The letters began arriving from Belvaris within days of the banquet incident with the glass slipper.
King Alaric's seal pressed into red wax, words etched in hurried script: "Trade disputes are rising into threats. We request your presence—both of you. The people must see strength, not soldiers."
Henry read the letter aloud in their private chambers, Drizella lounging across the couch with her legs draped over his lap.
"Both of us," she repeated, arching a brow. "So they want the fierce queen and her weary husband?"
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her shin. "They want the couple who turned a divided court into a stable crown. And that's you and me."
Drizella sat up, her sharp eyes softening. "Do you trust them?"
Henry hesitated. "I trust their king. But I don't trust what's brewing beneath him."
"Then we'll go," she said firmly. "And we'll face it together."
The voyage across the straits was marked by sea spray and restless nights, but Henry kept her close. On the deck, with wind whipping her hair free of pins, Drizella leaned against him.
"You're smiling," she teased. "Almost like you enjoy this."
"Because you're beside me," he replied simply.
She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth curled. "Hopeless."
Belvaris greeted them with grandeur—banners of gold and green, choirs echoing across the harbor. Nobles watched with hawk-like eyes, waiting for a misstep.
Drizella gave them none.
At their first council, she listened sharply, then cut through an hour's worth of bluster with one blunt question: "If trade routes are the lifeblood of your kingdom, why choke them with tariffs?"
The room fell silent. Henry, at her side, allowed himself the smallest of smiles. "My queen has a talent for piercing truths," he told the astonished nobles.
That night, alone in their chambers, he unlaced her gown slowly. "You stunned them," he murmured.
"I irritated them," she corrected, smirking. "But yes, perhaps I enjoyed it."
He laughed, kissing her shoulder. "So did I."
It was on their third evening, after a masquerade ball, that the first strike fell.
A servant stumbled forward, tray in hand, sending a goblet crashing at Drizella's feet. Instead of wine, acrid smoke curled upward. Drizella gasped, choking, her eyes watering.
Henry moved instantly, pulling her into his cloak, shouting for guards.
The servant was seized, still grinning. "She remembers," he rasped before they dragged him away.
Henry carried Drizella from the hall himself, his arms iron around her trembling frame. In their chambers, he laid her gently on the bed, voice tight.
"Are you hurt?"
She coughed, shaking her head. "Just smoke. I'll live."
He pressed his forehead to hers, hands trembling against her cheeks. "She came this close to you. This close."
Drizella, breath still ragged, managed a smirk. "Then let her come closer. She'll find we're stronger than she thinks."
Henry kissed her knuckles with fierce devotion. "She'll find I'd burn the world before I let her touch you again."
Neither of them slept that night.