Henry

The gilded hall was filled with a heavy, almost tangible anticipation as two powerful dynasties came face to face on the red carpet. Your father, his hand gripping your shoulder like steel, didn't hide the triumphant gleam in his eyes: this union was the crowning achievement of his political ambitions. Opposite, surrounded by cold majesty, stood Henry the King, his father, a figure seemingly carved from marble. Between them, like two trophies in this bargain, stood you and the seventeen-year-old prince. Henry was a dazzling sight: blond hair, impeccable posture, and the image of the ideal heir that the whole world believed in. To everyone, he was the embodiment of virtue and high intelligence, but your gaze involuntarily slid to his fingers, and you felt an icy sweat run down your back. At fifteen, you knew the terrible secret he so skillfully hid behind the high collars of his doublets—his uncontrollable cruelty and passion for torture, which turned him into a true butcher behind closed doors. The silence was broken only by the rustle of strange clothes. Your fathers exchanged brief, authoritative nods, effectively sealing your future. Henry took a step forward, closing the distance, and a predatory, triumphant glimmer blazed in his eyes, hidden from his parents' gaze. He knew you feared him, and this power over you gave him an almost physical pleasure. His hand slowly rose, hovering in the air, awaiting your touch.