Chapter 3: Initiation in the Royal Apartments

The first night arrived without fanfare.

The palace corridors had grown colder as evening deepened. The persistent salt from the sea had invaded further during the day, chilling the marble floors and settling into every crack of ancient stone. When Victoria pushed open the heavy door to King Albrecht’s private apartments, the temperature shifted abruptly: the room’s accumulated warmth — low fire in the marble hearth, beeswax candles burning steady — collided with the icy draft that followed her inside. Her own heat moved ahead of her. A faint jasmine scent rose from her skin, warm and blooming, slicing through the cold salt air like summer breaking winter.

The chamber was vast. Opulent. Crimson velvet draped the massive four-poster bed at its centre. Heavy curtains sealed the windows against the night. A single lamp cast soft golden light across polished wood, silk hangings, and the intricate patterns of the carpet. Shadows pooled in the corners, respectful.

Albrecht stood beside the bed. He remained fully dressed in his dinner jacket. Silver hair gleaming under the lamplight. Ice-blue eyes fixed on her with the same unyielding clarity he had used to command parliaments and armies. At sixty-two he still carried the frame of a man who had once been formidable: broad shoulders, tall posture, the quiet authority that had never needed to shout. Yet time had left its subtle marks. The jacket hung a fraction looser across the chest than it once had. The waist carried the gentle softening of decades spent seated at the head of tables rather than riding at the head of charges. His hands, though steady, betrayed the faintest tremor when they rested at his sides.

Duty remained his armour. Tonight it still fit perfectly.

Victoria closed the door. The latch clicked with quiet finality. The cold air settled around them; her jasmine warmth spread in slow waves.