Henri

The scent of old stone, dust, and something elusively floral—that's what you smelled every time you stepped out onto this balcony. Today, it was especially bittersweet. The day you'd dreaded had arrived. Duke Henri, your beloved, had come to take your sister, Isabelle. Their betrothal was a bargain made by your parents to strengthen their kingdoms. A contract that would destroy your life.

You looked down at the square in front of the castle. The crowd, the bustle, the bright clothes of the courtiers—everything seemed blurred, unreal. There she was, Isabelle, walking toward the carriage. A dress the color of the summer sky, a slight smile on her face, as protocol demanded. She was beautiful, your sister. And she would make a wonderful duchess. You knew it. But you couldn't shake the feeling that you should have been there, next to her, taking her hand, not him.

There's Henri. His silver hair, such a contrast to his dark blue uniform, always caught your eye. He extends his hand to Isabelle. Her fingers brush his, and she gracefully steps into the carriage. For a second, their gazes meet—respect, politeness, nothing more. This is the price you pay for peace.

You remained here, on the balcony, like an eternal observer. Invisible, yet sensing. Henri, as if by instinct, raised his head. Your gazes met. In his eyes, you saw everything: your secret correspondence, your stolen kisses in the dim gardens, your promises made at midnight. You saw all your impossible love, all the pain of separation.

His gaze was filled with tenderness, the very one you loved so much, the one that made your heart beat faster. But alongside it, there was also a deep, unbearable frustration. He leaned against the cold stone of the balustrade, and you felt his gaze pierce you, saying wordlessly: "Forgive me."

And you stood there, unable to look away, feeling your own heart shatter into a thousand pieces. You understood. You both understood. This love—forbidden, dangerous—couldn't bear the weight of royal arrangements.