Archive of Our Own

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This day was entirely too beautiful.

Hans thought so as he stood before St. Nicholas’ Church. Warmth lingered on his skin—the kind that belonged more to late summer than early autumn. The generosity of the weather felt wrong somehow. After a week of dull grey skies, the world had chosen this particular morning to be radiant.

Naturally.

If life hadn’t been so set on irony, it would have been storming.

Rain hammering the windows, and thunder rolling overhead. Someone, anyone, might have decided that such miserable weather was reason enough to postpone this horrible affair.

Another week.

Another month.

Forever, preferably.

With a bit of luck, Botchek would grow tired of waiting and withdraw the proposal altogether. Hanush would rage for a time, of course—lectures about duty, honour, responsibility—but eventually he would tire of it. They would all agree, with polite relief, to forget about the whole thing; marrying him off to Jitka, exchanging his body for a political score and a couple of groshchen.

Things would return to how they had always been.

Or so he liked to imagine. It was a childishly hopeless scenario.

Hans scoffed under his breath at this apparent mockery and stepped inside.

Sunlight spilt through the narrow windows in golden ribbons, catching dust specks and setting them aglow. The painted walls, cool and pale, softened. Even the hard tiled floors seemed gentler in the light. The small church felt almost ethereal.

Outside, the hills still clung stubbornly to their green, leaves only lightly brushed with rust. Harvest crept steadily closer to the fiefdom. Peasants hurried through the fields storing grain, mending roofs, sealing cracks against the coming cold. There was an overwhelming atmosphere of hearths being readied and fields slowly emptied. Every task carried the quiet urgency of winter approaching.

Somewhere beyond the stone walls, birds sang joyfully, their voices rising and falling in harmony.

They knew nothing of taxes, tithes, failing crops, or empty larders.

They certainly knew nothing of forced marriages—lucky fuckers, unbound, unburdened… free.

Hans closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him, wishing that he might trade places with them.

So much for poetic justice, he thought sourly, dragging his feet towards the altar. He kept his eyes fixed stubbornly ahead, refusing to look at the people crowding along the walls. Nobles shimmered in silk and brocade. Townsfolk craned their necks for a better view.

Suddenly, he felt like a spectacle. Every gaze added to the growing weight on his shoulders.

With an unsure smile, he took his place at the altar. He stood with his hands loosely clasped, shoulders squared, chin lifted. By all outward measures, he looked exactly as he should: a young lord stepping confidently into his future.

No one watching him would ever have guessed how violently his chest was pounding, each breath catching in his throat, or how panic coiled tight beneath the calm mask he wore so expertly.

You’re fine, he told himself. It will be over soon.

Standing among the murmurs, he couldn't help but let his mind wander. Not a wise decision, knowing his proclivities to escalate any small thought into a reason for panic. Among the flutter of worries, earlier that morning returned to him in fragments.

He had not slept.

The stillness of his chamber had left his thoughts free to spiral. By dawn, he had given up entirely, rising to pace the room. He stopped at the washstand, staring at his distorted reflection before splashing his face with a generous handful of water, then turned away.

His wedding garments waited for him on the chest nearby.

Hans picked up the pourpoint and ran his hands along the fabric. Fine work. Comfortable, no doubt. He began dressing, slowly, piece by piece, dragging it out so he wouldn’t have to be still and alone with his thoughts again.

If only Henry had been there.

The thoughts came uninvited anyway.

Ever the faithful page, he would have hovered at Hans’ shoulder, helping him dress while filling the silence with easy chatter. For all his lack of decorum, Henry’s rambling had always been strangely soothing.

For a moment, he let himself imagine the picture.

Henry standing close. Fastening straps. Talking about whatever errand or adventure he had stumbled into that week. Hans would pretend to be annoyed while secretly enjoying every word.  He would close his eyes and picture his brave blacksmith’s boy running headlong into one quest after another.

He had learned to listen because of him.

It was truly extraordinary that in such a short time, Henry had left his mark on him. Not through lectures (although he tried), but simply by being there, day after day, unyielding in his loyalty.

It reminds him of everything he is about to lose, all the things they will never share again. No more brawling at taverns, drinking themselves under the table or chasing wind on a horseback. No more battles side by side, no more sieges, on either side of the wall. No more of their grand adventures…

He forces himself back to the present. This is not a battlefield, and he is donning no armour.

And so, there is no need for a squire today.

On second thought, perhaps—he realised—it was better that Henry was absent. If he had been there, Hans might not have gone through with it at all.

The temptation to run would have been unbearable.

In his mind, he saw it clearly—grabbing Henry’s hands and fleeing Rattay together, riding until duty and expectation could no longer reach them.

But even the fantasy faltered.

Henry would never allow it.

He was far too responsible and honourable, too relentlessly chivalrous for that.

He would have listened first—really listened—with that sickly worried look in his eyes, as if Hans’ fear were something he could physically feel. Then he would have tried to reason with him, gently and patiently.

Lord Almighty, he would have brought his forehead to Hans’, leaving nowhere left to hide, resting there, warm and real, grounding him when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

“Don’t worry, Sir Hans,” he would have murmured, “It’ll be alright. We can make it work.”

And Hans would have believed him, because Henry always sounded so certain.

They would stand too close for comfort, neither daring to move, both knowing that if they crossed that final distance, they might never stop.

In those moments, with Henry’s hands firm on his arms and his voice low and earnest, everything felt possible. Everything felt survivable.

It would have been alright. It had to be.

The fantasy blurred, dissolving into the low murmur of servant maids in the corridor, their voices pulling him back. They squealed like giddy children, thrilled by the novelty of a noble wedding.

They burst into his chamber soon after, fluttering around him like magpies. One brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves. Another attempted to feed him bread. Someone reminded him to smile.

He did not.

Most of their voices merged into meaningless sound. It was better than silence, at least.

When they were finally done, Hans stepped back and leaned over the washstand again, staring down into the water.

You look ridiculous.

Not because of the clothes. The family yellow suited him well enough, wrapped around him like a banner. The colour he had been taught to wear with pride since childhood. No—the problem was the lie.

He barely recognised the man staring back. Dressed for celebration, standing straight and polished, ready to play his part.

The door burst open.

Hanush strode in and clapped a hand on Hans’ shoulder hard enough to nearly send him into the table.

“Kurva,” Hans muttered.

“Big day, boy!” Hanush boomed. „You still planning on coming?”

Hans forced a grin. It was expected of him.

“Have a little faith.”

“In you?” Hanush barked a laugh. “Never.”

Even on a day like this, the man remained reliably insufferable. Oddly enough, Hans found it comforting. He knew, deep down, that it was his uncle’s twisted way of showing affection.

Still, part of him wished that, just once, he would say plainly how he felt.

Hanush eyed him for a while, then grunted. “Where’s that page of yours?”

Hans stiffened before he could stop himself.

“Probably with Radzig,” he replied quickly. “Or helping every sodding soul in Bohemia and matters such as that.”

“Mm,” Hanush hummed. “Thought he’d be hovering around you like a mother hen by now. That boy hasn’t left your side since you came back to Rattay. One might think you were marrying him instead!”

Hans shrugged, adjusting his sleeve, irritation growing in his chest. “I can dress myself, in case you hadn’t noticed. Thank you very much.”

“You lads fight or something?”

“What? No! Sakra, he’s probably just getting ready! What is this anyway—bloody Inquisition?” The anger finally surfaced.

“I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t slipped out in the dark,” Hanush exhaled, “and to my surprise, here you are.”

“Here I am…” Hans echoed, too tired for his usual snark.

Hanush noticed. His expression softened, just barely.

“I’ll let you be, then. Still have a few things to go over with Botchek.” He paused, then added gruffly, “You’re doing us proud, lad.”

Not me. Us. God forbid he got personal.

Hans nodded anyway.

“Sure, Uncle.”

The room fell silent after he left.

Now, standing in the chapel, Hans almost missed that quiet. Back then, the future had still felt uncertain. He longed for the illusion that his fate could still be altered; this wedding somehow never coming to pass.

Now there was no escaping it.

The guests had gathered. The priest waited at the altar.

Then Jitka arrived.

Hans had heard only fragments about her. She was said to be kind, gentle, and intelligent.

Carefully chosen words. Hans was painfully aware that they were more meant to reassure him than to give away any of his future bride’s actual qualities.

Of course, that was what he had heard. They would never have admitted if she were sharp-tongued, cruel, cold, bitter, unsightly, nagging, or resentful of the stranger she was meant to bind herself to forever.

When she came into view, he felt an unexpected wave of relief.

She was pretty.

Not the kind of beauty that inspired poems or started wars, but a nice-looking, approachable face. Youth lingered in her features, too; she seemed barely older than eighteen. Her hair, a warm strawberry blonde, was braided and pinned back, loose strands catching the sunlight.

She stopped before him, posture flawless, hands folded.

Her smile was polite, perfect—the same careful composure he forced himself to wear. Freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, delicate and unassuming. Her eyes were brown, rich and warm, the colour of autumn soil.

Hans swallowed.

If only they had been blue.

The thought came unbidden. He hated himself for it even as it settled in his mind. If her eyes had been blue—clear and unmistakable—perhaps he could have pretended.

Pretended that when he leaned close, when he took her hands, when he touched her with the reverence expected of a husband, he was not touching her at all.

That he was touching Henry.

That when he looked down, he would see not Jitka’s careful smile, but Henry’s steady gaze.

Heat crept down his spine, traitorous and unwelcome. Once, he might have chased that feeling. Now it felt like proof of something he could never confess.

His cheeks burned. God willing, they were not as red as they felt.

How could he ever explain it? That on the day he was meant to give himself to his wife, his heart—and worse, his body—answered to another man.

He clenched his jaw and forced the thought away.

He did not look at Henry. He could not.

His neck felt locked in place, as if carved from stone. Yet he knew exactly where Henry stood, somewhere near the front, close enough that Hans could feel his presence without seeing him. Like warmth from a nearby fire.

One turn of his head. One glance—

No.

It was the same reason he had almost been grateful Henry was absent from his chamber that morning. One look into those blue, searching eyes, and he would have crumbled.

One look would have been enough. Henry would ask nothing—only study him with quiet concern—and Hans would break.

He would stop the whole farce before it began. Confess everything. Admit that his heart had already chosen long before he ever had a say in the matter.

He would cling to Henry and beg him not to let go.

Right there, before God and half of Rattay. A scandal born from a man too weak to pretend.

They would whisper his name with pity or contempt. His family disgraced. Jitka humiliated. Henry dragged into it and marked forever by the association, driven out or worse—

He could not.

Hans forced himself to meet Jitka’s eyes instead.

Only then did he notice the sadness.

The sight struck him with a sharp pang of guilt.

He had never imagined himself feeling this way about her. He had never expected sympathy or an aching sense of wrongness. Until then, she had been little more than a name, maybe a place to channel all of his frustration that didn’t fit into Hanush and Godwin.

But now she was real, standing there, breathing softly.

Good God, he realised. She deserved this no more than he did.

She deserved a husband who could give himself to her fully. Someone who looked at her with certainty instead of dread.

Not the whoring, boozing idiot who had stumbled through life on charm and luck, and other people’s patience, hiding behind laughter and borrowed courage.

Not the man who had already sworn himself to another.

He wondered what she would be like once the ceremony ended—once the doors closed and the smiles were no longer required, when it was just the two of them bound by vows neither had truly chosen.

Would she grow bitter? Rage at him? Or silently endure it all?

Worst of all, would she try to bridge the distance he already felt himself creating?

The thought terrified him. He had no true desire to hurt her, yet as he looked into her eyes, he felt the crushing certainty that he would.

Someone nudged him gently.

It took him a beat to realise the priest was watching him expectantly, with a slight irritation painted over his face.

Oh.

His turn.

Hans drew in a breath that felt far too shallow and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. For a second, there was only emptiness. Then the priest spoke, prompting him gently. 

“Repeat after me,” he said. “I, Hans Capon, take thee, Jitka of Kunštát—”

Hans heard it as if from very far away.

“I… Hans Capon,” he began. His voice sounded shaky. “…take thee, Jitka of Kunštát…” The words fell from his lips.

The priest continued, slow and solemn.

“To be my lawfully wedded wife. To have and to hold, from this day forward. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health…”

Hans repeated each phrase.

“To be my lawfully wedded wife…”

Coward.

“To have and to hold…”

Liar.

Every word felt like a stone in his mouth, heavy and impossible to swallow. Still, he said them all.

Inside his head, there was only noise. A roaring, rushing torrent of blood in his ears, louder than the priest, the murmurs and the rustle of silk and shifting feet. Each heartbeat crashed against his ribs like a war drum.

He was vaguely aware that he was still upright; his legs had not given out. Jesus Christ be praised. It felt like an accomplishment.

When he finished, the priest nodded and turned to Jitka.

“Now you, my child.”

She did not hesitate.

“I, Jitka of Kunštát, take thee, Hans Capon…” Her voice was clear. Not a single tremor betrayed her. She spoke as though she believed every word. “…to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold…”

Hans listened, numb.

“To love and to cherish. For all the days of my life.”

She was brave. So much braver than he was.

When she finished, her smile widened just a little, as if in relief. As if she had passed some invisible test. He felt like he had failed one.

The priest raised his hands and spoke the final blessing.

Just like that, Hans realised—

He had just sworn his life away.

​

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‘And if our young lord refuses, you have my permission to drag him kicking and screaming to the altar if need be’

If God is loving, he won’t have to…

Since he already found himself standing in the house of the Lord, Henry supposed he might as well pray properly.

He bowed his head slightly.

Truth be told, he had never been much for Mass. Back in Skalitz, most of his Sunday mornings had been spent sleeping off Saturday’s ale instead of kneeling in church. He had lost count of the times his Ma clapped him round the ears for missing the sermon.

“Henry!” she would scold. “God sees everything, you know!”

At the time, he had wondered if God truly bothered watching boys who overslept.

Now, standing a few paces from the altar, he rather hoped He didn’t, on the account of who he overslept next to.

Henry folded his hands.

Please don’t let him run…

It felt strange, praying for the man he loved to arrive and wed another. Yet if it spared him the sight of Hans standing there with tears in his eyes, begging for a way out, Henry was willing to endure the nails pressing into his heart.

Oh, how he wanted to be selfish.

The foolish fantasy tempted him all the same. He and Hans settling somewhere nice —Skalitz, perhaps, or Kuttenberg. It hardly mattered where. Days spent working honest labour, evenings spent on far more pleasant pursuits. Growing old side by side, grumbling about aching joints and bad weather, and one day being laid to rest in neighbouring graves.

Together to the end.

But that life had never been theirs to claim.

Hans was no tavernkeeper’s daughter or miller’s niece. He was a nobleman. Nobles did not labour in fields or workshops; they carried duties, lands, and bloodlines.

And Hans was, of course, a man. A life like that was simply not one the world allowed two men to have, noble or otherwise.

Lord, help him through this. Keep his heart steady and his steps firm. And if someone must suffer for it… Let it be me.

He raised his head again. The prayer had done little to settle him, but at least he had tried. That had to count for something.

With nothing else to occupy himself, his gaze wandered across the gathered crowd.

Some faces he knew.

Some he did not.

Those of high status clustered near the front, while townsfolk filled the back of the church. Murmurs drifted through the hall, broken now and then by a cough or a scrape of a boot shifting on stone.

Not far from him stood Divish of Talmberg beside his wife.

Henry’s gaze caught on Lady Stephanie before he realised it. Just as quickly, he looked away again, heat creeping up his neck as the memory came—muffled laughter, closed chamber doors, the sort of mistake a man should not dwell on in the middle of a church.

He fixed his attention elsewhere.

A little farther on, Hanush stood with Radzig, both men in excellent spirits.

His father spoke with sweeping gestures, clearly halfway through some lively story, while the Lord of Leipa laughed loud enough that several people turned their heads. The two of them looked thoroughly pleased with the day’s proceedings.

But then, why wouldn’t they be?

From their point of view, everything was going exactly as planned.

The sight almost made Henry smile.

It was meant to be a celebration, after all. A wedding. A good match, everyone said. A sensible arrangement between noble houses.

He knew he should feel the same.

Instead, he stood stiffly among the guests, hands folded behind his back like a guard on watch, unable to share their cheer.

Shifting his weight slightly, he let his gaze drift once more across the church.

Any moment now.

The moment did not come.

Instead, someone tapped his shoulder.

Henry turned slightly and found himself face to face with Godwin.

“Henry!”

“Father.”

They shifted awkwardly in the narrow space so they could speak without elbowing the guests beside them.

“How are you, lad? Haven’t seen you since we returned.”

“Good. Good,” Henry said quickly, hoping it sounded convincing. “And you? Must be proud of all this.” He gestured around the church. “Hans told me it was you who secured the match in the first place.”

It came out sounding more accusatory than he intended.

“Ahhh.” The priest rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly, I’d rather skip straight to the celebrations. The kind with ale.” He chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for God’s holy unions, and I’m glad for our young lord. But if you ask me, half the local priests are full of shit. Not looking forward to hearing them drone on about love and humility while lining their pockets.”

“Right.”

“Besides,” Godwin added, glancing toward the altar, “an occasion like this usually convinces Lord Hanush to bring out the good stuff.”

Henry huffed.

“You truly well?” the priest asked, squinting at him. “You look pale.”

“Huh?” Henry’s hand rose to his cheek involuntarily. “I—yes. Just haven’t eaten.”

“Ah. Well, give it an hour or two and you’ll have your pick of the wedding feast.”

A short time passed before Godwin spoke again.

“Let’s hope Lord Capon actually plans to show up.”

Henry blinked. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Well, if memory serves, he wasn’t exactly keen on the idea.” Godwin snorted. “Some of the insults he graced me with still keep me up at night.”

Sounds like Hans, alright.

“He may be capricious,” Henry said, “stubborn, childishly irresponsible… and mean of mouth.” He sent Godwin a crooked smile. “But he’d never abandon his duties.”

Godwin studied him briefly.

“You two seem to have grown rather close.”

“We have,” Henry admitted—perhaps a touch too quickly. “He’s my best friend.”

The words came easily, even if they felt painfully small.

“I know he didn’t choose this,” Henry continued, “but I’m happy for him. I truly hope the marriage proves a good one.”

To his surprise, that much wasn’t a lie. He might have wanted Hans all to himself, but he also knew this day had always been coming.

In the end, he would rather see Hans married to someone who treated him kindly than watch him grow bitter and alone.

If the marriage brought him some measure of peace—perhaps even happiness—Henry could live with that. He only hoped that, when the candles burned low and the castle fell quiet, Hans would still find his way back to him.

It almost seemed as though thinking of Hans had summoned him.

The chapel doors opened, then closed again with a dull thud. Conversation faded at once, heads turning toward the entrance—including Henry’s.

The young lord stepped inside. Slowly. Almost reluctantly.

He wore yellow, of course. Henry had never cared much for the colour, but on Hans it might as well have been his favourite. The bright fabric caught the light as he walked, impossible to ignore.

His shoulders were straight, his head held high. To anyone else, it might have been convincing.

But Henry knew better.

He saw the tension in Hans’s jaw, clenched just a little too tightly. The faint redness around his eyes. They still looked puffy, glossy from the tears he had shed the night before.

Henry had seen those tears. Had wiped them away himself.

For a moment, the chapel fell away.

They lay on soft furs, limbs still tangled together.

Henry had his face buried in the crook of Hans’s neck, breathing in the scent of smoke and leather that clung to him after a day’s ride. Hans’s chin rested lightly atop his head while one hand traced idle circles along Henry’s back.

The slow rise and fall of his chest almost lulled Henry to sleep.

Outside the tent, the forest was settling into the evening. The last birds called to one another in the fading light, and somewhere deeper among the trees a branch cracked under the weight of some unseen creature.

The hunt they were supposedly attending had, of course, been nothing more than an excuse.

“To celebrate our lord’s final day of freedom,” Henry had told Hanush that morning while saddling the horses. The old lord had snorted but said nothing.

In truth, the outing felt less like a celebration and more like a farewell.

A mourning of sorts of the strange little life they had managed to steal for themselves these past weeks. Of whatever this was between them—brief as it had been, and impossible from the start.

They were not truly parting. It would simply… change.

Hans would have duties, a wife, and a household to tend. His time would no longer belong to himself.

And Henry—

Henry would have to learn to be lonely.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Hans’s voice was low enough that Henry almost thought he had imagined it.

“Aye,” Henry murmured sleepily, shifting closer against him. “Me neither.”

“I…” Hans began.

The word lingered unfinished for so long that Henry finally opened his eyes.

“I’d understand if you wanted to…” Hans tried again, voice tightening.

Henry felt the sudden hitch in his breath.

“Hans?”

He pushed himself up onto one elbow so he could see him.

Hans stared straight up at the low canvas ceiling of the tent, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’d understand,” he said slowly, “if you didn’t want to… continue, whatever is that we share, anymore.”

Henry blinked.

“What?” Panic rose sharp and sudden in his chest. “What are you even talking about?”

“Well…” Hans exhaled. “Things will be different now. I can’t be yours the way I have been. Not yours only.”

He gave a faint, humourless laugh.

“I know how that feels. I’ve never been good at sharing.”

“You haven’t,” Henry said automatically.

Hans’s hand stilled on his back.

“What I mean,” he continued, more quietly now, “is that you deserve someone who can be entirely yours. Someone who’d grace you with their undivided attention. Give you a family, a good life. All the things I can’t give you.”

His jaw tightened.

“I can’t ask you to accept less than that. No matter how much I…” He faltered, then forced the words out. “No matter how much I want you to.”

Henry stared at him, stunned. Hans had changed in the months since they first met.

The spoiled young lord who had scolded him for bursting into Pirkstein and demanding to see Radzig had not vanished entirely, but he was no longer the whole of him either. In his place stood a young man trying, earnestly and stubbornly, to be better than he had been. Henry heard it in his confession.

“And it would be wrong of me to keep you like this,” Hans finished. “To make you share, knowing I would despise it myself"

He swallowed.

“If you love someone,” he said faintly, “you’re supposed to let them go.”

Henry looked at him in silence.

Then, against all reason, against every sensible instinct he possessed—

He laughed.

“Oh, fuck off!”

Hans shot upright and swung a hand toward Henry’s head. The blow was more theatrical than violent, but Henry still threw up an arm to shield his face.

“I’m pouring my heart out to you and you’re fucking laughing?” Hans snapped.

“I’m sorry—ow!”

Another smack landed against his ribs.

“Hey, hey! I’m sorry.” Henry caught Hans by the wrists before the next strike and pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles. “I didn’t mean to laugh. You’re just being absurd, my lord.”

Hans tried to pull his hands back, scowling.

“Absurd?”

Henry huffed.

“Shit, Hans… I’m not good with words.”

He really was not. If he were any good at speaking his mind, he might not have collected half the scars he carried.

“But listen to me,” he continued. “I don’t need any of that if it’s not with you.”

Hans’s frown faltered slightly.

“If I wanted a wife, a house, and half a dozen children twice as bratty as their father, I’d have done it already.” Henry shrugged one shoulder. “I wouldn’t be riding across half of Rattay for Sir Radzig, risking my neck every other week. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have gone to Trosky with you.”

He hesitated.

“I’ve thought about it, sure. The simple life.” He shook his head. “But if you’re not there, it’s not worth much to me.”

The words hung between them.

“I’m fine, Hans. Truly.”

A small pause.

“And if you love me… then let me stay near. That’s all I need.”

Hans stared at him.

The anger had drained from his face, leaving something far more heart-shattering behind. Tears gathered slowly in the corners of his eyes before he looked down, as if hoping Henry might not notice.

He did.

Henry reached up and cupped his cheek, catching the first tear that slipped free with the pad of his thumb.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Don’t do that. It’s fi—”

The rest of the words died in his throat as Hans suddenly leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Henry’s neck.

Henry sighed and pulled him closer.

His fingers slipped into Hans’s hair, stroking it gently as the lord buried his face against his shoulder.

“Alright,” Henry murmured, pressing his cheek against the top of Hans’s head. “Alright… I’m here.”

The murmur of the crowd seeped back in. The smell of wax and incense replaced smoke and leather.

Hans stood at the altar.

And Henry, a few paces away, felt dangerously close to tears of his own. He blinked several times, forcing them away.

Through blurred vision, he lifted his gaze and searched for the blue of Hans’s eyes.

Just a glance, he thought. Just one.

So I can smile. So he knows I’m here. So he knows he isn’t alone. In truth, he needed it just as much—to see something certain in Hans’s eyes.

Hans did not look back.

Henry waited.

One heartbeat passed.

Then another.

Hans stared straight ahead, unmoving.

A dull disappointment began to gnaw at him. Henry would always search for Hans in a crowd, no matter how many people stood between them. Why wouldn’t Hans do the same? Was he angry with him? Had he meant what he said the night before? Was he letting him go? Why wouldn’t he look at him?

He didn’t need much. Just one look.

The blue he sought did not answer his call.

It slipped past him, drawn toward the entrance, where a small figure now stood.

She wore a simple, though finely made dress in a muted shade of pink. It suited her well, complementing her features without overwhelming them.

There was something in her expression that spoke of kindness, or so it seemed at a glance. Henry exhaled, relieved for Hans, though he knew better than to trust a first impression. He had seen men charm a room and turn cruel the moment the doors were shut.

Still—

She moved forward slowly but with purpose, each step measured and composed. A picture of grace. Unlike Hans, she showed no outward sign of doubt or strain.

At least, none that Henry could see.

Perhaps somewhere in Kunštát, or even here among the gathered guests, there was someone who knew her as well as he knew Hans. Someone who would know what he could not; if she, too, was afraid.

After Jitka took her place beside Hans, the rest of the ceremony lost its edges.

Henry wasn’t sure he could have followed it even if he tried. His thoughts felt hollowed out.

His focus settled instead on the strip of fabric binding them together, his lord and this woman. This new shape his life would have to take, whether he willed it or not. Something shifting, making space where there had been none before.

For her.

Would Hans come to like her? Would he?

It hardly mattered now.

All that mattered was that they would endure.

His throat closed.

Why wouldn’t Hans look at him?