Friedrich froze, his hand still gripping the curtain's edge, the coarse fabric biting into his palm. The maiden's voice lingered in the air, soft yet commanding, like a whisper of silk against steel. Her eyes, dark and luminous in the flickering candlelight, held him captive, and the faint scent of rosewater wafted from her, mingling with the musk of his travel-worn clothes. She shifted slightly, the blanket slipping to reveal the curve of her shoulder, her hair spilling over the pillow like ink across parchment.
"Who... are you?" he managed, his voice rough, betraying the exhaustion and curiosity warring within him. His heart thudded, a soldier's instinct clashing with a man's intrigue.
She smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips that sent a shiver down his spine. "I'm Elsa," she said, her tone carrying a lilt that hinted at both innocence and intent. "Your mother thought me a fitting gift for her returning hero."
He swallowed hard, the implication sinking in like a stone into still water. His mother's letter flashed in his mind—the bride she'd chosen, the union he'd dodged at dinner. "A gift," he repeated, stepping closer, the wooden floor creaking under his boots. "And what exactly does that mean?"
Elsa sat up, the blanket falling further to reveal a simple linen shift that clung to her form, the fabric whispering against her skin. "It means I'm yours, if you'll have me," she replied, her voice steady but her fingers twisting nervously in the blanket's edge. "Your mother spoke of your valor, your loyalty. She said you deserved someone to... ease your burdens."
The room felt smaller, the air thick with unspoken promises and the crackle of the distant hearth filtering through the walls. Friedrich's gaze darted to his weapons on the table, then back to her. The queen's face—her starry eyes, her sultry defiance—flickered in his mind, a haunting contrast to Elsa's quiet allure. He wanted to storm out, to demand answers from his mother, but his legs rooted him to the spot.
"You don't even know me," he said, his tone sharper than intended, the scent of gunpowder from his earlier struggles still clinging to his hands.
"I know enough," Elsa countered, rising from the bed with a grace that belied her nervous hands. Barefoot, she padded across the floor, the soft thud of her steps a counterpoint to his heavy breathing. "I know you're a man who fights for others but forgets himself. I've heard the tales—the Italian camp, Waterloo. The village sings your name like a hymn."
Her words stirred something in him, a mix of pride and unease, and as she drew near, the warmth of her presence cut through the chill of his doubts. She stopped inches away, her breath a faint caress against his chest. "I'm not here to trap you," she murmured, her eyes searching his. "I'm here because I chose to be."
The tension snapped like a bowstring. Friedrich's hand shot out, cupping her face, his thumb brushing the softness of her cheek. Her skin was warm, alive, a stark contrast to the cold steel he'd wielded all his life. He leaned in, his lips hovering over hers, the scent of rosewater intoxicating, but hesitation gripped him—a soldier's caution, a lover's guilt. The queen's voice echoed in his skull: *"I know what you want, and I have it."*
"Do you even want this?" he asked, his voice low, almost a growl, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze.
Elsa's eyes flickered with something fierce. "I want a man who doesn't bend to whispers or crowns," she said, her hand rising to rest on his chest, fingers splaying over the rough fabric of his shirt. "I want you, Friedrich, not the title or the tales."
Her words pierced him, and before he could think, he closed the distance, kissing her with a hunger that surprised even himself. Her lips were soft, yielding yet insistent, tasting faintly of honey and the salt of anticipation. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her against him, the heat of her body seeping through his clothes, grounding him in the moment.
But the kiss broke as a distant shout pierced the night—a sharp, guttural cry from the village edge. Friedrich tensed, his soldier's instincts flaring, and he pulled away, his breath ragged. "Stay here," he ordered, grabbing his flintlock from the table, the cold metal a familiar comfort in his grip.
He threw open the door, the night air rushing in, sharp with the tang of pine and smoke. Shadows moved beyond the village houses, and the faint clatter of hooves rumbled in the distance. His mother appeared at the hallway's end, her face pale, a lantern trembling in her hand. "Friedrich, riders—armed men!" she gasped, her voice tight with fear.
His heart sank. The queen's escape, Klaus's warnings, Otto's wrath—it had followed him here. "Get inside, Mama," he barked, shoving past her toward the door, Elsa's rosewater scent still clinging to him as he stepped into the chaos unfolding outside.
Friedrich stepped into the night, the air biting at his exposed skin, thick with the scent of pine, smoke, and the metallic tang of impending violence. The clatter of hooves grew louder, a staccato rhythm against the dirt, and three shadows emerged from the darkness—mounted mercenaries, their armor glinting faintly under the moon. Their faces were hard, etched with purpose, their eyes fixed on him with a vengeance that spoke of loyalty to a ghost: the overthrown king.
"Friedrich, traitor's spawn!" one bellowed, his voice gravelly, raising a pistol. "You'll pay for his blood!"
Before Friedrich could respond, a shot rang out, the crack splitting the night. He ducked instinctively, the bullet whizzing past his ear, splintering the wooden doorframe behind him. A sharp cry followed—his mother staggered back, clutching her shoulder where the bullet had grazed her, blood seeping through her fingers, staining her shawl crimson. Rage ignited in Friedrich's chest, a molten fury that drowned out reason.
With his flintlock in one hand and dagger in the other, he moved—fast, precise, a blur of calculated violence. The first mercenary spurred his horse forward, sword raised, but Friedrich sidestepped, his boots kicking up dirt as he fired the flintlock. The shot tore through the man's chest, blood blooming like a dark flower, and he toppled from the saddle with a wet thud, the horse rearing in panic.
The second charged, a hulking figure wielding a mace, its chain whistling through the air. Friedrich dropped low, rolling under the swing, the wind of it ruffling his hair. Springing up, he drove his dagger into the man's thigh, twisting the blade with a sickening crunch of muscle and sinew. The mercenary howled, clutching the wound as blood spurted onto the ground, his horse bolting as he crumpled, alive but crippled.
The leader, lean and scarred, hesitated, his pistol trembling as Friedrich turned on him. Villagers screamed, scattering like leaves in a storm, but Friedrich's focus was singular. He sprinted forward, closing the gap in a heartbeat, and tackled the man from his mount. They hit the ground hard, dust billowing around them, and Friedrich pinned him, dagger poised at his throat, the flintlock pressed against his temple. The leader's breath rasped, sour with fear, his eyes defiant yet flickering.
"Speak!" Friedrich snarled, pressing the blade until a thin line of blood trickled down the man's neck. "Why are you here?"
The leader spat, his saliva warm and wet against Friedrich's cheek. "You'll get nothing from me, dog."
Friedrich's jaw tightened. He stood, dragging the man up by his collar, the leather creaking under his grip. "Tie him to a horse," he ordered a trembling villager, who obeyed with shaking hands, binding the mercenary's wrists with coarse rope. "Run him to the center and back." The horse bolted at a whip's crack, dragging the man through the dirt, his curses turning to groans as stones and roots battered his body. When he returned, bruised and panting, his defiance had cracked.
"We're the king's shadows," he gasped, his voice hoarse, blood flecking his lips. "Special force... tasked before he fell. You were marked—his betrayer. We swore to end you."
Friedrich's eyes narrowed, the weight of the revelation sinking in. He signaled for the man to be taken away, arrested by the village watch, their lanterns casting long, jagged shadows as they hauled him off. The night settled, the air heavy with the coppery scent of blood and the fading echo of hooves.
Back inside, his mother's wound tended—a shallow graze, thankfully—Friedrich returned to his room, the adrenaline still thrumming in his veins. Elsa sat on the bed, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and concern, the candlelight painting her skin in warm gold. Her shift clung to her, the fabric sheer enough to hint at the curves beneath, and the rosewater scent enveloped him as he shut the door with a soft click.
"You're unharmed," she murmured, rising to meet him, her bare feet silent on the floorboards.
"Barely," he replied, his voice low, shedding his blood-streaked coat. He crossed to her, the exhaustion giving way to a primal need. His hands found her waist, pulling her close, her warmth a balm against the night's chill. "You waited."
"Always," she whispered, her breath brushing his jaw. He tilted her chin up, kissing her softly at first, then deeper, her lips yielding with a faint taste of honey. His fingers traced the edge of her shift, grazing the soft skin of her collarbone, a quiet promise in the touch. She pressed herself closer, her hands sliding up his chest, igniting a slow burn beneath his skin.
He guided her back to the bed, the mattress creaking under their weight, and lay beside her, his arm curling around her waist. The night's violence faded into the shadows as her scent and warmth lulled him, his eyes drifting shut, the steady rhythm of her breathing anchoring him to sleep.