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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 itshold, 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.
