Chapter 19
Summer passes in a haze, and autumn is kind to us. Days filled with golden light and indigo skies, the smell of freshly cut grass and damp earth. But all seasons change, and so must we.
Tassilo has not been seen again. He lives, but he left for Italy as soon as he was well enough to travel.
They say he has gone to his wife—but behind cupped hands, they whisper that he is with the Pope, speaking of borders and protection, of promises made and debts to be paid.
No one was ever caught for the attempt on his life.
We return to Acheron when the first snow begins to fall.
The sound of hooves is muted beneath the accumulating layers, snowflakes settling softly over stone and roof and road alike. We move slowly. The cobbled streets are slick, the horses burdened with both cargo and exhaustion.
Thea and Ella are happy to be home. This is where they are at ease—rooms close to mine, a cook who knows their favorite meals, familiar faces never far away. I glance across the carriage at them, curled together on the bench opposite me.
Thea has struggled with the journey this time. The roads were rough, and she was sick more than once. Now she sleeps deeply, dark hair fallen across her face, her mouth slightly open as she breathes, even and untroubled.
I know, just by looking at them, that whatever my legacy in this life may be, their existence will remain my greatest accomplishment.
The carriage comes to a halt, and I breathe out in relief.
Charles is already waiting. He has been in Acheron for three weeks now, while I have been closing the house in Passberg. Anticipation brightens his face as he strides toward the carriage and opens the door a little too forcefully.
“Where are my girls?” he exclaims.
I lift a finger to my lips and gesture toward the sleeping bundles of blankets and limbs.
His expression softens. He reaches in, lifting Thea gently into his arms. She stirs, wraps her arms around his neck, and buries her face against him.
“Hello, my love,” he murmurs to me. “May I have Ella as well?”
I lift her small body and place her into his other arm. They look impossibly small against his broad frame as he carries them into the palace.
I am taking my time stepping down from the carriage, stretching my stiff legs. My hands are numb from the cold, and I rub them together, trying to coax warmth back into my fingers.
Then I hear it.
A soft thump.
The sensation hits me without warning—a sudden, violent hollowness in my belly, as though something vital has been torn loose. I double over, crashing to the ground, my hands barely breaking the fall.
The world spins. Panic surges, sharp and disorienting, unseen hands pulling at me from every side. Servants rush forward, voices blurring together, but I force my eyes open.
And there it is.
In the snow before me.
The ring.
My ring.
It lies half-buried in the snow, its dark red stone glaring against the white like a wound. A warning? Proof that I am only safe because of it—and that safety is fragile.
That time is running out.
With trembling fingers, I reach for it and slide it back onto my hand.
The humming in my skull ceases at once. My heart steadies, no longer threatening to tear itself apart. Yet the emptiness in my stomach remains, cold and unresolved.
Time is running out.
* * *
As I open the door to my bedchamber, a mingling of familiarity and dread washes over me. These rooms hold too many memories, some precious, some painful, and I cannot decide which hurts me more.
Servants move in and out, bearing trunks of clothing and other belongings Charles did not wish to leave behind in Bavria. My dress is still damp from my fall, clinging coldly to my skin, and I cross to the wardrobe in search of something dry.
But—None of the clothes within are mine.
They are exquisite, rich colors and intricate patterns, thick woolen gowns, fur-lined boots, and heavy shawls. And yet not one of them is familiar.
“My Queen,” Charles says behind me, his voice warm with satisfaction, “you have already discovered my gift.”
His arms encircle me, strong and possessive, drawing me back against him.
“I—”
“You are soaked through,” he exclaims, turning me to face him. Concern clouds his features. “What happened?”
“I fell as I stepped from the carriage,” I reply lightly, gesturing to my ruined dress. “I must have forgotten to eat during the journey.”
“Nichols,” Charles calls sharply to his valet, “have food sent up at once. And prepare a bath for the Queen—immediately.”
“I assure you, I am quite well,” I say with a soft laugh, gently pushing him away. “I only need to change.”
“There will be no argument,” he replies, already stacking papers upon the bedside table. “You deserve a hot bath and a proper meal. You have grown far too thin of late.”
I glance toward the mirror.
Is he right?
My cheeks, once full, appear pale in the dim light, and my gowns have indeed begun to hang more loosely upon me. I had blamed the cold for the ring slipping from my finger—but perhaps there is more to it than that.
Charles steps beside me, his gaze lingering, assessing. “You are still beautiful,” he murmurs. “I only wish you to be well.” He presses a kiss to my neck. “Do you like the dresses?”
I turn back toward the wardrobe.
“They are lovely,” I say carefully. “But I cannot help wondering—what is the occasion for such abundance?”
“Does a king require a reason to spoil his wife?” he asks, feigning offense.
“Of course not,” I reply. “Still, a whole new wardrobe seems…excessive.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable.
“Very little escapes you,” he says at last, a faint smile touching his lips.
I wait.
“We must travel north,” he admits. “To the border.”
“We?” My voice sharpens. “Who do you mean by we?”
“You, I, and the children.” His jaw tightens. “The Saxons have risen again. Churches burned. Priests slain. They have even dared to seat a new king in my hall.”
“Charles, we have only just returned from Bavria,” I protest. “The children cannot be uprooted again—and to the North? Not under such conditions.”
“I have spared you the front for too long,” he says, his voice rising, urgency threading through every word. “After what happened in Bavria, I cannot bear to have you away from me. These past weeks have been torment. I could not think, could not rest. I cannot rule while fearing for your safety.”
There is something in his tone now—desperation, raw and unfamiliar. I remember the last time he returned from the North: hollow-cheeked, eyes shadowed and distant.
Is it the weight of war that haunts him?
Or the ring?
Is its magic drawing him toward me, tightening its hold?
“I understand, but are we truly safer by riding into the middle of a war?” I ask cautiously.
“You are safe when you are close to me. No one will dare touch you under my watch,” Charles spits. I want to tell him that I was attacked in his own forest and no one has been found guilty. But I hold my breath instead.
“It is interesting, the Saxons always seem to know when I’ll be far enough away to react,” he murmurs to himself.
I walk over and smooth a hand over his taut shoulders.
“Let us not decide this tonight,” I say gently. “Spend these next days with the children. When we are all rested, we will speak of it again.”
He nods, distracted.
But I know his mind is already made.
And I will have to send a letter to my father and warn him—he has to leave Saxony at once.
* * *
I told the children last night that we would be leaving for the North within the week.
The joy on their faces vanished before I could gather an explanation.
I spoke quickly then—of adventure, of carriage rides through snow-draped fields, of building caves from ice and exploring their father’s newest palace, a fortress he had conquered not long ago.
In his letters, Charles assured me we would be well cared for.
I have known the North since childhood. I traveled there often with my father—visiting family, striking bargains, learning to be wary of places where the land stretches further than the eye can bear.
Winters here are unforgiving. The winds cut sharper, the plains lie wide and empty, miles upon miles without a single soul in sight.
It is that vastness I remember most.
Staring now through the carriage window, the old dread settles deep in my bones. The openness presses in on me, illogical as it sounds. The further I can see, the smaller I feel—crushed beneath the loneliness of the land, beneath the knowledge that nothing stands between us and the sky.
“Mama, are we there yet?”
Ella’s voice trembles. Her nose has been running since we left Acheron.
“Not yet, my darling,” I murmur. “The coachman says only a few more hours until we arrive at Verden.”
I open my arms, and she climbs onto my lap, curling against my chest. I pull the blanket tighter around her small body. Within minutes, she is asleep.
I remember when she was born—dark curls, long lashes, so fragile I scarcely dared to breathe while she slept against me. More than once, I watched her chest rise and fall, fearing she might not be drawing enough air.
Now I look down at her and wonder how she grew so quickly. How does one ever let their children go in a world where the only certainty is the harm men will one day bring upon them?
I turn back to the window.
That is when I see it.
Just off the road stands a wooden figure—a tree trunk smoothed and carved, its surface etched with unfamiliar symbols.
Animals twist through the grain of the wood, shapes and patterns woven together in a beautiful design.
At its base lies a wreath of evergreen, vivid against the frost-whitened ground.
Nearby, a small fire burns. Two men stand beside it, warming their hands.
They wear heavy furs and thick woolen caps. Their beards are wild, their faces weathered by wind and cold.
As our carriage approaches, they straighten.
The procession halts.
I hear soldiers shouting, barking commands. They promise safety if the men step away and dismantle their heathen altar.
The men do not move.
Charles’s soldiers advance, warning them again. I cannot hear the words, but I see the tension coil tight as a drawn bow.
Then the men reach for their axes.
It is no fight at all, really. The soldiers disarm them in seconds. I watch, frozen, as swords are driven into the men’s chests, swift, merciless blows. There is no plea, no mercy granted.
Submit to the King, or die.
The rest is done quickly. The wooden figure is toppled. The wreath is thrown into the fire and burns with a sharp, green hiss. The soldiers strip the dead men of their coats and leave them where they fall—bloodied, naked, a warning to all.
I pull the blanket tighter around Ella without waking her.
It is not the first cruelty I have witnessed in the name of Christ.
And it will not be the last.
Not here, where God is spoken of as a curse, and Rome’s reach fades into the wind.