POV: Wilhelm
I allowed Andrzej inside because I believed—against my better instincts—that blood might reach Francesca where I could not.
Since we returned from the courtyard, she had existed in a fragile in-between state, neither fully present nor entirely gone.
She ate only when urged, drank only when I placed the cup in her hands myself, and spent hours staring through the window as if the forest beyond it were speaking a language I could not hear. Her grief sat heavy in the room, pressing against the bond until even my own breathing felt constrained.
When the guards announced her father again, I told myself that familiarity might ground her. That hearing a voice from her past—however flawed—might draw her back from the edge she hovered over.
I did not yet understand how deep that past cut was.
Andrzej was escorted into the audience chamber under watch, though he carried himself as a man unafraid of consequences. He was around sixty, broad-shouldered despite age, with black hair pulled into a tail streaked heavily with gray.
His beard was trimmed short, his face weathered and sharp, and a single earring glinted in his left ear. He wore plain clothes, sturdy and unremarkable, the attire of a man who had learned to survive by offending no one of importance.
He did not bow.
His gaze swept the chamber with open disdain before settling on me. “So,” he said, his voice rough and edged with anger, “you’re the one hiding her.”
The disrespect was immediate and deliberate. I straightened slowly, allowing the full weight of my presence to settle into the room.
“You will address me properly,” I replied evenly. “You stand before Wilhelm of the old blood, rightful king of this realm.”
Andrzej snorted, unimpressed. “Crowns change,” he said. “Debts don’t.”
My jaw tightened. “You requested sanctuary,” I said. “That courtesy is not without limits.”
“Then hear why I came,” he shot back. “I didn’t walk this far to be lectured by another man playing ruler.”
Before I could answer, I sensed the bond tighten sharply.
I turned. Francesca stood in the doorway. She leaned against the stone frame as if it were the only thing holding her upright.
Her skin looked too pale, her dark hair loose and uncombed around her shoulders. Her eyes—those eyes that once burned with defiance—were dull now, hollowed by exhaustion and grief. She had not been summoned. She had felt him.
“Francesca,” I said softly, moving toward her. “You don’t need to be here.”
“I want to hear him,” she replied quietly.
There was no strength in her voice, but there was resolve. It frightened me more than fear would have.
Andrzej turned toward her, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Look at you,” he said. “Hiding behind another man’s walls like a frightened child.”
I stepped between them without thinking, my body reacting before my mind caught up. “You will speak with respect,” I warned.
Francesca lifted her hand, stopping me. Her fingers trembled, but her gaze never left her father. I could feel the bond shudder, strained and raw, as if it were bracing itself.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
Andrzej let out a harsh laugh. “Why do you think? You broke the agreement!”
I felt a chill creep up my spine. “What agreement is he speaking about?” I demanded.
He looked at me with irritation, as if I were an inconvenience rather than a threat, then returned his attention to Francesca. “You know what I mean,” he said. “You were sent to King Cassian for a reason. You were meant to secure his favor. And… You were meant to give him an heir.”
Francesca’s shoulders stiffened. I saw the way her breath caught, shallow and controlled, as if she were bracing for a blow she had taken many times before.
“And instead,” Andrzej continued, his voice sharpening, “you ran. You disgraced me. You made me a liar before the king.”
Anger surged through me, hot and violent. “You sold her,” I said coldly. “You forfeited any right to speak of honor.”
He snapped his gaze toward me. “I did what was necessary,” he barked. “She was useless otherwise.”
I watched Francesca closely then, and my chest tightened painfully. She did not cry or argue. She absorbed his words the way one absorbs familiar pain—silently and instinctively, as if her body knew this language too well.
“You always were,” Andrzej went on, his contempt unrestrained now. “Too quiet. Too weak! Even your wolf failed you. A werewolf who can’t shift properly is nothing but a burden.”
The room seemed to constrict around us. My hands curled slowly into fists at my sides. I wanted to end this, to throw him out or break him where he stood, but something in Francesca’s posture stopped me.
She needed to hear this. Whatever reckoning was coming required it.
“I heard about the courtyard,” Andrzej added with a cruel curl of his lip. “You lunged like a mad thing and still couldn’t cross the gate. Thrown back by a curse like you were nothing. Even as a wolf, you disappoint.”
Francesca swayed. I moved closer instinctively, ready to catch her, but she straightened. Something changed in her eyes—not strength and definitely not fury, but focus. The numbness cracked, revealing something sharp beneath it.
“You keep talking about the child,” she said quietly.
Andrzej scoffed. “Don’t pretend to be confused. King Cassian needed proof of loyalty. A living heir. You failed him!”
The air in the room went utterly still. Francesca lifted her head fully then, her spine straightening despite the tremor in her legs. I felt the bond surge painfully, tight and electric, as if warning me that something irreversible hovered on the edge of being spoken.
I saw it in her face then—the woman she had been before fear taught her silence. There was pain there, yes, but also clarity. Resolve forged not from hope, but from survival.
“You’re wrong,” she said, her voice low and steady.
Andrzej laughed. “Lies won’t save you now.”
She took a small step forward. “I did give birth to an heir.” she whispered.
My world collapsed.