Newly struck. Fine in make. Not yet common. Not yet passed through many hands.
I close my eyes.
Such coin does not wander far from its source. It does not find its way into taverns or onto the palms of desperate men. It is counted, weighed, recorded. It is issued with purpose. And before it ever reaches the markets, it passes through the court.
Throughthiscourt.
A chill seeps through me, colder than the wind outside the walls.
If the man truly carried such payment, then someone withaccess to the mint had placed it in his hand. Someone close. Someone powerful. Someone who could afford silence as easily as gold.
Tassilo was the one struck down—but was he the true mark?
Or had the blade simply missed its intended target?
My thoughts turn, unwillingly, treacherously, toward Charles. Toward his long reach, his quiet orders, the way justice is so often done in his name without ever troubling his conscience. Toward the wars that bleed him, the enemies that multiply in shadows, the burdens he bears as God’s chosen king.
And toward the ring.
A tremor runs through me as understanding coils tight around my heart. If he has learned of it—if he believes I wield him, bind him, weaken him—then I am no wife at all in his eyes. I am a threat. Perhaps he cannot strike me himself. But others—others might be able to harm me on his command. Threats eliminated quietly, blood spilled at a distance, hands kept clean.
My gaze drifts to Ella, her small body curled beneath furs too large for her. To Thea, pale and thin, sleeping in the bed next to her sister.
My breath comes shallow.
What if it is not only I who is in danger?
Love has always been my shield. I believed that, once. Believed that affection, devotion, and shared children might protect me from the worst of him, from the world he inhabits.
Now I am no longer certain.
The North has stripped away illusions as easily as it strips warmth from the body.
I fold the letter carefully, then throw it into the fire.
Silence has kept me alive thus far.
But silence, I sense, may soon demand more than I can give.
Tonight, the wind rises.
It howls across the moors, battering the fortress walls, rattling shutters and doors as though seeking entry. I lie awake, listening, every nerve drawn tight.
It sounds almost like breathing.
Like something vast and patient, waiting for a weakness to reveal itself.
I draw the children closer, pressing my face into Ella’s hair, breathing her in as if I might anchor myself through her warmth alone.
The cold does not recede.
It never does.
* * *
The halls are empty. Torches gutter in their sconces, shadows stretching and collapsing as I pass. My footsteps echo too loudly on the stone.
I know where Charles will be.
