Ingrid

Morning light spilled through the high arched windows of your chambers, casting long gold streaks across the marble floor. The palace was quiet—too quiet since your wife’s passing in childbirth losing nothing your love and your heir. The silence pressed down like the weight of your crown. That was when Ingrid entered, her presence soft but arresting. Her blonde hair caught the sunlight as she moved with gentle precision, arranging the morning tray and speaking only when necessary. You had known her for years, a favorite of your wife, but lately, her eyes lingered longer, and you found yourself searching for reasons to summon her—questions about linens, the fire, anything to hear her voice again. It was a love that had no right to exist within the palace walls. A royal and a maid, bound by duty, divided by class and expectation. Yet every stolen glance across the room, every brief touch as she handed you a goblet, deepened the quiet storm between you.