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I had dreamed of this moment my entire life—though in dreams, it was always simpler.
Now, standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of Whitehall’s ballroom, hundreds of jeweled eyes boring into me, I understood the truth of power: it was never given, only taken—and always at a cost.
The echo of my own words still rang in the heavy silence. “I am here to claim what is rightfully mine.”
My heartbeat pounded so loudly I was sure the entire court could hear it. The king—my father—rose slowly, his presence larger than life, his face carved into an unreadable mask of fury and disbelief.
“You dare to claim you are my son?” he growled.
Every instinct screamed at me to run. But I didn't. Nan had trained me for this. My mother—Anne Boleyn, Queen of England—had kept me hidden all my life, not out of shame, but out of fear. And now, here I stood, her secret turned into a storm crashing through the court.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I am your son.”
Gasps rippled through the hall. I caught the pale flash of Jane Seymour’s face twisting in horror, and the tight, unreadable stare of my sister—Princess Elizabeth. Or was she just Elizabeth now, I wondered? Everything had shifted.
When I revealed the locket—the one my mother had given me when I was still a boy in the country, too young to grasp its value—the king paused. His eyes narrowed on the painted miniature of my mother. I saw something flicker behind his fury. Recognition. Doubt. Maybe... hope?
And then came the command that made my blood run cold.
“I will test your claim.”
The moment passed like a thunderclap, but its echo lingered in my chest. It was not an acceptance. It was a threat in velvet. A test in this court was never just a test—it was a gauntlet of enemies, poison, and lies. I bowed, hiding the trembling in my fingers.
---
The next morning, Whitehall was no longer a palace. It was a battlefield.
The courtiers moved like wolves, their whispers like blades drawn behind backs. I watched them from the shadowed halls, pretending not to notice their stares, their muttered judgments. They hated me already—because I had emerged from the dark and demanded light.
My mother was silent during the meeting with the king’s advisors. But I saw the fire in her eyes. I knew that fire. I had it too.
That night, in her private chambers, she told me what I already feared.
“Jane will try to destroy you,” she whispered. “She has the nobles behind her—those who want Edward on the throne. Your existence threatens their carefully spun web.”
“I’m not afraid of Jane Seymour,” I said, though even I knew it was a lie. I was afraid of what I didn’t yet know—how many daggers waited in the dark. But I had to believe I could outplay them. I had to.
Nan entered, her face tight with urgency. “The king has summoned Lord Exeter. And Lady Rochford is already whispering to Jane. We must be cautious.”
𝙻𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚁𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚍. I remembered her visiting once, pretending to be a kind relation. I saw now it was a test even then.
---
Days passed. Tests came. Midwives summoned from Kent. Letters examined. Witnesses bribed or threatened. I was poked, prodded, interrogated.
And always—eyes watched me.
Elizabeth’s most of all.
She came to me once, unannounced. Her gaze was sharp as a dagger.
“If you are who you say you are,” she said, “then everything changes.”
I nodded.
“If not,” she added, “I will make sure you regret stepping into the light.”
I did not answer. I couldn’t tell if she was protecting me or warning me. Perhaps both.
I had admired her from afar. She was brilliant, commanding. And now, I saw something else: fear. My claim threatened not only Jane, but Elizabeth. If I became heir, her power would vanish like mist.
The next night, I saw my mother weeping. It was the first time. She had always been steel.
“They will not stop,” she said. “Even if your father believes you, they will come for you. They will come for 𝚞𝚜.”
I took her hand. “Then we fight,” I said.
---
Whitehall was different now. The court that once danced now trembled. Rumors swirled like smoke. Some called me an imposter. Others—dangerously—called me 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎.
The king watched me often. I caught him staring as if weighing the cost of belief. I looked too much like him to deny, but his pride and paranoia were old, deep roots. One crack, and everything would collapse.
And then... I would be dead.
Still, I stood tall. I played the game. Smiled when I was supposed to, spoke when I must. Inside, the fire roared.
I would survive this trial.
I would prove I was more than a secret.
More than Anne’s shame.
I was Henry Tudor.
And I had come for my crown.