The palace mornings began with sunlight spilling across the marble floors and the scent of fresh bread wafting from the kitchens. Drizella, who had never been a morning person, often dragged herself from bed with hair tangled and eyes half-shut.
Henry adored her most in those moments.
"You look like a lioness," he teased one morning as she shuffled toward the window, yawning.
"More like a bear dragged from its den," she muttered, swatting at him.
He kissed her temple. "Either way, I'd still marry you again."
Her lips curved despite herself. "You're impossible."
The days were filled with duty: audiences with nobles, councils with advisors, meetings with emissaries. But Henry always made time for moments with her.
Once, after a long afternoon of listening to squabbling lords, he dragged her into the palace stables.
"What are we doing here?" she asked, wrinkling her nose at the smell of hay.
"Escaping," he said simply, lifting her onto his horse.
They rode beyond the palace walls, wind in their hair, the city sprawling behind them. Drizella laughed freely, gripping him tightly around the waist. For a little while, there were no crowns, no courtiers—just two souls on open fields.
At night, they returned to their balcony, cider in hand.
"Do you think they'll ever stop glaring at me?" Drizella asked one evening, nodding toward the council chambers below.
"No," Henry admitted honestly. "But they'll learn to respect you. And in time, they may even fear you a little."
Her grin was wicked. "Good."
He laughed, pulling her close. "My honest queen."
Yet beneath the laughter and love, shadows stirred.
Drizella noticed it first in the market during one of their unannounced visits. A fruit seller, who once greeted her warmly, turned pale when he saw her and shoved a bruised apple into her hand without meeting her eyes.
Later, a servant in the palace flinched when Drizella spoke to him, whispering under his breath, "She shouldn't be here."
And once, as Henry worked late in his study, he found a scrap of parchment slipped under the door. It bore only two words, hastily scrawled:
"She remembers."
He burned it before Drizella could see.
Still, he held her hand tighter at night, kissed her forehead with more lingering care, and laughed at her sharp tongue with a steadiness that belied his unease.
Because Henry knew that while their marriage was built on loyalty and love, the past was not yet buried.
And somewhere beyond the palace walls, in the silence of exile, Cinderella was already moving her first piece across the board.