Far from Belvaris, back in their own kingdom, the ripples of unrest began to stir. The palace courtyards were thick with rumor—about the queen nearly poisoned, about enemies striking at foreign soil, about whether the crown was truly safe in Henry's hands.
Merchants in the markets clutched at gossip like bread, muttering, "If the queen isn't safe abroad, what of us at home?"
And in the villages, mothers hushed their children with whispered prayers, afraid the shadow of danger would cross their threshold.
The regents worked tirelessly, but fear had a way of spreading faster than any decree. And always, in the dark corners of taverns, a forbidden name was spoken:
Cinderella.
Meanwhile in Belvaris, Drizella was finding her footing—not in silken gowns or gilded halls, but in the grit of the streets.
She and Henry had been invited to tour the merchant district, a public display of goodwill. Henry walked at her side, watchful, his hand never far from hers.
At first, the crowd was polite but cool. Curious eyes darted toward Drizella, whispers following her every step. She felt the weight of their judgment—the "other bride," the "wrong sister."
Then, as they paused near a fishmonger's stall, a sudden commotion broke out. A broad-shouldered man shoved his way through the crowd, his face red with anger.
"You sit in silks while we starve!" he shouted, brandishing a half-rotten fish. "We toil, we bleed, and what do we get? Empty promises!"
Guards surged forward, blades flashing, but Drizella raised her hand sharply. "Stop."
Henry's grip tightened on her arm. "Drizella—"
But she stepped forward, chin high, facing the man head-on. "You think I don't know hunger? You think I've never scrubbed a floor raw for scraps while others feasted?" Her voice rang through the street, cutting through the murmurs.
The man spat at her feet. "Lies."
The guards moved again, but Drizella knelt—not toward the spit, but toward the fish in his hand. She took it, held it up to the crowd, and said, "If your stomach aches, then I ache with you. If your table is bare, then I will share mine. Tomorrow, the palace kitchens will open their stores. No child will go hungry while I live."
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
The man's fury faltered, confusion flickering in his eyes. He lowered his fists, and for the first time, the crowd leaned closer—not to jeer, but to listen.
A woman in the back whispered, "She means it."
Drizella stood, brushing her skirts, and handed the man a coin from her own purse. "Buy your family supper tonight. Then come tomorrow, and we'll speak of more lasting answers."
The crowd erupted—not in outrage, but in applause. Shouts of "Long live the queen!" rang out, echoing through the streets.
Henry stepped beside her, his gaze soft but proud. "You've just made our kitchens very busy."
She smirked, slipping her hand into his. "You wanted a queen. You got one."
That night, as they returned to their chambers, Henry pulled her into an embrace before the fire.
"You terrify me," he murmured against her hair.
"Good," she said, smirking. "Keeps you on your toes."
But when he pulled back, his eyes were shining with something fiercer than amusement. "No, Drizella. You terrify me because I love you. And every time you step into the fire, I fear I won't be enough to pull you back."
For once, she didn't have a sharp reply. She touched his cheek, whispering, "Then don't pull me back. Stand in it with me."
And he did.
But even as Drizella's boldness began to turn Belvaris' coldness into cautious admiration, shadows stirred elsewhere.
A letter, smuggled across borders, found its way into the wrong hands. Promises were exchanged in coin and blood.
And somewhere, in exile, Cinderella smiled.