The next morning, the palace kitchens roared to life. Cauldrons bubbled, ovens smoked, and the scent of fresh bread drifted through every corridor. Servants, cooks, and volunteers bustled in a frenzy, hauling sacks of grain and baskets of fruit into the courtyards.
Henry himself rolled up his sleeves, taking loaves from the ovens and carrying them to the waiting carts. The kitchen staff gasped at first—the king? handling bread?—but his easy grin and steady hands soon set them at ease.
"Don't just stare," he teased the nearest cook, sweat darkening his hair. "You'll shame me if I'm the only one working."
Drizella, meanwhile, took charge like a general. She mapped out the neighborhoods most in need, assigning guards to escort wagons, ensuring no family was overlooked.
When one minister muttered that such open-handed giving was "unseemly for royalty," Drizella fixed him with a stare so sharp he paled.
"Better to be unseemly with bread than noble with empty promises," she snapped.
By afternoon, they rode into the merchant district together, their carts creaking with food. The crowd gathered in wary silence, watching.
Drizella was the first to climb down, emerald skirts brushing the dust. She didn't wait for ceremony. She lifted a basket of apples herself and handed them to a cluster of wide-eyed children.
"Eat," she said simply.
The silence broke. Laughter, cheers, grateful tears. Mothers pressed her hands; fathers bowed. And for the first time, the people of Belvaris saw her not as an outsider, not as a rumor—but as a queen.
Henry stood beside her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, not as a threat but as a silent vow: no harm would touch her. When an elderly man clutched his arm and whispered, "We have not been forgotten," Henry's throat tightened.
That night, the city sang of them. Not of the distant king and queen who sat on thrones, but of Henry and Drizella, who had walked the streets and fed the hungry.
Weeks passed in this rhythm. Meetings with merchants turned into negotiations for fairer trade. Bakers and millers offered to supply bread at lower costs, inspired by the crown's example. Slowly, Belvaris shifted—from wary host to loyal ally.
Drizella's sharp tongue even earned her affection. When a fishmonger grumbled about rations, she retorted, "Then learn to season properly, and you'll need less salt." The crowd roared with laughter, and the fishmonger bowed with a grin.
Henry watched it all with quiet pride, always near, always steady. At night, when they collapsed into each other's arms, he whispered, "You've done it."
"No," she would murmur against his chest. "We've done it."
It was in the middle of one such evening, the fire crackling low, when a messenger burst into their chambers, pale and breathless.
"A dispatch from home, Your Majesties."
Henry broke the seal, eyes scanning the page. His jaw tightened.
Drizella sat up, heart pounding. "What is it?"
He lowered the letter, voice grave. "Unrest. The people are uneasy. Whispers of… her." He didn't need to say the name.
Drizella's face hardened. "Cinderella."
Henry nodded, folding the letter with deliberate care. "They need us back. Belvaris will hold—it's strong now. But home…"
"Home is bleeding," Drizella finished for him.
They sat in silence, the weight of duty heavy between them. Then Henry reached for her hand, pressing it firmly in his.
"We go back," he said. "Together."
Drizella squeezed his hand, her eyes burning with resolve. "Then let her try. She'll find us ready."
And so, after securing their promises in Belvaris—grain stores refilled, trade agreements sealed, and allies pledged—they prepared their departure.
The city lined the streets as they left, waving cloths and throwing flowers. Children shouted, "Long live the queen!" and Henry, watching Drizella's soft smile as she waved back, knew the fire of Belvaris had marked her forever.
But as their carriage rolled away, shadows waited on the road ahead.
And somewhere, far from Belvaris, a woman in exile heard of their return and sharpened her knives.