Chapter 16
“He is planning something,” Charles seethes as he crunches a piece of parchment in his fist. A letter from Tassilo arrived this morning, inviting the court to a hunt on his estate.
“Probably,” I say while braiding my hair. “But you know he is, so wouldn’t it be wise to accept the invitation and see what he wants?” I ask.
Charles huffs.
“He wants the title. I don’t need to spend time with him to know this.”
I disagree. I might not know Tassilo very well, but he does not seem like the type of man who wants to rule a kingdom. He looked happy on our walk, at ease with his surroundings. He talked about his estate and the people who live there, but never did he indicate he was interested in more.
“Are you certain he is after your crown? He might just want to ensure the integrity of his dukeship and lands,” I say. “I had Aynhard pull the ledgers from the Duke’s estate. He is well off and seems to be managing his part of the kingdom with ease.”
Charles remains silent. I can see him staring at me in the mirror, and it happens again.
I see it pass over his face now. The magic is tightening its hold, smoothing over the fracture before it can widen.
He wants to be angry with me. I feel it as surely as if he had spoken it aloud.
He wants jealousy, suspicion, outrage—things that once came easily to him.
But the ring denies him all of it, at least when it comes to me.
So the emotion turns inward instead.
His expression empties, his thoughts slipping loose as though someone has cut the thread binding them. Whatever he meant to say is lost, replaced by a smile that arrives a heartbeat too late.
And I am left to wonder how much longer a man can be bent so sharply before he breaks.
* * *
The hunt begins before dawn. I am tired when I rise, my body still heavy with sleep, but excitement threads through the exhaustion.
There is something intoxicating about the morning air, about movement and anticipation.
It feels like stepping outside the narrow corridors of court life, if only briefly.
Women are not meant to hunt.
No one says it aloud, because no one needs to. The hunt belongs to men, to arms and horses and dogs. It is war made ritual, violence dressed up as ceremony. We preside over what follows—the banquets, the feasts, the careful distribution of honor—but we are not meant to chase or kill.
I argue with Charles anyway. It is like a little game we play…I ask, and Charles refuses, already half-amused by my persistence. Then we compromise, we always do.
“You may come,” he says, adjusting his gloves. “You may watch. When it is safe.”
I agree, I always do.
The ride to Tassilo’s estate takes little more than forty minutes. The road curves through gentle countryside, mist lifting slowly from the fields as the sun climbs. When we round the bend and the estate comes into view, I cannot help the small intake of breath.
It is beautiful in a way that feels lived-in rather than built for representation.
A rural stone manor rises from the meadows, its shutters painted a deep, cheerful green. A water wheel turns steadily beside it, guiding water into a small lake where lilies float lazily on the surface. A willow dips its branches into the surface, and flowers grow wild along the banks, untrimmed.
We pass through the gate into the courtyard.
Freshly cleaned linens hang from lines, white and pale blue, moving gently in the breeze.
Children play marbles near one of the smaller wooden buildings attached to the manor, their laughter ringing clear and unguarded.
Everything looks clean, cared for—not austere, not overly grand. It suits a man like Tassilo.
The host steps forward to greet us.
He bows to Charles with proper respect, then turns to me. His eyes meet mine briefly, assessing, searching. It is subtle enough that no one else would notice, but I do. He is checking whether I am well.
I give the smallest nod.
Other guests arrive, and he moves to greet them while a servant ushers us inside.
The hall smells of freshly baked bread.
And then I see him. “Father!”
He turns, surprise blooming into a smile that makes him look suddenly younger, and then we are embracing.
“It has been too long,” I say into his shoulder.
“It has,” he agrees. “And you look—” He stops, then smiles. “Like yourself.”
He looks older. There is no point pretending otherwise. His hair has thinned, his face lined more deeply, but his eyes are still sharp.
“You’re hunting?” I ask, pulling back to look at him properly.
He chuckles. “I will be gentle with myself. Ride a little, watch more. And if my knees complain too loudly, I will return early.”
Breakfast is laid out generously. Charles sits with Aynhard and Lord Voxgrove, already deep in conversation, his voice animated, his laughter easy. He is in good spirits today, despite his suspicion of our host.
The hunt is where he is in his element.
I sit with the other ladies, hands wrapped around a cup of warm drink, listening to talk of children, cloth, and household matters.
We watch as the men start preparing their gear for the hunt. Charles and the men of his party wear sturdy wool and leather, practical boots, hunting cloaks faded by use.
One of the ladies beside me murmurs her surprise. “I had expected more splendor,” she says softly. “With the King riding today, I thought this would be…an occasion.”
“So did I,” another agrees, glancing around. “It feels almost…ordinary.”
I smile. “That would be intentional.”
They turn to me, curious, and I take pity on their confusion.
“There is a story told in Acheron,” I say, lowering my voice as the men start getting up from their seats.
“Years ago, Charles attended a council meeting where his advisers arrived dressed as though for a coronation—silks, velvet, embroidery heavy enough to rival any feast day. He endured it in silence.”
“That sounds ominous,” one of the women says.
“It was,” I agree. “On a whim, he declared that the day was too fine to be wasted indoors and ordered an immediate hunt in the forest of Acheron. He rode ahead, straight into the thickest undergrowth he could find.”
Their eyes widen.
“The councilors had no choice but to follow. By nightfall, their fine garments were torn to shreds, while Charles’s own leather hunting coat was scarcely marked.” I allow myself a small smile. “At supper, he remarked on the matter at great length.”
A soft laugh ripples through the group.
“Since then,” I finish, “his court has been cautious. Charles has little patience for luxury worn without purpose. He prefers his splendor on feast days—and his hunts practical.”
One of the ladies glances again at the King, dressed no differently than his men.
“Well,” she says, amused, “that is a lesson learned only once.”
“Precisely,” I reply.
The ladies return to their conversation, but a question remains in my mind.
“Tassilo’s wife,” I murmur to Aileen, who sits beside me. “Is she not attending?”
Aileen frowns slightly. “I noticed the same. I’ll ask around.”
The huntsman calls for attention.
He explains the course of the hunt and the roles assigned to each man. There are at least forty participants. Every position matters. No one is to stray.
Charles listens intently, his eyes bright with anticipation. He favors the par force hunt—the long chase, the slow breaking of the animal’s will. When the huntsman speaks of it, I see the gleam in Charles’s eyes, and a chill slides down my spine.
The dogs are brought forward.
I have always liked dogs, but…Charles’s hounds are something else entirely. Lean, scarred, disciplined to the point of emptiness. They move like soldiers, every instinct honed toward pursuit and kill. There is no light in their eyes—only focus.
Charles loves them for it.
As the men prepare, the women gather to watch from a safe distance. I sit among them, hands folded in my lap, watching my husband mount his horse, watching Tassilo do the same.
The horn sounds.
The hunt begins.
Aileen returns while the hunting party slowly leaves, sitting close, her voice low.
“Apparently, Tassilo’s wife resides mostly with her family in the South. They spend little time together.”
I raise my brows, and Aileen hesitates, then continues, “There are…rumors. That they have an arrangement. That Tassilo has another attachment. One he cannot acknowledge…openly.”
Aileen chatters on with the other ladies, but my mind wanders.
I am not the only one living a carefully arranged life.
Love does not always take the shape the world approves of.
And for a moment, I envy Tassilo—not for his freedom, but for the fact that love exists for him at all.
I wonder if there is a love meant for me somewhere, a soul that would have loved me wholly, without fear or restraint.
Or if this—this careful, burning thing I have inside—is all the love I was ever meant to have.