Steam rose in lazy swirls from the bathwater, curling around the figure of Renault as he reclined with a cloth draped over his face. The silence of the chamber was thick, almost tangible. With a sudden movement that sent ripples across the surface, Renault yanked the cloth away, his brow knitted with distress.

"Ugh," he groaned, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. His thoughts churned like the water around him. “What is wrong with me? This was always the plan. She deserves this. She—”

Images of Gerardine cascaded through his mind unbidden: her stoic presence in his father's dimly lit bedroom, the unwavering gaze as she witnessed the old king's last breath; her commanding voice during those dusty afternoons of swordplay, "Pick. Up. Your. Sword."; the way she flung her hair back, beads of water glittering in the sun; her triumphant grin, sharp enough to cut steel, as Sir Heloise lay in the grass defeated; the memory of her bow, so full of rage, after his fist met her cheek; the fire in her eyes when she hurled juggling balls at him in a fit of pique; her laughter – that rare, uninhibited melody which seemed to come from a place deep within her.

And then, the image that made his cheeks flare hotter than the bathwater: Gerardine beneath him, her identity no longer hidden by armor or pretense, but revealed in the moonlight as undeniably, breathtakingly woman.

Become a Supporter

Renault sat at the head of the long, oak council table, a mischievous glint in his eye as he manipulated a peculiar bag with his fingers. With a squeeze, it erupted into a scandalous sound that echoed off the stone walls, and he couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face. The gathered councilors, however, were far from amused, their brows knitted together in collective annoyance.

"What?" Renault asked innocently, looking around at the sea of scowling faces.

"Sire, could you please focus?" implored the councilor with glasses perched precariously on his nose. His tone held the same weariness one might reserve for a child who had asked 'why' too many times.

But Renault, undeterred by the plea for seriousness, refilled the rubbery pouch with another gust of breath and pressed it once more, releasing yet another flatulent symphony into the solemn chamber. "Is this funny?" he queried with the enthusiasm of a bard presenting his finest ballad.

The councilor with the impressive beard, whose face was lost somewhere within the thicket of hair, leaned forward. "What is that?" he grumbled, voice deep and resonating like an old war drum.

With a flourish fit for a jester, Renault waved the strange object through the air. "It's a sheep’s stomach treated with wax," he explained, as if unveiling a grand invention.

The oldest councilor, wrinkles mapping out the trials of countless tedious meetings, sighed deeply. "What do you plan to do with it?" he asked, dread seeping into his voice.

Renault's smile broadened, eyes twinkling with the promise of mischief. "I’m going to fill it with air and then put it on Sir Gerard’s seat at dinner. It will make it sound like he farted."

As if on cue, the councilors released a chorus of groans, a sound Renault was becoming all too familiar with. He scanned their faces, puzzled. "What?"

Gerardine lounged in a plush chair, legs crossed at the ankles, her latest conquest—a particularly stubborn tome—resting open on her lap. The rooms she'd been granted reflected a rank she never sought but was now bound to, with rich tapestries and silks far removed from the austere stone of the sparring rings.

A rap at the door shattered the silence. "Yes?" she called out, eyebrow cocked as she set aside the book. This had better be good.

The door swung open, revealing a page balancing a note on a silver platter. "A message for you, sir," he said, voice as crisp as the parchment.

Gerardine took the note with a nod that dismissed the boy. Yet, as the page scurried off, his eyes lingered, curiosity piqued.

Breaking the seal, she scanned the florid script. "To the good Sir Knight, Gerard, we formally request your presence post haste in the Queen’s drawing room. Forever in your service, the ladies of the court of His Majesty Renault."

"Queen's drawing room?" Gerardine blurted to no one, perplexity knitting her brows. "But why? It's not like there's a queen."

"Turn it over," came a hushed directive from behind a column.

"Spying now, are we?" Gerardine's stare pinned the page momentarily before following his mime of turning the paper.

"Ah," she muttered as the other side demanded in stark contrast, "This is actually a kingly command. Go there now, Sir Gerard."

Rolling her eyes heavenward, she grabbed her formal overcoat—a garment too stiff for her liking—and strode out, her boots clicking a rhythm of mild irritation on the stone floor. The page, poking his head out, watched her departure, worry etching his features.

"Royals," Gerardine sighed to the empty corridor. "Never can do anything straightforward."