*****
~Karl~
"Why haven't I seen Katrina around?" I asked, my eyes scanning the
scrolls in front of me. The week had been relentless, leaving me with little
time for anything beyond duty. Yet, Katrina lingered in my thoughts. Despite
her disrespect, I missed her.
"I have no idea, Your Highness," Roland replied, lighting the wax
seal for me. These scrolls held invitations to my upcoming games, letters meant
for neighboring kings. The kingdom buzzed with anticipation.
"You wouldn't know. You've been here with me," I muttered,
pressing the seal into the hot wax. The letter joined the others in the basket.
"She disrespected me, yet she's angrier than I am. Can you believe
that?"
Roland chuckled softly, his hands steady as he worked. There was something
in his eyes—something he wasn't saying.
"Katrina doesn't want to show her face to me again," I added, my
voice lower, almost resigned.
"I think the lady has fallen in love with Your Grace," Roland said
suddenly, his tone calm but sure.
I froze, my hand hovering over the next letter. Was he serious? Katrina, in
love with me? It seemed impossible. She despised my crown, my authority. And
after I rejected her request to stay in my room that night, she had every
reason to hate me more.
Yet, something in Roland's words made my chest tighten. Was there more to
her anger than I realized?
"Sometimes hate can turn to love," Roland said, his voice steady.
I listened, though the idea unsettled me. Love had never been something I
believed in—it was a foreign concept.
"Women in love can be pretty annoying," Roland continued.
"But most of their actions come from a place of care, even if it doesn't
seem that way. They don't mean any harm."
"So you're saying I should've gone after her?" I asked, skeptical.
"Maybe... but you've been busy. I get it."
I exhaled slowly, my chest tightening. Women were already hard to
understand, and now I was supposed to figure out one who might be in love with
me? The word love felt strange on my tongue, and the idea that Katrina could
feel something that intense for me seemed laughable.
"Send for her immediately," I ordered, picking up another scroll
and sealing it with a sharp press.
"As you wish, Your Highness," Roland bowed and left. I continued
with the letters, but my thoughts kept circling back to Katrina. Did she miss
me? Or was she too angry to care?
Minutes later, Roland returned—alone. His face was shadowed with something I
couldn't quite place. My heart sank. I knew that look.
"Let me guess," I said, forcing a smile. "Katrina doesn't
want to see me, right?" My voice wavered, betraying the sting of her
rejection.
"No, Your Grace." Roland stepped closer, his tone heavy. "I
went to her quarters and found she hasn't been there for days. I spoke to her
maid, Marissa... but she said something strange."
My pulse quickened. "What is it, Roland?"
I frowned, a cold dread creeping over me. Katrina couldn't have left the
palace. The walls were too well-guarded. Yet, she was gone. And something about
this didn't feel right.
"Queen Fortuna had her locked up," Roland said, his voice calm but
grave.
I shot to my feet, my pulse pounding. Was this some kind of sick joke? Why
would Fortuna do something so outrageous? She had no authority over my
concubines—none.
I stormed over to Roland, my anger rising like a storm about to break.
"Are you sure about this?" My voice echoed through the room, sharp
and demanding.
"I would never lie to you, Your Grace. Lady Katrina's maid is here with
me," Roland replied, steady and certain. His calm only fueled my rage.
Fortuna had overstepped, and I wouldn't hesitate to remind her of her place.
Without another word, I strode out of the room. As I reached the door, my
eyes caught Marissa standing nearby. I remembered her from that night she
brought news of Katrina waiting for me under the oak tree. She bowed, but when
she lifted her face, I froze. A fresh wound marred her cheek, red and raw.
My fists clenched. I didn't need to ask who was responsible. The tears in
Marissa's eyes said it all—Fortuna.
"Your Grace," Roland's voice followed me, a quiet plea for
control. He knew my temper too well.
But this wasn't anger.
This was fury.