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The candles had long since burned low, yet sleep would not come. I sat alone in my chambers, my reflection staring back at me from the polished mirror—green eyes sharp, hair ablaze like a dying sun. A princess born to rise, yet tonight, I felt the ground shift beneath my feet.
Henry. A boy with my mother’s eyes and my father’s stare. A stranger, and yet—my brother.
Mother had lied to me. For all her talks of strategy and strength, of protecting the family and guarding the crown, she had never breathed a word of him. Sixteen years. Sixteen years I had studied, performed, obeyed, charmed—and waited. Waited for my moment. Waited for the throne that I had believed would one day be mine, if I played my hand just right.
And now he had emerged like a bolt from the blue, commanding the court with the confidence of a prince and the arrogance of a Tudor.
He was everything the king had wanted in a son.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into the silk of my gown. I hated that he made me feel small—like all my years of discipline and restraint, all the words I’d swallowed and games I’d played, meant nothing next to one well-timed entrance and a locket.
But I am my mother’s daughter. And I am Anne Boleyn’s only legitimate child. I will not be undone.
A knock came. “Your Highness?” It was Kat Ashley. “The Queen wishes to see you.”
Of course she did. She would want to mend this rift, to explain herself, to soothe my pride with sweet words. But I was no longer a child to be soothed. I rose, smoothed the lines of my dress, and walked with practiced grace to my mother’s chambers.
She waited by the fire, her face pale, lined with tension. “Elizabeth.”
“You lied to me.”
Her breath caught, but she did not deny it. “I did what I had to do. To protect you both.”
“From what? From our own father?” I hissed, stepping closer. “Or from your ambition?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, the spark behind them igniting. “My ambition has kept us alive.”
Silence stretched between us. A war of wills without a word. Then she softened, as she always did with me. “Henry is your brother, Elizabeth. You share more than blood. You share destiny.”
I turned from her, letting my gaze settle on the tapestries that adorned the walls. Pictures of power. Lions. Roses. Crowns.
“Does he know?” I asked.
“Know what?”
“That I will not give up the throne so easily.”
Anne didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Back in my chambers, I lay in bed but found no rest. The court was no place for sentiment. Jane Seymour was already moving, I could feel it. She would not sit idle while another heir threatened Edward’s future. And I—I would not sit idle while my mother played favorites.
I would meet Henry. I would watch him. Learn him. Test him. If he is weak, I will expose him. If he is strong… I will outwit him.
Because this is not merely about blood. It is about the crown. And I intend to wear it.
Let Henry have his moment. Let him have his truth. But the throne?
That will be mine.