From the gold-drenched days of summer and into the slowdying of autumn, the road has carried us across lands I had only known through maps and secondhand tales. Stone cottages perched on cliffs above winding rivers. Villages tucked into valleys where smoke curled gently from low roofs. Abbeys and market towns, forests so vast they seemed to swallow the sky.
Everywhere we went, people came to see us.
They lined the roads and crowded the squares, bowing and cheering, pressing forward with offerings of bread and flowers and rough-spun gifts meant to show their loyalty. I learned their faces, their accents, the stories told by old men. And in all that time, I saw no unrest—only gratitude, only relief, only the joy of being seen by their King.
Charles made certain I was always beside him.
I stood with him during audiences with local lords and abbots, listening as they spoke of harvests and taxes, of roads in need of repair, of disputes settled and grievances laid to rest. When he asked my opinion, it was often on matters of mercy rather than judgment, and I was grateful for it. I found my place there more easily than I had dared hope.
In many towns, I organized small acts of charity: the distribution of grain from royal stores, seed for the coming spring, warm cloaks for the poor as the air grew colder. It was simple work, and it filled me with a sense of purpose I had not known I was missing. The people thanked me as though I had given them far more than I had, and each time, Charles watched me with unmistakable pride.
We were almost never apart.
If one of us was summoned, the other followed. If he rode ahead, I rode beside him. At night, whether in a lord’s keep or in tents beneath the stars, I slept within the reach of hishand. The road became our world, a narrow space belonging to only us. And the three hundred people entourage.
That is why the thought of returning to Acheron sits so heavily in my chest.
The capital looms ahead of us now, dressed in evergreen and candlelight in anticipation of the Christmastide celebrations. It is the heart of the realm, and the crown demands to be worn there in full. Charles will be needed again.
There have been rumors, murmured by guards and messengers: Saxon unrest in the North. Rebellion, or something like it. I know what that means, even if no one has said the words aloud: Soon, he will ride to the battlefields without me.
The thought leaves me hollow with fear.
I have not heard from my family in months. Letters rarely find us on the road, and those that do are often weeks old by the time they reach my hands. Familiar voices have faded into memory, and the court I once feared now feels even more distant—vast and echoing, filled with faces I do not yet trust.
Here, on the road, with Charles beside me, I know who I am.
In Acheron, without him, I am no longer certain.
And as the frost creeps thicker across the land and the year draws toward its end, I cannot shake the feeling that this season—this sheltered, wandering happiness—is already slipping through my fingers.
If there is one constant I have found on this journey beyond Charles himself, it is Aileen.
Trust did not come easily to me at court. Too many smiles there are hiding people’s true intentions; too many words are chosen with care. Everyone seems to want something—favor, influence, proximity to the crown—and I learned quickly toweigh my own thoughts before giving them voice. But Aileen never asked for anything at all. She listened. She laughed too loudly. She spoke freely, sometimes foolishly, sometimes with a surprising clarity that caught me unprepared.
Little by little, I let myself open to her.
With Aileen, fragments of another life began to surface. Summers in the countryside, skirts hitched up as we ran barefoot through tall grass. Sun-warmed berries stolen from hedgerows. Laughter that came easily, without consequence. Those days have not returned to me in full, nor could they. Too much has changed. And yet, with Aileen at my side, I feel steadier somehow, less likely to lose myself entirely to the weight of who I am now.
The present pulls me back with a sharp breath of cold.
I push aside the tent flap and step into the brittle morning air. Frost glitters faintly on the ground, the fire at the center of camp burning low. Aileen stands beside the fire pit, wrapped in her cloak, trading remarks with one of the guards. When she sees me, she straightens at once, dropping into a flawless curtsy.
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” she says primly.
There is mischief dancing unmistakably in her eyes.
I laugh before I can stop myself. The guard grins, bows, and takes a step back—but he does not leave. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, I notice the faint color rising in Aileen’s cheeks.
I have seen them speaking before, more than once.
I suppress a smile, already imagining the questions I will corner her with once we are safely out of earshot.
The guard clears his throat. Up close, I can see that he is young, though broad-shouldered and solidly built,with reddish hair that curls where it escapes his helm. There is something boyish and handsome about him, a cheeky ease that fits Aileen’s outgoing nature.
“If I may, Your Majesty,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to Aileen before returning to me, “there’s something you might wish to see.”
Aileen’s hand finds mine at once.
