It began with rumors.
In the capital's taverns, whispers spread that the queen was unfit—that she was coarse, unrefined, a usurper who had bewitched the prince. "A kitchen maid in a crown," someone scoffed, and the phrase caught like wildfire.
Drizella pretended not to care, but Henry saw the tightness in her jaw when the courtiers murmured the insult under their breath.
"Let them choke on their whispers," he told her one night.
"I'd prefer to make them swallow their wigs," she muttered darkly.
He laughed, pulling her into his arms. "My fierce lioness."
But beneath his calm, Henry felt the first tremor of unease.
Then came the letters. Anonymous, delivered to the palace gates, always scrawled in the same jagged hand.
"The crown belongs to the true bride."
"She waits. She remembers."
"Ashes rise."
Henry burned each one in the fireplace before Drizella could see. But fire could not erase the words from his mind.
The first true blow came during a royal banquet.
The great hall glittered with candlelight, the air heavy with roasted meats and sweet wine. Drizella sat at Henry's side, her gown a deep crimson, her posture regal despite the sharp stares of half the court.
The musicians struck up a lively tune—then faltered, discordant notes spilling across the hall. Gasps rose. Someone screamed.
Drizella looked down.
On the pristine white tablecloth before her sat a single glass slipper, cracked down the middle, the shards sharp as teeth.
A message. A warning.
Drizella's face blanched, but before the court could see, Henry was on his feet. He swept the slipper into his cloak, voice steady as he addressed the startled guests.
"A prank," he declared coolly. "Unworthy of our attention."
But when he sat again, Drizella's hand was trembling in his.
"Henry," she whispered, her eyes searching his. "She's here."
His jaw tightened. He kissed her hand, his voice low, fierce, and unyielding.
"Then let her come. She'll find we're not so easy to break."
That night, after the guests departed and the palace was still, Henry and Drizella sat together by the fire, their fingers entwined.
For the first time since their wedding, fear flickered in Drizella's eyes.
"Do you think she'll stop?" she asked.
Henry held her gaze, his voice a vow.
"No. But I promise you this—she will never win. Not while I breathe."