The carriage jolted over the uneven road, sending Drizella's hat tumbling into her lap. She snatched it up with a muttered curse and shoved it back onto her head.
Henry chuckled beside her. "You know, most queens sit serenely during a royal procession."
"Then most queens must have steel spines," Drizella grumbled. "How anyone smiles through these infernal rides is beyond me."
"You could try it," Henry teased, his eyes glinting.
She shot him a look. "You're enjoying this too much."
"Only because you're glorious when you're irritated."
"Hopeless," she muttered, but her lips twitched.
Their first stop was a farming village near the southern border. The nobles who traveled with them expected the peasants to bow, kiss the queen's hand, and listen quietly to ceremonial speeches.
Drizella had other plans.
When a group of children ran forward with dirt-stained hands and wide eyes, she knelt right in the mud to speak to them. "So," she asked a little girl clutching a wooden doll, "what's the worst thing about your chores?"
The girl blinked, then grinned. "Milking the goat! She kicks."
Drizella laughed loudly, startling the courtiers. "Good. Never trust anyone who doesn't kick back now and then."
The villagers roared with laughter. Henry, standing just behind her, felt his chest swell with pride.
One of the nobles whispered sharply, "Your Majesty, that is not queenly conduct—"
Henry cut him off, his voice cool and commanding. "It is exactly what this kingdom needs."
Days later, in a bustling port city, the mayor guided them through warehouses filled with grain. "Production is steady, but the tariffs—" he began nervously.
Drizella interrupted, arms crossed. "The tariffs are strangling you. Tell me, how many families have left in the past year?"
The mayor blinked. "Nearly forty."
"And how many more will leave before winter if nothing changes?" she pressed.
The mayor's face paled.
Henry stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Drizella's shoulder. "We will review the tariffs immediately. Write your concerns to the council—we will see them addressed."
The mayor bowed deeply, relief flooding his face.
That night, by the fire in their tent, Drizella frowned. "I embarrassed you in front of him."
Henry leaned back, watching her in the flickering light. "You spoke the truth. And you saw what I didn't. That is why I need you, Drizella. Not as decoration. As my equal."
She went quiet, staring into the flames. Then, softly, she admitted, "No one's ever said that to me before."
"Get used to it," he said firmly, taking her hand.
But not every moment was triumphant.
In a northern town, a stone flew from the crowd, narrowly missing Drizella's shoulder. Gasps erupted as guards seized the man.
Drizella stood frozen, her heart hammering, until Henry stepped in front of her, his voice sharp as steel.
"Release him," he ordered the guards. "No punishment tonight."
The man fell to his knees, trembling. "Forgive me, Your Highness. We're starving. We… we thought no one cared."
Drizella's breath caught. Slowly, she stepped forward, ignoring the guards' protests. She lifted the man's chin until his eyes met hers.
"I care," she said firmly. "And if the council dares look the other way, they'll answer to me."
The crowd erupted in cheers, drowning out the man's sobs.
Henry's hand found hers again. His grip was steady, grounding her as her pulse raced. He leaned close, whispering so only she could hear:
"You were magnificent."
By the end of the month, songs had already begun to spread about the new queen—sharp-tongued, fearless, and unafraid to get her hands dirty.
The courtiers returned to the capital muttering that she was unrefined, but the people… the people whispered that she was real.
And Henry, riding beside her carriage, thought the same with every glance he stole at her profile against the sunset:
She is real. And she is mine.