matter who did it." Her gaze fell back to Julia with a strange smile almost curling in the corners of her painted lips. The older woman stiffened even more, with a slight gasp. Her hands gave a subtle shake at her side, but she controlled her features.
Belinda clicked her teacup with the spoon. "Like I said, mistakes happen, don't they, Julia?"
Julia's face crumpled slightly before she caught herself, straightening her spine with visible effort. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Alexander didn't even look behind him to see Johan, standing a few steps back could see it too. Lies. It made Alexander flush with a new barely held back sense of fury.
"Mistake or not," Alexander said, his voice carrying the weight of a king's authority, "royal communication was intercepted. There will be consequences."
"Nothing was intercepted, dearest husband." The endearment dripped from her lips like syrup laced with arsenic. She gestured toward his grip on the letters with one elegant finger. "Your correspondence remains unopened. I haven't read a single word. They were simply... misplaced."
Only because Johan risked everything to find them, Alexander thought, bile rising in his throat. The gamble his friend had taken—searching the queen's private chambers—could have cost him his head.
"Fine." Alexander forced the word through gritted teeth. "Let's call it a mistake. But how long, Belinda? Days? Weeks?" His voice cracked with disbelief, the sound echoing off the delicate china like breaking glass. "Would you have told me at all?"
For just a moment—less than a heartbeat—something flickered across Belinda's face. Her perfectly controlled mask slipped, revealing a flash of something raw and wounded underneath. Her breathing caught, almost imperceptibly, before the mask snapped back into place.
"I understand you're upset, my king." The title fell from her lips like a stone into still water, creating ripples of formality between them.
"I'm not upset." Alexander stepped closer, close enough to smell her perfume—jasmine and bitter orange, once beloved, now mocking. "I'm furious. These letters contain vital intelligence. Time-sensitive information. You may have cost us lives."
"That important?" Belinda rose from her chair with fluid grace, her full skirts whispering against the pale rug like secrets being shared. Her eyes drifted down to look at the pattern of flowers, as if chewing on his words silently. A soft shadow grazed her features before she lifted her head again, dangling pearl earrings, whipping as she did. She turned to Julia, hands folded.
"Julia?"
The older woman bowed again, her neck stiff as her voice. "Your Majesty."
A quiet seemed to fall over the space between them as another cloud drifted over Belinda's eyes as she regarded her loyal servant. For a moment, Alexander expected some reasonable punishment, perhaps an apology to be demanded.
It wasn't enough. He knew that instantly—no matter what she did, it would never be enough. However, that was how Belinda played such games. Julia was her most trusted servant. Likely doing most of the dirty work. Of course, she would receive some reprimand, but then it would be done. Belinda would carry on and–
"You will receive twenty lashings to your back and legs for your error."
"My Queen?" Julia's face went ashen, her hand flying to her chest as a small, wounded sound escaped her lips. The words hit the room like a physical blow. The punishment was shocking to her as it was to Alexander and even Johan. Even Johan, trained in court politics and royal brutality, inhaled sharply behind Alexander.
Alexander reeled in disbelief, looking at her. "Belinda!"
But she wasn't looking at him. She moved instead to puff out the tulle of her dress. "There. Punishment is dealt. That should resolve things." She lifted her chin with regal authority, already turning away as if the matter were closed. Her heels clicked against the marble with the finality of a judge's gavel.
But it wasn't over, and as off balance as Alexander was by her callous new behavior, her complete unconcern for the woman who had served her faithfully for over a decade, he had the sense to stop her.
Alexander's hand shot out instinctively, fingers wrapping around her wrist before he could think. The small bones felt fragile under his grip, bird-like and delicate, and for a moment, the contrast between her physical fragility and her emotional cruelty stunned him.
"That is not what I wanted," he said, his voice hoarse with shock. No, he didn't think she would actually sacrifice Julia so easily–
Belinda turned back to him, and what he saw in her eyes made him take an involuntary step backward. There was no warmth there, no recognition of the man she'd once loved. Her grey eyes had gone arctic, reflecting light like polished steel.
"Then what would satisfy you, Alexander?" Her voice carried a deadly calm. "Julia's head, perhaps?"
Julia gasped, both hands flying to her throat now. The terror in her eyes was naked, raw—she dropped her famous composure all at once at the risk of death. Death, which this woman would order an execution without blinking. But it was Belinda's complete lack of reaction to that terror that chilled Alexander to his marrow.
What is this woman? He thought. Julia—faithful Julia—had been with them since the beginning. Even before, Belinda had brought her along in their very marriage. And Belinda would throw her to the wolves for this? Julia wasn't even safe in the end. Just a tool?
The realization hit him like a physical blow.
Alexander released her wrist as if her skin had burned him, staggering back half a step. Already, red marks were blooming where his fingers had pressed, darkening toward bruises that would linger for days. But Belinda didn't even glance at the injury. She cradled her wrist gently, almost tenderly—not from pain, but as if displaying evidence for some future trial.
"Belinda." Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, or perhaps a mourning song. "I never thought you would go this far."
Belinda's eyes flashed, like lightning striking behind her pupils, making them sharp and electric with an undercurrent of anger and something…like pain. "Since when did you ever think about me, Alexander?"
The words hit him like arrows finding their mark. Alexander felt his anger drain away, replaced by something colder and more terrible—understanding. Regret, maybe. The pain in her eyes, there was something still there. Something between them, perhaps something still salvageable. A love that could be saved, even if it was just a hair's breadth. A hope that at least they could still be civil.
"Belinda..." He reached toward her, but she sidestepped his touch like avoiding a snake's strike.
Her spine straightened, and suddenly she looked every inch the queen—beautiful, terrible, and utterly untouchable. "Is there something else you require of me, Your Majesty?"
The formality was a wall built of ice and iron.
"I—"
"If not, I'm expected for tea with Hidi and Nicoli." Her smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "Unlike some people, I don't break my commitments."
The word hit straight through the gap in his ribs with all the ice and glass that remained of their once-happy marriage, shattered and broken. Everything that had once been warm between them now lay in ruins, sharp-edged and bitter. Everything now only sharp points to cut each other deeply. But having a good reason each time to draw blood. Belinda's cold fury matched Alexander's weighted vows. And it looked like Belinda had every intention of wielding hers like a weapon.
Unable to find words that wouldn't make things worse, Alexander said nothing. Defeated in the moment as she laid him bare with his own actions.
Belinda scuffed softly, and she brushed past him with the grace of a woman attending court, not fleeing confrontation. Her perfume lingered in her wake, sweet and cloying. Johan stepped aside, bowing.
"Your Highness," he murmured.
Belinda paused, turning to study Johan as if assigning in a way she never had till now, weighing him out.
"You must be quite pleased with yourself. You found something after all. How fortunate that your... assumptions... proved correct." Her smile was all teeth now. "Because if they hadn't, I would have had your head for the insult of accusing me."
Johan's expression never wavered, though a muscle ticked in his jaw. "I serve at the king's pleasure, Your Majesty. Nothing more."
"As you should." Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, cataloging something. "Your loyalty is... noted."
Then she was gone, her footsteps echoing down the marble corridor like the sound of something precious breaking, each heel strike driving another nail into the coffin of their marriage.
Julia remained for a heartbeat longer, her weathered hands smoothing her apron with mechanical precision. The terror that had stripped her face of color moments before was carefully tucked away now, buried beneath decades of practiced servitude. But the strain showed in the tight lines around her eyes, the way her lips pressed together as if holding back words that could never be spoken. Her fingers trembled once—just once—before she clasped them firmly at her waist.
She had composed herself enough to function, but the shock of her mistress's casual cruelty had clearly shaken something fundamental in her. Still, loyalty was a chain she had worn so long it had become part of her bones. With a small, stiff curtsy toward Alexander—an acknowledgment that said nothing and everything—she followed in Belinda's wake, her own footsteps whisper-soft against the marble.
Alexander remained frozen where they'd left him, his hand still half-extended toward empty air. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows felt cold now, unable to warm the ice that had settled in his bones.
It was over. Truly, finally over. In more than one way. It was…over between them.
From this moment forward…Alexander breathed out heavily as the floorboard shifted behind him. Johan was at his side. His friend's presence was solid, reassuring—an anchor in the wreckage of everything Alexander had once held dear.
"The situation is more dire than we realized," Johan said quietly, his voice carefully neutral.
Alexander blinked, forcing himself back to the present. The letters crackled in his grip, their stiff parchment edges cutting into his palm like accusations. Nugen's words painted a grim picture—upheaval in Ana's court, Lord Mykhol's growing power, attacks between the Bulgeons, weapons shortages. His daughter needed him, and he'd lost precious weeks to his wife's games.
"Yes." His voice came out as a rasp. "We've lost too much time."
Ana was in danger. Real, immediate danger. And he'd been here, playing the fool in a house with a woman who no longer existed.
As if Johan could read his thoughts, knowing him for so long, he spoke for him. "I'll send word to the stables. We can be packed and ready by tomorrow morning—"
"Tonight," Alexander said hoarsely, voice ragged like splintered glass. He rubbed at his eyes until his vision blurred, until all he saw was the afterimage of failure pulsing behind his lids. He felt stripped—his bones tired, his heart heavier for finally confronting Belinda and still coming away with more loss than clarity.
"I won't be sleeping," The admission tasted bitter, but it was true. How could he sleep knowing what he now knew about the woman sharing his roof? How could he rest while Ana faced threats alone?
He turned away from Johan and stepped into the corridor, where maids were refreshing the flower arrangements with their usual quiet efficiency. White lilies, bluebells, clusters of violets—delicate spring blooms that filled the air with sweetness. But no red roses. Never red roses anymore.
No. Red roses reminded Belinda too much of Parsul. Of the garden that had once been hers, and now belonged to Ana.
The ache that shot through him was immediate and devastating. How many springs had bloomed in Ana's garden without him there to see them? How many seasons of growth and beauty had he missed while trapped in his gilded cage of political necessity?
This was one spring he shouldn't have missed. This was supposed to be the mark of change. That Ana wouldn't be alone. And yet–
Footsteps approaching from the far end of the corridor made him look up, and for a moment, Alexander felt as if he were seeing a ghost until the figure came into focus.
"Oh—" The word caught in his throat.
Nicoli was walking toward him, backlit by golden light from the western windows. For a moment, Alexander didn't recognize him. When had his son grown so tall? The boy—no, the young man—seemed to have grown again in the spaces between their last conversation, how long ago that was, in the silences that had become the new language between them.
His shoulders were broader. His jaw was more defined. The boy who used to run full-tilt down these halls to launch himself into Alexander's arms now moved with the measured gait of someone carrying adult concerns.. A man who had chosen a side—something Alexander regretted he had to make him do. But it had happened. And would continue. The rift between his parents would never be bridged again, not after this.
Belinda made that very clear now.
The sight of him was like a fist around Alexander's heart.
"Dad?" Nicoli slowed, his boots hesitating a fracture as if considering coming closer, like it might be a betrayal of some kind alone. But his features firmed as if set on some mission, giving him a little bravery to come forward. His sapphire eyes flicked from Alexander to the threshold, searching for someone who wasn't there. "Where's Mom? She was supposed to be here."
"She was here." Alexander's voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. "She just left."
They stood facing each other in the flower-scented corridor, and Alexander was struck by how much distance had grown between them—not just physical space, but something deeper. The easy intimacy they'd once shared had been strained by the choices Alexander had been forced to make, by the sides everyone in their family had been forced to choose.
"You two were in there for a while…" Nicoli's voice broke at last, hesitant, but the echoes of boyhood were still there, but it was deeper now, more resonant. One day, Alexander would know it would be gone.
Nicoli's gaze settled on Alexander's hand, which still clutched the letters. Despite his attempt to hide them, the boy—young man—was too observant. "Are those... letters?"
Alexander didn't answer right away. His fingers flexed against the paper envelopes, feeling the weight of his response growing longer and longer. Each one represented another day Ana had faced danger alone, another day his absence might have cost lives.
"We had something to discuss."
"Discuss? What about?" Nicoli stepped closer, and Alexander caught the scent of soap and fresh air clinging to his clothes—evidence of time spent in the gardens or the training yards. Too close for Alexander's armor to hold.
Then the question came, like a blade unsheathed. A soft gasp as his eyes widened.
"Wait... are those from Ana?"
There was hope in Nicoli's voice—and fear. He looked up at him eagerly, as if holding his breath, clearly wanting to hear that they were. He was starved for her as much as he was. Still was. That was still the common link between them. And, oh, how Alexander wanted so badly to tell him yes. To press the letters into his son's hands, to share this burden, to say, She's writing. She hasn't forgotten. But he couldn't.
These weren't letters from Ana—they were about her. And the news wasn't good. The eagerness in his son's voice was like a knife to the heart.
"I'm sorry, son." The words felt like stones in his mouth. "They're not."
He watched his son's face change—the light dimming, the hopeful expression shuttering closed. It was a look Alexander had become too familiar with over the past months, the look of someone learning to rein in their hope. Too mature for someone so young. It made Alexander's chest tight with regret.
"I have to go," Alexander added, stepping around him. But something in him rebelled—some last part that still remembered every bedtime story, every night spent by the fire, every secret told under the cover of darkness when the world was just the two of them.
His hand found Nicoli's shoulder, and the contact sent a shock through him. Beneath the fine fabric of his son's shirt, Alexander felt solid muscle, the frame of a man rather than the soft shoulder of a child. No. This was a man. A man who would keep growing.
When did this happen? When had his boy become someone he could no longer simply pick up and carry to safety?
The truth was all the more bitter as he could see it already happening with him right in front of Alexander. The distance, the divide, and the wall building up between them would grow higher.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Alexander felt the weight of all those wanted conversations they'd never have, all the moments of connection they'd miss due to distance, and the choices between the mother who was present and the father who'd keep leaving. Tearing a wider space in between each time.
Nicoli looked at him then, not as a son reaching for his father, but a young man caught between loyalty and love, someone caught between wanting to bridge the gap and knowing the price of doing so. His eyes glistened for a moment too long before he pulled back.
"I…should go find mother then." His voice carried forced brightness. He relayed the strange new smile that he was using more frequently now. An expression of careful cheer of someone learning to mask disappointment. "She'll be upset if I'm late."
Alexander let his hand fall. His chest ached as he watched that smile steal the fleeting moments of his youth before his eyes. The mask was slipping. A mask, they all wore at some point.
"Of course." The words came out softer than he'd intended, carrying all the weight of things he couldn't say. I'm sorry. I love you. I wish things were different. Don't hate me too much.
Nicoli nodded, shifting his hair out of the pomade, the only unruly thing still about him. Just once. But he didn't look back as he walked past his father and down the hall to find Belinda.
Alexander stood alone in the corridor, surrounded by the sweet scent of spring flowers and the bitter taste of everything he was losing. Things he didn't realize could slip from his fingers as easily as they came.
How could it be that just a year before, the castle was alive with laughter and voices? When both his children were together, the smiles, the joy, everything was finally in place. But look how quickly it was gone? Just silence.
The letters in his hand seemed to burn with their urgency, but they felt insignificant compared to the sight of his son walking away—making him have to choose again. Just like he had, and would likely have to again.
Johan appeared at his elbow, solid and patient as always.
"Your Majesty?"
Alexander straightened, forcing himself to focus on what could still be saved. Ana needed him. He owed it to her to be there for her now. It would have to be enough.
"Ready the horses," he said, his voice growing stronger with each word. "We ride for Nochten at nightfall."