Morning arrived not as a comfort, but as an indictment, pouring stark, unwelcome light into every corner of the chamber. Gisela had not slept; she had served a vigil, time itself a slow blade against which the memory of the previous night was honed—a shard of obsidian in her soul, dark, sharp, and permanent.
The maids performed their silent, choreographed rituals and withdrew, leaving her in a silence that seemed to ring. The very air felt altered, stained with the revelation she now carried.
She moved to the writing desk, her actions mechanical. An old, well-worn brush. A sheet of heavy parchment. She dipped the tip into the inkwell, watching the viscous black consume the bristles.
"You, Father," she whispered to the hollow room, her voice flat and cold. "You are the architect of this prison. My cries were not merely unheard—they were currency you were glad to spend."
The brush met the paper, and her thoughts flowed in deliberate, unforgiving lines.
Dear Father,
I write to you once more, though I hold little expectation that the act brings you any more pleasure than it brings me comfort.
I feel it necessary to inform you that your esteemed son-in-law, King Henry, is now aware of my… constitutional misfortune. His regard for it, as for most things pertaining to me, is one of profound indifference. It appears the value of your alliance was calculated without factoring the quality of the life within it.
I make but one request, which I suggest is for the benefit of all parties: send Hilda to me. Her presence is the only palliative I require, or shall accept. She understands the humours of this affliction, and of this court, far better than any physician here.
I trust this missive finds you in good health and untroubled conscience.
Your Devoted Daughter,
Gisela
She set the brush aside, her hand steady. The ink gleamed, a formalized effigy of her bleeding heart. It was not a plea, but a dispatch from the front lines of a war he had conscripted her into. She sanded the parchment, her gaze distant. The letter was not a hope for rescue, but the first careful move in a game of survival she now knew she must play alone.
With methodical care, she prepared the seal. The flame of a slender taper wavered, a tiny, defiant sun in the gloom. She dripped a pool of crimson wax onto the parchment's fold. Then, with a quill, she let a single drop of deep scarlet ink fall into its heart. Using the tip of a dagger, she stirred slowly, watching the two reds—one viscous, one liquid—swirl into a single, bloody amalgam.
She did not use the official seal of England. Instead, she pressed her personal signet, bearing the crest of her German homeland, into the hybrid wax. The impression emerged mottled and unsettling, as if the seal itself were bruised. It was a perfect symbol: her past, stamped in the colors of confinement and quiet hemorrhage.
Gisela did not raise her voice. She lifted her hand and flicked her fingers once, a crisp sound in the quiet.
The door opened instantly. The maid Henry had assigned—her perpetual shadow—slipped inside, eyes downcast in trained submission.
"My Queen." A deep curtsy.
"Your name." The tone offered no warmth, only a demand for data.
The maid flinched. "It is Aurora, Your Majesty."
"Aurora." Gisela extended the sealed letter, its maroon seal glinting dully. "Take this to the Master of the Posts. It is for the senior royal courier, a state dispatch. It travels under my personal seal to the court of my father, the King of Germany. It does not wait for the common bag. Go quickly."
"At once, Your Majesty." Aurora took the letter as if it were a live coal, clutching it to her chest. She was nearly at the door when she stopped, spinning back with another rushed curtsy. "Forgive me, My Queen. The King… he requests your presence in the great hall. Breakfast is served."
Gisela turned from the window slowly, a study in controlled motion. Her amber eyes settled on the trembling girl, the king's command seeming to solidify the chill in the room.
"You may go to the Master of the Posts," she said, her voice a low, firm blade. "And on your return, you may inform the King that his queen is indisposed. She will not be joining him this morning."
The dismissal was a royal decree, not a domestic squabble. Aurora paled, understanding the weight of bearing such a refusal between two thrones. She bowed deeply. "Yes, Your Majesty."
She fled. The door clicked shut, leaving Gisela in a silence of her own making—her first calculated act of diplomatic defiance now in motion.
She walked slowly to the great gilded mirror, her chamber's silent witness. Her reflection met her: amber eyes burning like banked coals, the fiery cascade of her hair bound severely with golden pins. Her chest rose and fell in a measured, deliberate rhythm, the only sign of the tempest within.
"Is this the sum of a marriage?" she asked the silent glass, her voice low. Unbidden, her imagination painted scenes of tender glances and clasped hands. "I was taught it was built on affection. On love. A happy ending, secured by a vow."
"Then you were taught a children's fable."
The voice was deep, familiar, and came from the shadows behind her. She did not need to turn. Henry's dark figure materialized in the mirror, approaching until he stood directly at her back. He lowered his head, his lips nearly brushing the bare skin of her shoulder as he spoke to her reflection.
"There are no happy endings. Only prudent arrangements and their consequences."
His eyes, in the glass, locked onto the fiery defiance in hers.
"Really?" The word was a shard of ice. She stepped away, breaking the mirrored tableau and his near-touch.
"I will say this, Gisela," he continued, his gaze tracking her movement with cold interest. "You are the most willful creature I have ever encountered. You defy me at every turn. And I find it… curiously diverting."
"I wish to be alone, my lord," she stated, turning to face him directly, her back now to the mirror. "In my chamber, as you yourself decreed. In fact, by remaining here, am I not obeying your royal command? Or does your order only count when it suits you?"
Her burning gaze challenged him, her fists clenched tight at her sides—not in fear, but as if physically holding back a torrent of rage. The space between them crackled, a battle fought not with swords, but with wills.