The next morning, Belvaris woke to a storm of whispers. Servants gossiped in corridors, nobles speculated behind gilded fans, merchants spread rumors through the harbor streets.
A servant with a false tray. A puff of smoke. The queen nearly harmed.
The official story was "an isolated act of madness." But the murmurs told another tale.
She remembers.
Henry had doubled the guard around their chambers. Steel boots now clattered in every hallway, swords gleamed at every doorway. He didn't leave Drizella's side—at meals, in council, even when she walked the gardens.
"You're smothering me," she muttered one afternoon as he shadowed her along a row of lemon trees.
"I'm protecting you," he replied, his tone clipped.
She stopped, turning to face him. "I'm not a porcelain doll, Henry."
"No," he said firmly, taking her face in his hands. "You're my queen. And I will not lose you to her schemes."
For a moment, her defiance softened. She leaned into his touch, whispering, "You won't lose me."
But Henry wasn't reassured. Not yet.
At the banquet that evening, Drizella strode into the hall wearing a gown of deep emerald silk, her chin high. The nobles eyed her warily, expecting a shaken woman. Instead, they found fire.
"To those who fear the strength of Belvaris," she declared, raising her glass, "know this: we do not bow to shadows. We burn them away."
The hall erupted in applause, Henry's chest swelling with pride. Yet his eyes never left hers, watching for any flicker of unease.
Later, in the privacy of their chambers, she collapsed into his arms with a heavy sigh.
"That speech nearly killed me," she admitted, pressing her forehead to his chest.
He chuckled softly, stroking her hair. "You were magnificent."
"You always say that," she murmured.
"Because it's always true," he replied, kissing the crown of her head.
But Belvaris was not immune to Cinderella's reach.
Two days later, Henry overheard a pair of courtiers speaking in hushed tones.
"They say the true bride lives still. That she waits in exile, biding her time."
"Then who is this one, parading in her place?"
Henry stepped into the corridor, his gaze sharp as steel. "This one," he said coldly, "is my wife. And if you value your tongue, you'll never speak otherwise again."
The men fled, pale and trembling.
Henry exhaled slowly, fury simmering in his veins. Cinderella's poison was spreading.
That night, as Drizella brushed out her hair by the fire, Henry knelt beside her chair.
She arched a brow. "Praying at my feet now, husband?"
He caught her hand, his voice low, raw. "Promise me something."
Her smile faltered at his tone. "What?"
"That if she ever reaches this close again—" He swallowed hard, pressing her palm to his lips. "You'll run. You won't try to be brave. You'll run to me."
Drizella's eyes softened, though a defiant spark lingered. "I'll run," she said at last. "But only because I know you'll be right behind me."
Henry pulled her into his arms, holding her as if the act itself could shield her from every shadow.
But beyond the walls of Belvaris, in the quiet corridors of power, whispers grew louder. A name, spoken in secret. A face remembered in shadows.
Cinderella.
And though Henry kept Drizella close, he knew: the storm was far from over.