Chapter 11
Late summer settles over Acheron. The air smells of stone warmed by the sun and blooming herbs from the lower terraces. I am happy—carefree in a way I barely recognize. I laugh more, I sleep easily.
I am in the gardens, tending to the flower beds.
“Shall we go into town tomorrow?” Aileen asks while plucking weeds.
“I would adore that. I need some new yarn, I just finished another canvas last night.” Embroidery has always been a favorite pastime of mine, but in recent months, I have gotten pretty good at it, too.
I hear him before I see him, heavy boots on gravel, voices falling silent. I turn, expecting a messenger, and instead, he is there. Dust-stained, broad-shouldered, very much alive.
I jump up from the ground, equal parts shocked and happy to see him.
“Charles!” I shout.
He smiles broadly, but then his eyes narrow. I can see the shift in his demeanor instantly. Something displeases him.
Behind me, Aileen has risen too and curtsies.
“Welcome home, Your Majesty,” she says quietly.
He doesn’t pay any attention to her, as if she isn’t even there.
He reaches me in a handful of strides.
“Fastrada.”
I barely have time to answer before his hands frame my face and his mouth crashes over mine.
“Charles—”
“I have missed you,” he breathes against my lips, and kisses me again, harder.
His thumb brushes my cheek. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”
I shake my head, dizzy.
“I thought of you every night,” he murmurs, voice rough now. “Every night.”
My heart stumbles. “You did?”
“Devil’s mercy, yes.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I cling to his shoulders to steady myself.
“It is good to see you happy,” he says against my mouth.
The word catches.
“Happy?” I echo.
But he is kissing me again, more urgently now. His hands slide down, restless, gathering fabric.
“Charles—wait—”
He does not. The hem of my dress shifts higher.
I gasp, half laughter, half alarm.
“Charles, we are not alone,” I say breathlessly, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear me.
“I have missed you so much, love,” he growls, his hands holding me in place while he kisses from my throat down to my breasts.
Shame washes over me, and I feel exposed. The servants are trying to look anywhere else but at us, but I can feel their judgment nevertheless.
“Alright, everyone, let us go back inside,” Aileen says cheerily, and I have seldom been more thankful for her intervention than I am right now.
That night, Charles loves me with a hunger that feels almost desperate. We make love over and over again, until I feel sore in all the right places and we collapse on top of each other, exhausted, but happy.
The next morning, we attend court together.
I take my seat beside Charles, my spine straight, my hands folded neatly in my lap. He looks every bit the King—he exchanged his fighting gear for dark tunics, his posture is regal, and his expression unreadable.
There are more people here than at the last few council meetings I attended.
Aynhard has returned with Charles, and he is sitting lazily in a chair to his left.
I can see him watching me from the corner of my eye, as if he is trying to figure out what the Devil’s mercy I am doing here.
The court master takes his cane and taps it on the stone floor multiple times.
When the murmurs die down, Charles rises.
“I want to hear what has occurred in my absence,” he says, his voice carrying easily through the chamber. “What matters demand my attention?”
The court master clears his throat and steps forward.
“Your Majesty—”
Charles lifts a hand, stopping him without even looking. His gaze shifts to me instead. “I would like to hear from my wife first.”
A ripple of surprise moves through the room. I feel it like a physical thing, but I keep my expression calm and rise when he nods for me to speak. Aynhard has abruptly sat up straight in his chair. So this wasn’t an agreed-upon tactic to throw the assembled court off kilter.
“The court has remained in Acheron throughout the summer,” I begin. “The surrounding villages have borne the weight of it. Several farming families have come forward with concerns—specifically about the levies placed on their harvests.”
The court master stiffens beside me, and probably would have described these circumstances more…diplomatically.
I continue, “They fear they will not have enough to last the winter if the court remains. To ease the strain, the court master proposed that we travel for the colder months—reducing the burden on a single region.”
Charles’s jaw tightens. I notice it immediately.
He likes Acheron. He likes the hot springs, the enclosed valley, the illusion of permanence. He likes ruling from a place that feels untouched by the world beyond its stone walls.
“And you agreed to this?” he asks coolly.
“I did,” I answer. “It seemed…fair.”
He exhales through his nose, then nods once. “Perhaps,” he says.
He pauses, then adds, “There is unrest in the South. A noble house has grown…difficult.”
My heart lifts before I can stop it.
“The South?” I ask, too quickly.
He glances at me, something sharp flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t comment. “Yes. We may be required to travel there regardless of the harvest situation.”
Closer to home.
I sit back down, my pulse light, a warmth spreading through my chest that feels dangerously close to hope.
The court master clears his throat again. “There is also the matter of the clergy, Your Majesty.”
Charles’s shoulders tense.
“The Pope grows impatient,” the court master continues carefully. “He has sent another letter regarding the northern raids. He believes stronger measures should be taken.”
Silence falls heavy over the chamber.
Charles’s hand curls into a fist on the armrest. “The Pope does not fight my wars,” he snaps. “Nor does he command my armies.”
I glance at him then and see what I hadn’t wanted to before—the exhaustion etched into his face, the tightness around his eyes. The front has taken its toll on him. While I walked gardens and laughed in the sun, he bled and buried men.
Guilt settles low in my stomach.
“Nevertheless,” the court master says carefully, “his support remains…influential.”
Charles says nothing for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is colder. “We will address the clergy in due time.”
The meeting continues, but something has shifted. I watch him from the corner of my eye—his rigid posture, the way impatience flickers beneath his composure. I wonder just how thin the line between strength and strain truly is.
When the court is dismissed, he rises without looking at me.
I remain seated a moment longer, my earlier excitement dulled by the weight of it all. I had a summer of peace; he had a season of war.
And somehow, that imbalance already feels like a fault line running between us.
* * *
Charles doesn’t come back to our chamber that evening.
He returns at some point during the night, but I am too deep in sleep to notice it.
I wake before him, the morning sun already breaking through the curtains.
I stretch and rub my eyes, wondering what I should be doing with this sunny, late-summer day.
I turn and see Charles in bottomless slumber, facing away from me.
I trail my fingers along his back, familiar, affectionate—until I see the marks. Faint bruises, half-healed. Bite marks.
My stomach turns.
Those aren’t marks born of war or battle; these are marks inflicted by humans, marks inflicted in a moment of lust and passion.
I want to throw up.
My brain is trying desperately to find an explanation.
Could I have bitten him last night? Did we make love while I was asleep?
But deep down I know there is only one explanation.
I don’t say anything, I can’t. I dress quietly and flee to Aileen’s chambers, my breath shallow, my hands shaking. She knows something is wrong the moment she sees my face.
I don’t even manage to speak at first. I step inside, close the door behind me, and then the words tumble out in a rush, a desperate edge to my voice.
“There were marks,” I say. “On his back. Bite marks. I didn’t notice them last night, but they were there this morning.” My voice cracks. “There has to be an explanation, right? He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t go to bed with another woman.”
Aileen doesn’t answer immediately.
Her silence is louder than any denial.
I laugh weakly, searching her face. “He wouldn’t do that to me,” I insist. “Not after everything. Not after what he said—”
She reaches for me, and that’s when I know.
Aileen pulls me into her arms, tight and protective, and the dam breaks. I sob against her shoulder, my hands fisting in her dress, my chest aching with every breath. She strokes my hair, murmuring my name over and over, tears slipping freely down her own cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
Hours seem to pass like that—time dissolving into quiet misery. Eventually, I am lying curled against her, spent, hollowed out, my eyes burning and dry. My thoughts feel distant, muffled, as if wrapped in wool.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” Aileen says softly. “I’ve heard things,” she says quietly. “About Charles. About how he’s always been.” She looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. “It’s not…new. Not to the court.”
My stomach tightens.
“What things?” I ask, though part of me already knows.
She hesitates, then meets my eyes. “He’s always entertained multiple women. Always. Even before you.” Her voice softens. “Even during his marriage to Hilde.”
The name lands like a blow.
I close my eyes.
“I thought…I truly thought it would be different with you,” she continues. “You were so happy together. I thought he loved you enough to change.”
“Does he love me, though?” I ask. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, it’s devoid of any emotion, simply flat and empty.
“Yes,” she says quickly. “I believe that. His love for you is obvious.”
I turn my face toward her. “Then why isn’t it enough?”