Chapter Text
Night. Lancaster Palace in London. A storm growls beyond the high, arched windows, the wind rattling against the stained glass. Inside the dimly lit hall, the fire crackles, casting shifting shadows on the worn tapestries.
At the center of the vast chamber, a long oak table is strewn with maps and goblets of spiced wine. Candle flames flicker, their wax pooling like fallen soldiers. A cluster of men in dark robes, their faces weathered by war and time, lean over the war table, their voices low but sharp.
"We cannot hold Rouen much longer," an advisor mutters, his fingers tracing the inked lines of the Seine.
“The boy must understand,” another voice cuts in, deep and commanding. The Duke of Bedford straightens, his broad shoulders casting a looming shadow over the fire. His gaze, cold as the steel of a drawn sword, fixes on the child sitting apart from the council.
Henry. Small for his age, nine years old, draped in a robe too heavy for his frail frame. His face pale and unreadable in the firelight. He does not look at the men, nor at the maps carved with the fate of nations. French cities under siege. His world is smaller: the chessboard before him, its polished pieces glinting like tiny warriors.
A pawn moves forward, then a knight.
A beat.
Then the scrape of a chair. The Duke approaches, placing a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. Henry’s fingers still on the chess piece—ivory smooth, warm from his touch.
“You are the king of France,” Bedford intones, his voice a fortress of expectation. “It is your duty.”
“To be king of France and England,” said his uncle and guardian, Bradford, with a mixture of pride and severity, to little Henry, who was trying to play chess while the men argued about the future of the war.
The boy’s fingers tighten around the white king. A pause, a breath, a flicker in his storm-colored eyes. Then, without a word, he lifts the piece, studies it—
And tosses it into the fire.
The council stills. The wood crackles, embers leaping as the king's crown blackens, curls, and dissolves into ash.
A flicker of something unreadable—defiance?—flares in the child’s gaze before he turns back to the board, placing his hand on a lone black knight.
The child makes an unspoken choice.
The storm outside howls its approval.