Island Kingdom of Henfordshire
Cromwell Palace, Royal Study
The fire in the hearth had long since burned down to embers, casting a soft amber glow across the dark wood paneling of the royal study. King Maximilian Cromwell sat behind his desk, not as monarch, but as a man—shoulders slightly hunched, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on a framed photograph of three little girls in matching tartan dresses, grinning with gap-toothed pride.
The door creaked open.
“You’re hiding,” came the voice he knew better than his own heartbeat.
Max didn’t look up. “I’m brooding. Entirely different.”
Queen Aria Grace stepped inside, her heels clicking against the floor, and closed the door behind her. “You’re supposed to be packing.”
“I delegated,” he said dryly. “I’m told kings are good at that. I don’t care what they pack, as long as I am covered.”
She crossed the room and perched on the edge of his desk, nudging aside a stack of correspondence with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. “Max.”
He finally looked up. “She’s our baby.”
Aria Grace softened. “She’s also twenty-two, and marrying a future king. A match YOU were more than happy that it sort of struck itself.”
“That’s what worries me.” He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “You know how this goes. They fall in love, they dream, they wed—and then reality sets in. And when it does, they come back here. To this room. To me. Crying like they did when they scraped their knees or lost their ponies. And I fix it. I always fix it.”
“But you can’t fix marriage,” she said gently.
“No,” he admitted. “And I hate that.”
There was a long pause. The kind that only comes between two people who’ve weathered storms and still found their way back to each other.
“She’s not leaving you, Max,” Aria Grace said. “She’s becoming someone else’s home. That’s what we raised them for.”
He gave a humorless chuckle. “You make it sound noble.”
“It is noble. And terrifying. And beautiful. And inevitable.”
He looked at her then, really looked—at the woman who had once walked away from him, and then chosen to return. At the queen who had forgiven, rebuilt, and loved him through every misstep. “You’re the queen of my heart, you know that?”
She smiled, brushing a hand through his silvering hair. “I’ve heard rumors.”
He reached for her hand and held it, grounding himself. “I just… I keep thinking about the night she was born. You were so tired, and she was so tiny. I held her in one hand. And now I’m supposed to give her away.”
“You’re not giving her away,” Aria Grace said. “You’re watching her take flight.”
Max’s voice cracked. “What if she falls? What if our children don’t need me anymore? Am I supposed to be just a … king now?”
The way he said it with almost disgust made her laugh.
“Baby, Max, there will never be a day in our lives when our children do not need us anymore. Think of all those panicked emergency calls we still get. Or when both Mina and Victoria went into labor at the same time, right here at the palace. Vic doesn’t even live here anymore. And how many times have you had to mediate between Vivienne and Liam? Most of the time you even side with Liam.”
“Well, because he … makes more sense. I really think those arguments should be handled by you or Jack.”
“No. Because Jack and I have the terrible issue of siding with Viv, no matter what, well aware she has a temper and is usually wrong.”
“What if I let them choose their mates poorly. I mean, obviously William’s choice worked out amazingly and he lives here with his family. But Victoria … sometimes I wonder if Henk isn’t too … tame for her. And Vivienne with the stableboy. I mean … And now sending my sweet baby, my angel, so far away into another kingdom …”
“Max, Nordhaven is closer to us than Windenburg, where Victoria lives. They will be fine. And if not, they are feisty enough o just come back here and then their spouses will have to deal with our wrath.”
He nodded slowly, eyes glistening. “You always know what to say.”
“That’s why you married me.”
“No,” he said, standing and pulling her into his arms. “I married you because you were the only one who ever saw the man behind the crown. And loved him anyway.”
She rested her head against his chest. “Still do. Then come with me, Max. Let go upstairs and relax and decide on which outfits you want packed. Staff is getting antsy.”
He held her tighter, then finally—finally—let out a breath that had been sitting in his chest for weeks. “Alright. Let’s go pack.”
The Royal Hallway, Evening Before Departure
The grand staircase of Cromwell Palace echoed with the clatter of hurried footsteps and the rustle of silk. Veronica Cromwell, radiant in a pale blue dressing gown and a cloud of nerves, was in full command mode.
“No, the ivory ribbon, not the cream—do you want me to look jaundiced in the photos? And where is the embroidery swatch for the altar cloth? I asked for it an hour ago!”
Two footmen and a flustered lady-in-waiting scattered like startled birds.
From the landing above, King Maximilian and Queen Aria Grace paused mid-step.
Max released his wife’s hand with a sigh. “I’ve seen less panic during military coups.”
Aria Grace arched a brow. “She’s your daughter.”
He descended the last few steps and crossed the corridor toward Veronica, who was now mid-rant about floral arrangements. Without a word, he wrapped her in a tight, grounding hug—one arm around her shoulders, the other cradling the back of her head. He kissed her temple with the reverence of a man holding something sacred.
“Papa?” she mumbled, muffled against his chest.
Aria Grace arrived behind them, her voice light. “Maximilian, do leave our daughter in one piece. She still needs to fit into her wedding gown tomorrow.”
He chuckled softly but didn’t let go right away. When he finally did, Veronica blinked up at him, bewildered.
“Mama… what is with Papa?”
Aria Grace smiled, brushing a curl from her daughter’s cheek. “He loves you, that’s what.”
Before Veronica could respond, a familiar voice rang out from the corridor.
“Careful, Eli might try to return her once he realizes the angelic look is just a clever disguise for pure demonism. Covering up fangs and claws and fiery breath.”
Twenty-nine-year-old Crown Prince William strolled into view, hands in his pockets, grinning like a schoolboy.
Veronica’s eyes narrowed. “You take that back!”
“Never!” he called, already turning on his heel.
She immediately forgot all about royal decorum and took off after him, shrieking with laughter. “WILLIAM! I will kill you, Will!”
Their footsteps faded down the corridor, echoing with childhood mischief.
Max watched them go, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I left my glasses in the study,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Aria Grace touched his arm. “I’ll wait upstairs.”
The Study, Moments Later
The study was quiet again, the fire now little more than a glow. Max retrieved his glasses from the desk, slipping them into his breast pocket. He was about to leave when the door creaked open.
“Papa?”
He turned. Princess Victoria stood in the doorway, her usual poise dimmed by something fragile in her eyes.
“Oh—hello, my petal,” Max said gently. “Come in, come in.”
She closed the door behind her and crossed the room, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
She opened her mouth, words poised—but they faltered. Her chin trembled. Max realized this was not going to be a quick question, so he sat down, watching her carefully.
Victoria crossed to him, then the twenty-eight-year-old without a word, lowered herself into his lap like she had when she was five and afraid of thunderstorms. Surprised, he wrapped his arms around her instinctively, his hand smoothing down her back.
“I wanted to surprise him,” she whispered. “Hendrik. He said he was ready for another child. And I was too. I thought I’d just do it and then surprise him with two bars on a pregnancy test. I thought it would be easy. I thought I could just… do it. Like Mina did. Like Mama did. Like I did with Ami.”
Max stayed quiet, letting her speak.
“Look, Papa, I’ve tracked, I’ve tested, I’ve prayed. I’ve stood on my head, laid there after the fact with my legs up in the air until they fell asleep, I’ve eaten weird seeds, I’ve—Papa, I’ve done everything. And every month, it’s just… one bar on that damn test wand. I feel like I’m failing him. Failing myself. Failing you. Failing the DeWinter legacy. The only heir they have after Henk is Ami. I mean, come on, I should have one more kid in me, right? I’m not even thirty yet!”
Max pressed his cheek to her hair, trying to ignore the part of his brain that was screaming for a tactical retreat. “You are not failing anyone. Least of all yourself. And it shouldn’t fall solely on your shoulders… or ovaries… to reconstitute the DeWinter lineage. They have been limping along with barely one surviving heir per generation for ages.”
Victoria let out a wet snort. “Did you just say ovaries?”
“I did,” he muttered. “And somewhere, your grandmother just rolled over in her crypt—while your grandfather made a disapproving noise loud enough to rattle the lid.”
She blinked, then laughed through her tears.
“He once scolded me for sneezing too loudly in court,” Max added, almost to himself. “Said it showed a lack of restraint. I was eight.”
“Papa, that’s… horrifying.”
He shrugged. “It was a different time. And a very tightly wound man.”
Victoria groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I just said all that to you. Sorry. TMI.”
“No, no,” Max said quickly, patting her shoulder like she was on fire. “It’s fine. I’m fine. This is fine. Just… give me a moment to recalibrate.”
She laughed again, muffled against his chest, realizing—belatedly—that this probably should have been a conversation she’d had with her mother instead. But somehow, in the quiet of her father’s study, with his arms around her and his awkward sincerity on full display, it felt right. Uncomfortable, yes. But safe.
Max sighed, shifting slightly in the chair. “When I was less than half your age, I could walk with a book on my head for twenty minutes without it falling. I knew how to bow at seven different angles depending on the rank of the person in front of me. I was taught to never slouch, never interrupt, and never—under any circumstances—discuss anything remotely biological in polite company.”
He paused, then added dryly, “I’m fairly certain I wasn’t even supposed to know women had ovaries.”
Victoria snorted again, wiping her eyes.
“I was raised to never speak of such things,” he said, voice dry. “When I was barely eighteen, I could recite the entire Henfordshire line of succession back to the twelfth century, but I wasn’t allowed to say the word ‘underwear’ in mixed company. I had posture tutors, etiquette drills, diction lessons. I was taught how to sit, how to smile, how to breathe. They were more than happy to see me wed at twenty-five, after I had rejected every single match they tried to strike. I was taught everything relevant to being a married future king. But no one ever taught me how to talk to my daughter when she’s crying in my lap about fertility apps and—” he paused, wincing, “—bone-jumping.”
Victoria dissolved into laughter, tears still clinging to her lashes.
“But then I met your mother,” he continued, his voice softening. “And she didn’t care how straight I sat or how many languages I could greet a duke in. She wanted to know who I was when the crown came off. Having William was fine, I had decades worth of experience in being a man, I figured I’d raise him like I was raised, just less strict and I would already have all the answers to any of his questions. Boy, was I wrong. And when you girls came along… well, I realized I had to be more than a king and a man. I had to be a man worth being your and your sisters’ father.”
He looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “So yes, I’m wildly uncomfortable. But I’m here. And I’m listening. And I’m proud of you.”
Victoria blinked, her throat tight. “Even when I say things like—”
“Don’t repeat it,” he said quickly. “Let’s just… let that phrase die a quiet death. I have four children, three of which I fathered myself, so I am very familiar with the logistics involved.”
She laughed again, leaning into him.
After a moment, he added, “You want my advice, so here it is. Maybe it’s time to stop trying so hard. Toss the apps, the charts, the pressure. Just… be with Hendrik. When it feels right. When it’s about joy, about… desire, not duty. Maybe your body just needs to feel safe again. Loved. Not scheduled.”
He hesitated, then added, a little more quietly, “And maybe the same is true of him. Men have a certain stigma when it comes to… certain primal urges. But we’re not robots. We feel things too. Pressure. Expectation. Disappointment. We just don’t always know how to say it.”
Victoria looked up at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice.
Max gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I know I wasn’t raised to talk like this. But I’ve learned a few things. Mostly from your mother. And from watching the people I love try to carry more than they should. Not to mention a certain cowboy, who was born without any filters. Jack has enlightened me in many ways, most of which I never asked for.”
She was quiet for a long moment.
“Either way, who knows,” he said gently, “maybe next time, there’ll be two little bars on that test. And you’ll both be too surprised to even remember how it happened.”
Victoria smiled, eyes glassy but warm. “You’re not half bad at this, you know.”
Max exhaled. “Don’t tell your mother. She’ll expect me to start giving advice to everyone. I prefer to limit that to political and royal topics.”
“But what if this is it, Papa?” she whispered. “What if Ami is the only child I’ll ever have?”
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Then Ami will be the luckiest girl in the world. Because she’ll have all of your love. And Hendrik’s. And ours.”
Tears spilled freely now, and she buried her face in his shoulder again. She nodded against him, breath hitching.
Max rubbed her back gently, then muttered, “And if it helps, I’m fairly certain your mother conceived William after a bottle of wine, a thunderstorm, and a very ill-timed state dinner. So… miracles happen.”
Victoria let out a startled laugh—full and bright—and covered her face with both hands. “Oh, good grief, Papa. I am absolutely telling Will that. Just to watch him squirm at the thought that he was your post-dinner mint.”
Max sighed, leaning back in his chair. “If you must. Just please don’t ever say ‘jumping bones’ to me again.”
“No promises.”
They sat there a while longer, both a little embarrassed, both a little lighter. And somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken settled between them: love, awkwardness, and the kind of comfort only a father and daughter could share, royal or otherwise.
Kingdom of Nordhaven
The Royal Wedding at Sankt Havskrona Kirke, Nordhaven
Perched on a cliffside above the icy waters of the Nordhaven Sound, the ancient Sankt Havskrona Kirke stood like a sentinel of time. Its gothic spire pierced the sky, framed by pine-covered hills and the distant shimmer of snowcapped peaks. For centuries, it had been the sacred site of royal vows and village baptisms alike—but today, its heavy doors were closed to all but the most honored guests.
Inside, the stone nave was bathed in soft candlelight and the pale glow of celeste and silver banners—the royal colors of Nordhaven. The scent of pine, myrtle, and winter roses filled the air. A string ensemble played a traditional Nordhavian bridal hymn as the guests—aristocrats, dignitaries, and royals from across the globe—took their seats beneath the vaulted arches.
At the back of the church, Princess Veronica Cromwell stood with her father. Her gown shimmered like sea mist, embroidered with silver stags and delicate branches in homage to the Gyllenborg crest. Her veil, edged in lace and pinned with a sapphire comb, trailed behind her like a river of moonlight.
“You ready, little one?” Max asked, his voice low.
She nodded, eyes bright. “Are you?”
He gave a soft, crooked smile. “Not even remotely.”
The doors opened.
As the organ swelled, they began their walk down the aisle. Veronica’s steps were steady, but her grip on her father’s arm betrayed her nerves. At the altar, Crown Prince Elias Gyllenborg—tall, blond, and resplendent in his formal uniform—watched her approach with a look that was equal parts reverence and mischief.
When they reached the front, King Sven Gyllenborg stepped forward. Regal in his navy and silver regalia, he clasped Max’s shoulder with quiet strength. Then, in a rare gesture of warmth, he pulled him into a brief embrace.
“We’ll take good care of your daughter,” he said, voice low and steady.
Max leaned in, his tone dry but affectionate. “You better. Or I’ll start a war.”
Laughter rippled through the pews.
The ceremony was officiated by the Archbishop of Nordhaven, a stately woman in white and celeste vestments. She spoke in both Nordhavian and English, invoking blessings from the Old Faith and the Crown. The vows were traditional, yet deeply personal.
Elias took Veronica’s hands. “I vow to love you fiercely, to protect your heart, and to never let you forget how much trouble you’re capable of causing.”
Veronica smiled through her tears. “And I vow to love you loyally, to challenge you often, and to never let you forget that I’m always right.”
The Archbishop raised her hands. “By the authority of the Church of Nordhaven and the Crown, I now pronounce you husband and wife. May I present Their Royal Highnesses, Crown Prince Elias and Crown Princess Veronica of Nordhaven, Duke and Duchess of Fjordhaven.”
The church erupted in applause.
Outside, the newlyweds stepped into the crisp air to a roar of cheers from the gathered crowd. Flags waved, petals flew, and the bells of Sankt Havskrona rang out across the fjord. Elias leaned in, brushing a kiss to Veronica’s cheek.
“They already love their future queen,” he murmured.
She smiled. “Then let’s give them a reign worth loving.”
Reception at Iverstad Palace
The reception was held at Iverstad Palace, a breathtaking blend of Nordic tradition and modern elegance. The Great Hall, with its timber beams and panoramic views of the fjord, was strung with lanterns and garlands of evergreen and silver thistle. Tables were set with crystal, porcelain, and menus printed in both Henfordian and Nordhavian.
The guest list was intimate but illustrious—royalty, nobility, and the full wedding party. William and Wilhelmina danced with their toddler children. Victoria, radiant in deep orange, laughed with Hendrik as Ami twirled nearby. Vivienne and Liam shared a quiet moment near the fire, RJ asleep in his arms. Even Jack Kershaw, looking surprisingly dashing in a tailored suit, was spotted sipping aquavit with Queen Ingrid, while his wife Izzy, beautiful in a champagne-colored gown, was teaching a cluster of bewildered dukes how to two-step near the string quartet—barefoot, laughing, and utterly unbothered by protocol.
Prince Magnus, ever the spark of the Gyllenborg family, gave a toast that had the room in stitches. “To my brother, who somehow convinced a woman smarter, stronger, and far more terrifying than him to say yes. May the gods have mercy on him.”
As the night deepened and the stars emerged over the fjord, the palace gardens lit up with fairy lights. The nobles grew merrier. The music swelled. The wine flowed.
And somewhere between the third round of dancing and the midnight dessert course, Elias leaned over to Veronica and whispered, “Let’s disappear.”
The Escape
They slipped away through a side corridor, past a bewildered footman and a very smug Magnus who gave Elias a wink and a thumbs-up. Outside, beneath the west tower, Elias’s BMW R nineT motorcycle waited—sleek, modern, matte black with celeste detailing and a single leather seat built for two. A bouquet of white ribbons fluttered from the handlebars, catching the moonlight like streamers of mischief.
Veronica raised a brow. “You’re not serious.”
He handed her a helmet. “I’m always serious about bad ideas.”
She laughed, then climbed on behind him like she had done many times before—just never in a formal gown. Her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressed to his back, and her veil trailed behind her like a comet’s tail.
The engine roared to life.
They roared off into the night, down winding roads lit only by moonlight and the occasional flicker of torchlight from the castle’s outer walls. The wind caught her veil, tugging it loose. For a moment, it danced behind them—weightless, silver-edged, and luminous.
Then it lifted.
Veronica turned her head just in time to see it rise into the sky, caught in an updraft, spinning higher and higher until it vanished into the stars.
She laughed—free, breathless, exhilarated.
Elias glanced back. “Lose something?”
“Only the last piece of the old me,” she said, tightening her hold around him. “Keep going.”
And they did—two silhouettes against the moonlit road, chasing the future with nothing but love and the open night ahead.
The BMW R nineT’s engine purred to a stop at the edge of a pine grove, its matte black frame gleaming faintly under the moonlight. The air was crisp with the scent of moss and salt, the hush of the fjord just audible through the trees.
Veronica swung her leg off the back of the bike, cheeks flushed from wind and laughter, her arms still tingling from having clung to Elias the whole ride. Her veil was gone now and her hair had come loose in soft waves around her face.
Elias kicked down the stand and turned to her, grinning. “Still trust me?”
She gave him a look that was half exasperation, half adoration. “That’s a loaded question, one I am reluctant to answer.”
He offered his hand. “That answer already was the answer. Well, come with me anyway, and rest assured I am only mildly insulted.” He winked at her, grinning.
He led her down a narrow footpath, nearly invisible to the untrained eye. The trees arched overhead like cathedral vaults, their branches laced with frost. The only sounds were the crunch of pine needles beneath their boots and the distant hush of the sea.
As they rounded a bend, Veronica gasped.
Nestled in a hollow between the trees was a canvas tent—Nordic-style, with silver embroidery along the seams. Lanterns hung from the branches above, casting a golden glow over a low table set with champagne, strawberries, and a thick fur blanket spread across a bed of moss and pine boughs.
She turned to him, eyes wide. “You planned this?”
Elias shrugged, but his grin gave him away. “Magnus helped. He’s occasionally more useful than he looks.”
She laughed, stepping into the tent. The inside was warm from a small heater tucked in the corner, the air scented faintly with cedar and vanilla. She turned to face him, her voice softer now. “You really thought of everything.”
“I just wanted our first night to feel like us,” he said. “Not a palace. Not a performance. Just this. Simpler, but still special.”
She kissed him then—slow, deliberate, full of the weight of the day and the promise of the night. He responded in kind, hands gentle as they found the laces of her gown, reverent as he peeled away each layer like unwrapping something sacred.
They undressed each other in the hush of the tent, laughter giving way to quiet wonder. When they finally lay down together, it wasn’t rushed or perfect—it was real. A little clumsy, a little breathless, but full of tenderness. He kissed her like she was the only thing that had ever made sense, and she held him like she’d been waiting her whole life to feel this way in this moment.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, time slowed.
And somewhere between the champagne and the starlight, between whispered promises and tangled limbs, something new began—quietly, perhaps unknowingly. A spark, a seed, a beginning.
The Morning After – A Royal Walk of Shame
The sun had barely crested the fjord when the BMW R nineT rumbled up the winding road to Iverstad Palace. The early morning mist clung to the pines, and the castle’s stone façade glowed gold in the dawn light.
Veronica sat behind Elias, arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressed to his back. Her hair was tousled, her cheeks pink from the cold—and perhaps from something else entirely. She wore a soft ivory tracksuit with “BRIDE” embroidered in gold across the back, the sleeves slightly too long, the waistband cinched with a satin ribbon. Elias, naturally, wore the matching “GROOM” version in black, looking far too pleased with himself.
Their wedding attire—her gown and his ceremonial suit—was carefully rolled and strapped in a garment bag across the back of the bike, fluttering slightly in the wind like a banner of rebellion.
She looked like a royal runaway. He looked smug. And somewhere, Magnus was probably still laughing.
Two palace guards stood at the gate, ceremonial halberds in hand. One gave a crisp nod. The other—older, with a twinkle in his eye—grinned.
“Good morning, Your Highnesses,” he said, voice perfectly neutral. “Sleep well?”
Veronica groaned softly and buried her face in Elias’s back. “We’re never living this down.”
Elias chuckled. “Not even trying. And no, we have not slept a wink, thank you for asking. Too busy being newlyweds on their wedding night.” He shot back, making both guards chuckle.
They dismounted and slipped through the side entrance, hoping to avoid attention. They failed.
The moment they stepped into the breakfast salon, they were met with a tableau of royal domesticity: Queen Ingrid and Queen Aria Grace seated at the long table, sipping coffee with matching knowing smiles. King Sven and King Maximilian stood near the hearth, deep in conversation—until they turned and spotted the newlyweds.
Max raised a brow. “Well, well. Look who decided to come home.”
Sven, ever the diplomat, offered a dry smile. “I trust the fjord air agreed with you?”
Elias cleared his throat. “Very invigorating, thank you.”
Veronica tried to slink behind him, but it was too late. William spotted them from across the room and nearly choked on his coffee.
“Oh gods, you actually did it,” he said, grinning. “You eloped from your own wedding night. In matching tracksuits.”
Wilhelmina, holding a sleepy Josie on her hip, smirked. “From the looks of it, they still had the wedding night part of the night. But make it fashion.”
Victoria, bouncing Ami on her knee, gave Veronica a mock-scandalized look. “And here I thought you’d at least wait until the royal minister blessed your nightgowns before you two shyly commenced the inevitable. Not… whatever this is. Velour?”
Vivienne, nursing a cup of tea with RJ curled against her shoulder, raised a brow. “Did you even make it off the bike? Or did the embroidery on your backs catch fire from friction?”
“Viv,” Veronica hissed, face flaming.
Liam, ever the quiet one, just gave Elias a thumbs-up from across the room. “Nice suit.”
Prince Magnus strolled in last, hair still damp from a morning swim, and clapped his brother on the back. “Tent still standing?”
Elias gave him a look. “Barely. We nearly set it on fire with how steAmi things got.”
The room erupted in laughter.
Queen Ingrid stood and crossed to her son, brushing a leaf from his shoulder with maternal precision. “You could have at least sent a raven. I’ll have the staff start clearing out the old nursery and have some swatches brought over later… just in case. Gives you something to do before the plane departs for the honeymoon. Considering your enthusiasm for that type of royal duty, I think an heir won’t be a rough topic—more an afterthought.”
Max, arms crossed, gave Elias a long look. “You planned the escape, packed the bike, and still thought matching tracksuits were the move?”
Elias shrugged. “They were Magnus’s idea.”
Magnus raised his hands. “Hey, I only ordered them. You two wore them.”
Veronica, still blushing furiously, looked to her mother. “Mama, please make them stop.”
Aria Grace sipped her coffee serenely. “Darling, you’re the one who came back wearing ‘BRIDE’ across your back like a royal bumper sticker.”
At that moment, Jamie toddled in, dragging a stuffed elk by the antlers. He blinked up at Veronica and Elias, then announced, “Auntie Vero got married! Now they’ll have babies.”
Josie followed, twirling in her nightgown. “And Uncle Eli’s pajamas are shiny!”
RJ, red curls bouncing, pointed at Elias’s pants. “Words on your butt!” making his parents burst out laughing.
Ami clapped her hands at Veronica and Elias. “Where is your baby! I have a baby too!” holding up her doll proudly.
Elias looked at Veronica, who looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
He leaned down and whispered, “Did you pack the baby? No? I didn’t either. Sorry Ami, no baby. Better luck next time.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “You need to stop it! You’re lucky I love you.”
Max, watching from the hearth, caught Aria Grace’s eye. He smiled—soft, proud, a little misty.“ They’re going to be just fine. I can see it now. They are a lot like us,” he murmured.
She nodded. “Yes. But we’ll never let them forget this. This is parental blackmail gold.”
“Are you all done yet? So yes, we did all that, we just got married so what?”
Aria Grace smiled serenely. “Darling, you’re the one who came back wearing matching his and her bridal tracksuits, smelling like pine, dirt and stale champagne.” She walked up to her daughter, plucking leaves and pine needles out of her hair. “Maybe a speedy shower before breakfast?”
At that moment, Jamie toddled up, giggled, then announced, “Auntie Vero looks funny!”
Josie nodded. “And Uncle Eli’s hair is messy! And he smells weird.”
RJ, red curls bouncing, pointed at Elias’s boots. “Muddy!”
Ami clapped her hands. “Kiss again!”
Morning in the Palace Gardens
The mist had begun to lift from the gardens of Iverstad Palace, revealing dew-kissed hedges and frost-tipped roses. The air was cool and still, the kind of hush that only follows a night full of laughter and secrets. Veronica walked slowly along the gravel path, her boots crunching softly beneath her. She wore a sleek travel coat in soft camel wool, cinched at the waist, with a cream cashmere scarf tucked neatly beneath the collar. Her hair was freshly braided, still damp at the ends, and her cheeks were pink—not from the cold, but from something warmer, more private. She looked every bit the royal bride preparing to leave—but not before one last walk through the place that had shaped her.
Aria Grace walked beside her, her own coat belted neatly at the waist, a silk scarf tucked into the collar. She carried herself with the same grace she always had, but her eyes were softer this morning. Knowing.
They walked in silence for a while, past the reflecting pool and the stone benches carved with old Nordhavian runes. The scent of pine and damp earth lingered in the air.
“You lost your veil,” Aria Grace said gently, not looking at her.
Veronica smiled faintly. “It flew off somewhere over the fjord. I didn’t even try to catch it.”
“Good,” her mother said. “Some things are meant to be let go.”
They stopped beneath a frost-laced arbor, the vines bare now but still beautiful in their winter stillness.
“I didn’t think I’d feel different,” Veronica said after a moment. “But I do.”
Aria Grace turned to her. “How so?”
Veronica hesitated. “It’s like… something shifted. Like I stepped into a new version of myself, and I’m still figuring out who she is. But I feel … strangely older. More … adult.”
Her mother nodded. “That’s what marriage does. It doesn’t change who you are—it just gives you a mirror. A partner to reflect back the parts of you you didn’t know were there.”
Veronica looked down at her hands. “Mama… what if I’m already pregnant? I mean, TMI, I know, but I thought we’d have the wedding night in his chambers, I mean, our chambers, and I had my things brought there. He didn’t think to bring anything and … well … you know. You have four children. I didn’t mean for the wedding night to possibly … have that lasting effect.”
Aria Grace didn’t flinch. She simply reached out and took her daughter’s hand.
“Chances are low, but if it should be, then you’ll face it with the same courage you’ve always had. And you won’t be alone. I was your age when your late grandfather, the former king, demanded your father and I go into production. Then, after William was barely able to sit up, I was pregnant again, with Victoria. I felt too young, overwhelmed.”
Veronica’s voice was barely a whisper. “Well, if it did happen, we didn’t mean for it to be so fast. I kinda thought I would get to plan the pregnancy, once we are used to each other and our new life together.”
“Baby relax,” Aria Grace said softly. “It is highly unlikely.”
Veronica looked up, startled.
“Then again, you happened on the first try, and also out in the rolling hills of home, in Henfordshire, after your father and I had found our way back together, remarried, coronated to King and Queen, well, queen consort, but your dad made it a point to coronate me too,” she continued. “I was a bit overwhelmed by you at first, we were still getting reacquainted, so it terrified me. But then I met you on that sonogram and everything made sense. Your dad cried when we saw you for the first time. He cried all the way home. And he would kill me if he knew I told you.”
Tears welled in Veronica’s eyes. “I’m scared. Of everything. Visiting him, even for a week was great. But someone was always with me. You, Mina … Will. Now you will all fly home, no more chaperones from home. Just me and the Gyllenborgs.”
“You are a Gyllenborg now,” Aria Grace said, pulling her into a hug. “But you’re ready. Ready for this. Ready to be queen, whenever Sven decides Eli is ready. I will guide you on how to be a good queen to your people. And if that little soul is already with you, then they chose well. I have seen you with your nieces and nephews, you will be a great mom.”
They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in silence and morning light.
Somewhere in the distance, the bells of Sankt Havskrona rang out again—soft, echoing, like a memory.
The Flight Home – Aboard the Royal Henfordshire Jet
The royal jet sat gleaming on the tarmac of Nordhaven’s private airfield, its sleek white fuselage trimmed in deep green and gold—the colors of Henfordshire. Near the nose, the golden crest of the Royal House of Cromwell shimmered in the morning light: a crowned shield bearing the family’s emblems—a bold green “C,” a steadfast tree, twin white horses in mid-gallop, and a laurel wreath of unity. Encircling the shield was a golden laurel, and beneath it, the family motto: Amor Omnia Vincit—Love Conquers All.
Inside, the cabin was a blend of regal elegance and modern comfort. Cream leather seats lined the aisle, each one subtly embossed with the royal crest in gold and green thread—twin horses, laurel, and shield stitched with quiet precision. The polished walnut paneling gleamed beneath soft lighting, and the faint scent of Earl Grey and lavender lingered in the air. Every detail, from the embroidered headrests to the monogrammed linen napkins, spoke of legacy—not ostentation, but continuity. This was no ordinary aircraft. It was a flying extension of the Cromwell name, carrying not just royalty, but the weight of history, love, and the future of Henfordshire.
King Maximilian stood at the base of the boarding stairs, his overcoat buttoned against the chill. He watched as his family trickled aboard—William and Wilhelmina with Josie and Jamie in tow, Victoria and Hendrik with Ami, Vivienne and Liam carrying a sleepy RJ between them. The children were bundled in wool and velvet, cheeks pink from the cold, little hands clutching stuffed animals and sippy cups.
Normally, William would have flown separately—protocol dictated that the king and heir never traveled together. But today, Max had overridden the rule.
“Just this once,” he’d said. “I want all my children with me. Well, all but the one I just gave away to a new kingdom of her own.”
William hadn’t argued.
Now, as the last of the luggage was loaded and the engines began to hum, Max turned to Aria Grace, who stood beside him, gloved hand tucked into his.
“She’s not coming,” he said quietly.
“No,” Aria Grace replied. “She’s home now.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”
They boarded together, the stairs retracting behind them with a soft mechanical sigh.
Inside, the cabin was already alive with quiet chaos. Josie was trying to climb into the cockpit (“I want to fly it!”), Jamie was chewing on a seatbelt, and Ami had somehow convinced RJ to share his stuffed fox. The adults were settling in—coats off, shoes kicked aside, champagne discreetly offered by the steward.
Max took his seat near the front, beside Aria Grace. Across the aisle, William buckled Josie in and gave his father a long, thoughtful look.
“You alright?” he asked.
Max gave a dry smile. “I just gave away my last daughter. I’m not alright, but I’m proud.”
William nodded. “She looked happy.”
“She was,” Max said. “She is.”
The engines roared to life, and the jet began to taxi. As they lifted into the sky, Max glanced out the window—down at the fjords, the forests, the distant shimmer of Iverstad Palace. Somewhere down there, Veronica was beginning her new life.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Aria Grace reached over and took his hand.
“She’ll visit,” she said softly.
“I know,” he replied. “But it won’t be the same.”
“No,” she agreed. “It’ll be better. Because now we get to watch her become who she was always meant to be. Our son will be a king one day and our youngest daughter will be a queen. All four children are happy and healthy. You should be proud and feel accomplished. As a father and as a king.”
He opened his eyes and looked around the cabin—at his children, his grandchildren, his legacy.
And for the first time in a long while, he let himself rest.
EchoesOfLegacy 