The queen crept up the stairs like a specter, her footsteps muffled to a ghostly silence against the cold, worn stone. A flicker of satisfaction warmed her chest; she had outwitted Friedrich for the second time, the thrill of her deception tingling through her veins. She knew he'd either face severe punishment or be tasked with hunting her down himself. Neither outcome appealed to her—she didn't hate him, though whether she loved him remained a murky question. She feigned indifference, but deep within, a primal ache stirred, admitting her desire for him. Lost in these thoughts, her focus slipped, and she collided with Klaus, who was descending to the basement in search of Friedrich. She fumbled for the flintlock hidden beneath her skirts, her fingers brushing the cool metal, but Klaus's hand lashed out, slapping it from her grip with a sharp crack that echoed in the dim stairwell.
He lunged to seize her, but she twisted free, her skirts rustling like whispers in the shadows. Scooping up the flintlock, its weight reassuring in her palm, she bolted up the stairs, her breath ragged. Reaching the basement door, she flung it open, only for Klaus to snag her ankle. She stumbled, crashing face-first onto the gritty floor, the flintlock discharging with a deafening bang that reverberated through the castle. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air as chaos erupted outside—soldiers poured in, their boots pounding the stone, searching for the source of the noise.
Klaus, undeterred, hoisted her onto his shoulder, her body wriggling like a trapped animal. She bit his neck, kicked at his chest, and thrashed wildly, her gasps mingling with the damp, musty air, but his grip was ironclad. He snatched the keys from her hand, their metal clinking sharply, and unlocked the cell door. Inside, Friedrich lay sprawled on the floor, shirtless, muttering calculations under his breath, his bare skin stark against the cold stone. At Klaus's entrance, his face flushed a deep, humiliated blue, and Klaus's laughter boomed, a harsh, grating sound that bounced off the dungeon walls.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the guy who never learns his lesson," Klaus roared, helping Friedrich to his feet with a mocking grin.
"You never learn, do you?" the queen asked softly, her voice a velvet thread in the dank air.
Friedrich said nothing, pulling his shirt on with jerky movements, the fabric rustling as he avoided their gazes. The teasing stung, though he knew he'd been reckless.
"You know you're lucky I got to you first," Klaus whispered to the queen, his breath warm against her ear. "If Friedrich personally escaped, which he would, he would have done to you what even those soldiers up there wouldn't!" He shut the cell door with a clang, the sound reverberating like a death knell.
—————
Friedrich resolved to visit his mother the next day. War had kept him away, and the guilt of neglecting her gnawed at him. Grabbing the flintlock from the queen's hand with a rough yank, he stormed up the stairs, the mocking laughter from the cell trailing him like a shadow. His savior and his tormentor reveled in his weakness. His mother's warnings echoed in his mind—beware of falling blindly for a woman. She'd told him his father was a madman, ensnared by a woman who wrought havoc on him, yet his obsession never waned. Friedrich had pleaded for his father's identity, but she guarded it fiercely, her silence a fortress. Over time, he'd embraced the German people as his true family.
"A letter from your mother," Klaus said, still chuckling as he emerged outside, handing Friedrich a sealed parchment. Friedrich tore it open, the paper crisp under his fingers, eager to read it. He'd meant to write her after this ordeal, but she'd beaten him to it. In her elegant script, she announced she'd found him a bride—his consent would seal the marriage. Below, she asked if the rumors of him becoming the new general were true.
In his heart, Friedrich knew either he or Klaus would be named general of the German armies once Otto solidified his power. Rank mattered little to him—general or peasant, he'd serve the German kingdom loyally.
Soon after, the queen was condemned to rot in the dungeons for life. Friedrich, restless, prepared to travel home. He hadn't seen his mother or half-sister in a year, and the anticipation thrummed in his chest. On the morning of June 8th, he rose early, the dawn air sharp with the scent of dew and horseflesh. He saddled a sturdy steed, packing four pounds of silver, their gleam cold in the morning light, and 120 grams of diamonds looted from the Italian campaign, their facets catching the sun like captured stars. He added purple linens, a gift from King Otto, their rich hue soft against his calloused hands. He had to return by week's end for the appointment of the new army general and assistant general—the former assistant had ascended to prime minister.
Klaus, with no family to visit, was an enigma—his origins unknown, though his chiseled features and lithe frame suggested Greek descent. Some likened him to Apollo, radiant as the sun, others to Adonis, the embodiment of beauty. He cared little for such flattery.
Friedrich invited Klaus to join him and stay with his family for the four days before the coronation and military appointments. Klaus declined with a polite smile, citing a rendezvous at the inn with a maiden from the brothel. As a token, Friedrich offered a quarter pound of gold, its weight solid in Klaus's palm. Klaus, ever the mercenary, never refused coin.
That morning, Friedrich secured his gifts in a leather bag, its scent mingling with the horse's musk, and slung it onto his mount. Two soldiers were assigned to escort him, their armor clanking as they rode eastward to a small town in the German kingdom. His village greeted him with open arms, the air thick with the aroma of roasted meat and freshly baked bread from a grand feast in his honor. They praised his battlefield valor—part of a two-man operation that infiltrated an Italian camp, silently felling over thirty men in the dead of night, their blood staining the earth as he torched their battle plans before dawn's assault. Such skill bordered on the supernatural; some whispered reverence akin to worship.
Others lauded his stand against Napoleon at Waterloo. Though defeated, they'd held the line, forcing Napoleon's retreat to Paris, Germany unscathed. The memory of cannon smoke and the clash of steel lingered in Friedrich's mind as he basked in their adulation, the feast's warmth a stark contrast to the cold dungeons he'd left behind.
As Friedrich dismounted his horse, the creak of leather and the soft thud of hooves on the packed earth greeted him. His mother rushed forward, enveloping him in a tight embrace, the faint scent of lavender from her shawl mingling with the crisp evening air. She kissed his cheeks lightly, her lips warm against his travel-weathered skin.
"Meine Gott!! You have greatly grown!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with pride as she pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, her hands lingering on his broad shoulders.
"Danke, you are aging gracefully, Mama," he replied, returning the gesture with a kiss to her cheeks, the familiar softness of her skin grounding him after months away.
His half-sister bounded over, her laughter a bright chime in the dusk, and he smiled, wrapping her in a warm hug, the rustle of her dress against his coat a comforting sound.
"Not yet married, I see," he teased, his tone light.
"You're not doing any better either," she shot back with a playful smirk, her eyes glinting with mischief.
Every man, woman, and child gathered around him, their murmurs a low hum, some reaching out to brush the coarse fabric of his coat as if it held some sacred power. A few pleaded for him to rule the village, their voices thick with awe, but he waved them off, the weight of their expectation pressing against him. "It would drive me from my true goal—to fight for Germany," he said firmly, the scent of roasted meat and woodsmoke from the feast swirling around them.
That evening, as they sat down to dinner, the clatter of plates and the rich aroma of stew filled the room. Friedrich avoided the topic of his mother's letter about a bride, his heart tethered to the queen—a secret he buried deep to avoid disgrace. He scanned the crowd, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows on familiar faces, searching for the maiden his mother had chosen, but the village throng offered no clues amidst the sea of weathered skin and hopeful eyes.
His mother took a deep breath, her chest rising as she prepared to announce the maiden's name, but Friedrich cut in sharply. "I brought gifts!" he declared, his voice slicing through the moment. He didn't want the village privy to his tangled love life. Reaching into his bag, he handed his mother the purple linens, their silky texture gliding through his fingers, reciting random poems and quotes—half-remembered lines from battles and taverns—to stall. "For you, Mama, a hue to rival the twilight," he said, forcing a grin. Then, he presented the village leader with several pounds of silver ornaments, their cool, metallic sheen catching the light, a generous donation for the village budget.
Satisfaction warmed him as villagers began to bid him goodnight, their footsteps crunching on the dirt path as they dispersed, leaving the air quieter, tinged with the fading scent of ale and bread. Soon, only his mother, half-sister, and the unseen maiden would remain.
Excusing himself with a yawn—"It's been a long journey; I should rest early"—his mother nodded, her voice brisk. "Prepare his room," she ordered his sister. She rose, followed by a maiden, their skirts swishing as they departed, though only his sister returned.
Friedrich didn't notice, his exhaustion dulling his senses. He lingered with his mother, trading comical tales—jests about clumsy soldiers and stubborn mules—laughter bubbling between them like a shared secret, the crackle of the hearth underscoring their joy. When his sister announced his room was ready, he stood, the ache in his legs a quiet protest, and trudged to his quarters.
Inside, without glancing around, he stripped off his weapons—the flintlock's cold steel, the dagger's worn hilt—placing them on the table with a soft clink. Turning to draw the curtains, the coarse fabric brushing his calloused hands, a soft voice pierced the stillness.
"Welcome," it said, smooth and inviting. He spun around, his breath catching as he saw a petite maiden, aged perhaps nineteen to twenty-three, reclining on the bed. She was half-covered by the blanket, her skin glowing faintly in the dim light filtering through the window, the air heavy with the scent of lavender and anticipation.