Henry had learned long ago that power was not always loud. In council chambers, men shouted themselves hoarse and women sharpened words into weapons, but the strongest blade was the one kept sheathed until the moment of strike.
And now, as whispers of Cinderella grew bolder, Henry kept his silence. Not from fear—but from patience.
The first strike came in the markets. A rumor slipped like oil through the stalls: The queen hoards grain for herself. Panic flared. Prices doubled overnight, mothers wept over empty baskets.
Drizella acted swiftly. She marched into the granaries herself, flung open the doors, and ordered carts of grain sent to every village. She stood atop a wagon, her voice fierce and clear:
"If any man tells you I hoard what is yours, call him liar to his face. If any merchant dares cheat you, bring him to me. My table is yours, my bread is yours. A queen who eats while her people starve is no queen at all."
The crowd roared, not with fear but with faith. That night, taverns buzzed not with rumors but with stories of a queen who had given bread with her own hands.
Henry stood at her side, silent but watchful. He saw the shift—one strike blunted, one shadow turned back. And in his study that evening, he penned quiet orders to loyal knights, mapping the web of merchants who had seeded the panic. Follow the money, he thought grimly. It will lead back to her.
The second strike was subtler. A forged letter, bearing the royal seal, declared new taxes. When it reached the countryside, farmers nearly rioted.
Drizella did not flinch. She rode to the fields herself, mud splattering her skirts, and gathered the farmers in a circle. She held up the false decree and ripped it in half before their eyes.
"This is not my hand," she said. "This is not my will. My word comes from my lips, not a thief's quill. If you doubt, ask me yourself. I will answer."
The farmers cheered, relief flooding their faces. They carried her back to the road on their shoulders, chanting her name.
And Henry—always near, always silent—made note of the forgery's script, of the seal too perfectly pressed. He summoned his most trusted scribe. "Every hand leaves its mark. Find me the one who wrote this."
The third strike was crueler. A child, poisoned sweets slipped into her hand, fell ill in the square. The mother screamed that it was a gift from the queen's kitchens.
Drizella rushed to the home herself. She knelt by the child's bedside, refusing to leave until the fever broke. She kissed the girl's forehead and whispered, "If I must take every bite before you do, I will."
When the child lived, word spread like wildfire—not of poison, but of a queen who had sat vigil like a mother.
Henry stood in the shadows of that cottage, his jaw clenched, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword. He held back only because Drizella's presence soothed where his wrath would have burned.
But later, in the privacy of their chamber, he gripped the back of a chair so tightly the wood splintered.
"She used a child," he said hoarsely.
Drizella touched his arm, steady as stone. "Then she's desperate. And desperation makes mistakes."
He looked at her, his fire meeting hers. "She will not touch you. Not while I breathe."
She smiled faintly, her thumb brushing his cheek. "I know. But Henry… we fight this war together."
In public, Drizella was the fire that burned away shadows. In private, Henry was the silent sword, sharpening in the dark. He studied every rumor, every forged letter, every bribe traced back to trembling hands. He built a ledger of betrayal, each name inked with quiet precision.
And when the time came—when Cinderella stepped from shadow to strike openly—Henry knew he would unleash not just a sword, but the weight of every truth he had gathered.
Until then, he watched. He waited. And he stood behind his queen, a fortress unseen but unshakable.