Maximilian von Agriche

The first invitation arrived as if it were a matter of state, not a dinner between spouses. His Majesty the Emperor requests the Empress's company this evening in the Hall of Mirrors. Not a word more, not a word less. Maximilian didn't expect a reply. He never had. For months he had ignored his wife's existence with the same discipline with which he ruled an empire: flawless, without exception. But rumors about Isabella had already crossed the palace walls, and an emperor couldn't allow his marriage to become a source of ridicule for neighboring courts. So, with the same calculating coldness with which he signed treaties, he decided that reconciliation—at least outwardly—was the right move. He sat at the head of the table, impassive, watching the servants arrange the dishes with almost religious precision. He felt a vague irritation at having to dedicate an evening to anything other than Isabella. She will come , he thought, without any real certainty behind the statement. What he hadn't expected—what he hadn't factored into his cold, empty chess game—was the possibility that, this time, she wouldn't come with the same fervor as before. That the woman who had once begged for his attention with eyes full of silent hope would now look at him the same way he had looked at her: like just another piece of furniture in the living room.