Crown and Cradle Saga Part 1 of 4: Heir Pressure

The Planner Queen

Her Majesty Emerita* ^{(*title = retired queen consort)} Ingrid Gyllenborg was in full royal planner mode. Not officially, of course—no one had asked her to oversee the wedding preparations for her younger son, Prince Magnus, and Dr. Emma von Hohenstein for a wedding about two years in the future. But that hadn’t stopped her from commandeering the palace’s event staff, changing the orders of the floral arrangements (twice), and insisting that the seating chart reflect “proper dynastic precedence,” even if it meant bumping Emma’s stepbrother Lord Henry Montfort-Yates to the third row.

The royal retirement residence for the former king and queen of Nordhaven, Eldvik Hall, had never been so alive with tension. Ingrid stood in the solarium; eyes narrowed at a stack of linen swatches. “The celeste silk is too icy,” she declared. “It will wash out Emma’s complexion. We’ll use the silver damask.”

“She asked for the celeste,” murmured the former king, Sven.
Ingrid didn’t look up. “I am aware, but she’ll thank me later.”

From the corner, Elias sipped his coffee and tried to disappear into the wallpaper. Ever since ascending the throne, he’d become a magnet for unsolicited advice—especially from his mother, who had taken to leaving folded notes on his desk labeled with things such as Suggestions for a More Regal Bearing. Veronica had found one last week and nearly choked on her laughter. Until she found several about heirs. Not so funny then, to either her or Elias. They were still practically newlyweds, the ascension to their roles as king and queen consort were still fresh, and at twenty-five and twenty-three neither he nor her had any mind for babies yet. They were enjoying being a young couple too much. Both learned quickly that arguing these facts with the former queen was pointless and best avoided altogether.

Veronica’s parents King Maximilian and Queen Aria Grace Cromwell of Henfordshire were visiting, fresh off the wedding of Max’ sister Genevieve to her second husband, both of them widowed, and the palace was still buzzing with post-nuptial gossip.

“I have to wonder if someone is breathing down Aunt Genevieve’s neck about heirs,” Veronica said sweetly, settling beside Elias. “She’s in her fifties, and the good, sweet Comte Charles is older than the wine they served at the reception. The better hurry up with their family planning. What do you think, dear Ingrid?”

Maximilian and Aria Grace, seated nearby, both tried not to spit out their tea. AG’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, and Max turned his cough into a polite throat-clear. Ingrid, however, was not amused.

“I will ignore your insolence, attribute it to your youth and remind you that your aunt has already more than fulfilled her duty to deliver heirs to the kingdom she married into, as has the Comte, their marriage is rather for companionship as their previous partners have passed. Then I would like to remind you that requests for heirs are part of what happens when a young lady aspires to become queen and are not specific to the House of Gyllenborg but very much universal,” Ingrid said crisply. “Heirs are naturally expected. Modern times and changed attitude by society as a whole about timing and such things does not change the fact for us of noble birth. It would do you well to get started on heirs. Children don’t just happen overnight, you know. Sometimes conceiving takes proper dedication. And time. Best to start early, rather than wait until it may be too late.”

Veronica’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, no need to worry, Eli and I are very much dedicated to the subject itself, just not aiming for results yet. And I wouldn’t worry about my ability to conceive, as if you are, clearly you haven’t researched my maternal heritage well enough. Fertility issues are … let’s say, highly unlikely. On the contrary, avoiding pregnancies is usually the hard part.”

There was a pause—just long enough for Aria Grace to snort into her tea and for Max to glance at the ceiling like he was waiting for divine intervention to prevent him from bursting into laughter.

The Curse and the Crown

The Camerons, Veronica’s maternal clan, hailed from the mainland—loud, sprawling, and genetically predisposed to surprise pregnancies. The so-called Cameron Curse was less a myth and more a statistical inevitability. AG’s side of the family had roots in both San Myshuno and Del Sol Valley, which meant they spoke fast, dressed loud, and a lot of them had evidently treated birth control like a polite suggestion. The queen consort’s very extensive family tree and impressive number of first and second cousins spoke volumes to that fact.

The stories were as old as the Cameron lineage itself: for generations, surprise babies had marked the family tree like clockwork. Even AG was one of those so-called Cameron Curse conceptions. Her mother, Veronica’s grandmother Vivien, used to say, “If you’re a Cameron not on at least two forms of birth control, and you so much as sneeze near someone of the opposite sex—you’d better have a crib ready.”

Magnus, just entering with Emma—both flushed from a walk along the Nordhaven coastline and radiating a post-flirtation glow—raised an eyebrow. “Why the somber mood? Mother, have you been harassing my sweet sister-in-law about producing nieces and nephews?”

Emma gave a dry smile but said nothing.
Ingrid did.

“I am not in the habit of harassing anyone, my dear son, though I see insolence appears to be a hallmark of your generation. There is no debate to be had. Duty is duty, and that’s that. But our darling new queen seems to believe the future of the kingdom is best left to happenstance.”

Veronica leaned back, eyes twinkling. “No, what I said was that we’re just not ready to be parents yet—the operative term being not yet. We will have children. One day. We both want children—at least two, maybe even three. Just not tomorrow. And probably not next year, or the year after. There’s no rush. I’m twenty-three, for heaven’s sake, and frankly, I’m quite tired of reminding everyone of that.”

Ingrid looked like she’d bitten into a bitter plum. Sven muttered something about propriety and reached for his untouched tea.

Elias, ever the diplomat, stood and gestured toward the garden. “Perhaps a walk would do all of us well. Or, alternatively, a round of tall, stiff drinks.”

“Elias,” Sven said sharply, “a king does not indulge in day drinking—certainly not to wash away topics he finds inconvenient. Nor does he try to outrun them.”

Elias had risen but now sat back down, trading glances with Veronica.

The Counsel of Kings

Max leaned in and whispered to Aria Grace, “Why does this remind me of us at Veronica and Elias’s age?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Because evidently your parents and Eli’s time-traveled to the Middle Ages to attend the same boarding schools. Good grief. Your parents struck me as positively archaic when they put the proverbial guns to our heads about it decades ago. I cannot believe I’m sitting here hearing the same tune for our youngest daughter. I’m biting my tongue so hard, any harder and it’ll come off. Poor Vero.”

Max gave a quiet chuckle. “Well, it seems Eli and Vero have no trouble telling his parents to take a hike on the matter. I’ve always been a stickler for decorum—rules exist for a reason—but I’ll admit, watching them stand their ground does a father proud. They’re respectful, but firm. And that balance is not easy to strike, especially when the pressure’s coming from a crown.”

He paused, then added more soberly, “That said, I do understand the former queen’s concern. If she could wait a few years before pressing so hard, our daughter might be more inclined to honor the wish. Like she said, they want children—just not now. And I fully support our daughter’s decision. This rush—so soon after their wedding and ascension—feels rather ill-timed.”

He leaned back, voice dry. “Still, not my kingdom. Not my problem.”

“But your daughter,” Aria Grace countered.

“Our daughter,” he corrected gently. “Young, married, and now Queen Consort of a sovereign realm. She and Elias may have taken on their roles earlier than we did, but they hold the reins now. Equal in title, equal in duty. It’s no longer our place to interfere. We offer counsel, when asked. Beyond that, the crown is theirs to bear.”

He paused, then added with quiet amusement, “And thank heavens for that. One kingdom is quite enough for me to manage. Had I already been king back when we were pressured into having children at that age, I would have done the same as Elias—let my parents rant, but remain at a firm no until you and I felt ready. Ironic, too, that the one child we chose to create is now the one choosing as well. Maybe early ascension to the throne does have its benefits.”

He glanced toward the window, where the sea glinted beyond the palace grounds. “Watching Elias and Veronica handle themselves with such poise—it does make me think. William’s already thirty-one, father of two, and has been managing royal duties with grace since he was younger than Eli is now. Perhaps it’s time we consider moving up the timeline. Let him take the crown while we’re still here to guide him, not after we’re gone. He’s ready. Has been for some time. And think of it, queen of my heart, we could enjoy retirement as youthful and fit as we are. Travel, without a care in the world.”

Aria Grace gave him a look—gentle, but firm. “Max, you know it’s too soon for poor Will and Mina. Two little ones is more than enough to keep them busy. And you’ve seen how involved they are. They’re not the kind of royals who hand off parenting to the staff. Not like I was forced to with Will and Victoria.”

She smiled faintly. “Let’s not pile a coronation on top of that until both of their children are in school. Let them have this moment with their babies while they are still young, children grow so damn fast.”

The Windswept Bride

While Maximilian and Aria Grace were quietly talking amongst themselves, Ingrid’s gaze landed on Magnus and Emma, and her expression soured instantly. Emma’s braid had come partially undone, and Magnus’s collar was askew—both looked flushed and far too pleased with themselves.

“You are royalty,” Ingrid said, her voice laced with icy sarcasm. “Not hormonal teenagers discovering the thrill of privacy behind a hedge.”

She strode over to Magnus and gave his collar a sharp tug, straightening it with the same precision one might use to adjust a crooked portrait. Without missing a beat, she called over her shoulder, “Could someone please see to Lady Emma’s hair? Preferably before the press mistakes her for a windswept stable girl.”

She gave them a once-over, then sighed dramatically. “One might hope the second in line to the throne would conduct himself with a touch more decorum. But perhaps I’m asking too much—after all, your brother is still playing house with his charming bride and insists they’re ‘not ready’ for children. Heaven forbid the monarchy interfere with their self-discovery phase.”

She turned, muttering just loud enough to be heard, “At this rate, I’ll be dust before there’s a proper heir.”

A palace attendant had quietly beckoned Emma to sit, gesturing with a soft smile and a discreet comb already in hand. Emma obliged, albeit stiffly, settling into the chair with the air of someone bracing for a dental procedure. The attendant began fidgeting with her braid, gently smoothing windblown strands with practiced care.

Ingrid glanced sideways and raised a hand. “Please—someone have the cleaning staff on standby. We do not want hair everywhere. It’s a royal estate, not a salon.”

A second staffer appeared nearby, discreetly wheeling in a compact, near-silent vacuum, as if summoned by royal instinct.

Veronica arched a brow, her tone light but unmistakably pointed. “I don’t understand why you seem so upset, dear Ingrid. Perhaps Magnus and Emma have made a proactive start on the succession line.”

Magnus and Emma’s eyes darted to Veronica. Emma instinctively pulled away from the attendant’s hands, murmuring a quick, “Sorry,” as she turned her head. The royal groomer just smiled and started over, clearly used to reluctant clients. Emma tried to sit still, though her discomfort was palpable. Both she and Magnus blushed.

Ingrid looked like she’d swallowed a lemon.

“Oh, they’d better not,” she said, arching a brow with practiced poise. “Can you even imagine the talk? A royal heir of House Gyllenborg created out of wedlock? That would be a scandal of the highest order. And if—heaven forbid—that were actually the case, I’d demand a wedding immediately. No hesitation.”

The Seating War

She dismissed the idea with a subtle shake of her head, her voice shifting to businesslike calm. “Anyway, let’s move on to something more constructive. Emma, I’ve reviewed the seating chart. Your family will be near the Henfordshire delegation—except your sister, obviously. Optics matter. They need to be seen together, as is fitting. I’m thinking just behind the von Ahrensbergs, but not too close. The rank difference is significant, and we don’t want to stir unnecessary chatter.”

Emma stood, gently thanking and dismissing the attendant with a quiet nod before stepping forward. Her voice was calm but resolute. “I’m sorry—did I hear that correctly? The von Ahrensbergs are my sister and her family. That includes the King of Windenburg and their children. They’re not just ‘stations.’ I understand the rules of aristocracy, truly I do. But Helena is my sister, and I’d like her to sit with our mother, our brother, and their families. I respect tradition, and I understand that Magnus and I will be at the bridal table—that’s absolutely fine. But my family should be together. All of them. I’ve already made the adjustment.”

Ingrid’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And I’ve reversed it. Tradition takes precedence, my dear. Your family may socialize freely before and after the ceremony, but not during. Public seating is a statement. Best learn that now, if you intend to become consort to a royal prince.”

“So does emotional realism,” Emma replied, her tone cool and unwavering. “This isn’t just a royal event. It’s a marriage. My marriage. Helena is my sister. You can seat her husband wherever you like—if Alex lets you, which I seriously doubt—but my sister sits near our brother and our mother. That’s not negotiable.”

Elias glanced between them and sighed. “Perhaps we should all take a walk.”

“Yeah, a long walk off a short pier…” Magnus muttered, uncorking a bottle of bourbon and pouring himself a generous glass.

Before it reached his lips, Ingrid snatched it from him with a sharp glare and a silent shake of her head. She held the glass aloft, inspecting it like it had personally offended her. “You are not about to get drunk in front of Queen Aria Grace and King Maximilian. Veronica’s parents are from Henfordshire, not the back alleys of a tavern, and they are not here to watch the current second in line to the Nordhaven throne make a spectacle of himself. Behave accordingly. Your brother is king now, your father dedicates himself to gardening like a monk with seemingly no care in the world, and I appear to be the last sane adult in this family—though that status is rapidly deteriorating if things don’t improve.”

Ingrid took a sip herself, then set the glass down with regal finality. “If anyone’s drinking before noon, it’s me. I have earned the right.”

The Henfordshire Haven

Across the room, Maximilian inclined his head toward his wife, lowering his voice to a murmur. His tone was dry, deliberate—laced with the kind of restraint that came from decades of diplomacy. “I confess, I always imagined this sort of familial spectacle would be rather amusing viewed from a distance. In truth, it merely reminds me of being twenty-five again—utterly beholden to my parents and their archaic expectations.”

Queen Aria Grace didn’t miss a beat. Her tone was dry, her mainland accent cutting through the hushed tension like a blade. “That’s putting it mildly, and it does the opposite to me. I have to keep reminding myself I’m fifty and queen consort to the king of the esteemed House of Cromwell of Henfordshire, or I’d remember my commoner roots and start throwing down with good old Ingrid. Maybe she should join her husband and take up gardening—or any other hobby that keeps her from riding those poor young kids’ backs. Jeeze Louise, let them live their lives and be in love.”

Max allowed himself a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “And you believed my parents were the intense ones… may they both rest in peace.”

AG rolled her eyes, but her smile was fond. “Your parents were intense. Which is why I feel for the younger generation. Poor boys—and even more so the girls. Veronica already fled to us once because of this premature baby demands nonsense.”

Max’s expression softened. “That’s the beauty of it, queen of my heart. Veronica knew precisely where to turn—home, to us. And the fact that her husband followed nearly immediately, and they stayed a full fortnight? I dare call that a parental success story. We’re a safe haven, my rose.”

AG reached for his hand beneath the table, squeezing it gently. “Well, when you’re right, you’re right. Wondering where poor Magnus and Emma are gonna flee to, cos I am sure they are gonna want to before long.”

Fog and Footsteps

Henford-on-Bagley slept beneath a blanket of fog.

The cobblestone streets shimmered with dew, and the old gas lamps cast soft golden halos through the mist. It was the kind of night that felt suspended in time—quiet, watchful, holding its breath.

A lone figure moved through the alleyways, wrapped in a dark coat, a black scarf pulled high to obscure the lower half of his face. He kept to the shadows, slipping past shuttered windows and ivy-choked fences until he reached a narrow gate nestled between two hedges.

It groaned softly as he pushed it open.

Up the steps—three knocks. One. Then two quick raps. Then again, louder, more urgent.

A light flickered on upstairs. A window creaked open. A tousled blonde head appeared, eyes wide and sleep-blurred.

“What?! It’s the middle of the night!”

“Open up. It’s me,” he called up , just loud enough to reach her ears, careful not to wake the street.

She froze, then leaned out her voice laced with disbelief. “Mags?!”

“Let me inside!” he whisper-yelled, glancing over his shoulder.

The window slammed shut. A beat later, the door flew open.

Emma stood barefoot in a sleep shirt, blinking against the cold, her breath visible in the night air. Her expression was a mix of confusion, concern, and something else—relief.

He pushed past her, slammed the door shut and kissed her like he’d been holding his breath for hours, and didn’t stop until she gasped against his mouth.

“Magnus—what are you doing here? Where are your guards?”

“Back in Nordhaven,” he said, shrugging off his coat. “I snuck out.”

“You snuck out? From Nordhaven? How in the world does someone sneak across continents?!”

He shrugged, nodding, breathless. “Called in the old pilot. Captain Olsson. He thought I was joking when I showed up alone at the airstrip. Said he hadn’t flown without a royal security detail since my father was my age.”

Emma blinked. “And he flew you here anyway?”

“He said, ‘Well, Your Highness, who am I to stand in the way of young love, but if we get in trouble for it, I’m blaming you.’” Magnus grinned. “We landed on the municipal airfield; I took a cab to downtown and walked the rest of the way.”

Emma stared at him, heart thudding. “You are crazy. And it’s your birthday tomorrow.”

He glanced at his wristwatch, then smiled. “Today. I’m twenty-three now. I didn’t want to spend it with linen swatches and heir talk. I wanted this. You. Now. Let me unwrap my gift, I came a long way for it.”

They ended up in her bed, tangled in sheets and laughter, the dawn cracking through the curtains like a promise. His fingers traced the curve of her shoulder, her cheek, the line of her smile.

Then the phone rang.

His mobile, buzzing on the floor. Over and over again. Then hers. Then the house phone—shrill, insistent.

Emma groaned. “They’ve noticed.”

Magnus buried his face in her neck. “Let them panic. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

She kissed his temple. “You’re going to cause a diplomatic incident.”

“Worth it.”

The house phone rang again. Emma reached for it, paused, then let it ring. Oh, whatever …

Outside, the town began to stir—chimneys puffing smoke, milk bottles clinking on doorsteps, and the first rustle of morning. Henford-on-Bagley had high-speed internet in every household, smart thermostats humming quietly behind stone walls, and grocery deliveries arriving via app. But somehow, time still moved slower here. The residents clung to the rhythm of days gone by—handwritten notes, milk deliveries in glass bottles from local farms, garden gossip, century old recipes being treated like state secrets and the comforting clatter of kettle lids.

Inside, Magnus and Emma lay in the quiet, wrapped in warmth and rebellion.

Then came the knock.
Not gentle. Not rhythmic.
A pounding—urgent, unmistakable.

The Knock at the Door

Emma sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. “Oh no. That can’t be good.”

Magnus was already reaching for his coat, muttering under his breath. “Bloody perfect timing.”

She followed him anyway, barefoot and breathless, wrapping her robe tightly around herself, heart hammering against her ribs.

At the door stood two men in dark suits—one older, one younger, both with the unmistakable bearing of royal security. Behind them, a sleek black car idled with a third man behind the wheel, its headlights slicing through the fog like searchlights, the engine purring like a threat.

“Your Highness,” said the older man, voice clipped and cold. “You are required to return to Nordhaven immediately.”

Magnus didn’t flinch. He pulled the coat tighter around himself, jaw clenched. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had breakfast, a shower, and trousers. Preferably in that order.”

The younger man stepped forward, urgency tightening his jaw. “Sir, the Queen Emerita has declared a state of internal emergency. Your absence has triggered a full lockdown at Iverstad Castle, Eldvik Hall, and Silverfjaell Hall, in absentia.”

Emma gasped. “She what?”

Magnus exhaled slowly, visibly trying to keep his composure. “It’s my birthday,” he said, voice low but sharp. “I wanted to spend it privately with the woman I love—not being hunted down by palace watchdogs. And just so we’re clear, I’m wearing nothing under this coat. So unless you’d like to explain to the press why the second in line to the throne of Nordhaven was dragged half-naked from a private residence, I suggest you give me ten minutes and some damn dignity.”

His jaw clenched tighter. “Full lockdown. Brilliant. I’m going to get an earful from my brother and Veronica now too. Splendid.”

“She’s very upset and… distraught,” the older man replied, with the tone of someone trying not to say unhinged. “She also declared that if you don’t return within the hour, she’s prepared to summon the Council.”

Magnus barked a bitter laugh. “Of course she did. Because nothing says ‘happy birthday’ like a constitutional crisis.”

Emma turned to him, eyes wide. “Magnus… what does this even mean?”

He cupped her face gently, his voice low. “Nothing good. But don’t worry, I’ll fix this right away. I’ll call her. You two—stand down.”

But even as he kissed Emma, the weight of the crown pressed in—unseen, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. The door was shut, the security detail waited outside while Magnus stood at the edge of Emma’s kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight.

The Call to the Crown

“Mother,” he said, voice low but firm. “It’s my birthday. I wish to spend it with the woman I love. I am not a child—I’m a grown man…”

Her voice came sharp and regal through the line, slicing through his words. “This is a state occasion, Magnus. You are not some university graduate gallivanting through Henford-on-Bagley. You are a royal prince of Nordhaven. Royalty from three kingdoms are en route. Every house that matters has sent their delegation. You will return at once.”

“For heaven’s sake, I didn’t ask for any of that.”

“You didn’t need to. You are a prince. This is your first birthday home after university—it marks a rite of passage. You are engaged. Bring Emma, then, but get back immediately. You don’t get to vanish on the eve of your birthday and leave your family scrambling. I highly doubt that would be remotely acceptable even by commoner standards.”

“I didn’t vanish. I traveled. Alone. For once.”

“That we will have another talk about,” she snapped. “Do you not understand how dangerous that is? Until your brother produces heirs, you are second in line to the throne. Do you not see the significance?”

She didn’t wait for a reply. “You needn’t bother with the pilot. Captain Olsson has been summoned back to Nordhaven and received detailed instructions to avoid this in future. The House of Cromwell has graciously offered you passage with their delegation. They depart Henfordshire within the hour. You will join them. Bring Emma. I will ensure she has proper attire waiting and the styling staff will be on standby.”

Magnus exhaled, long and slow. “Fine.”

He hung up and turned to Emma, who was now perched on the edge of the counter, watching him with wary eyes.

The Invitation Reframed

“Are you working today?”

“No,” she said slowly. “I was supposed to grade papers for one of the profs.”

“Postponed,” he said, stepping closer. “Pack a bag.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because you’re coming with me. To my surprise birthday party. Which is apparently a state affair.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Mags, I was invited. I said no. I have students prepping for finals. That’s my job right now, help prepare the next generation of doctors. I can’t just take a vacation whenever I like. And truthfully, I really don’t want to be part of yet another royal event. We just got back from Willow Creek for that wedding. I was so uncomfortable. I felt like an imposter.”

Magnus reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ll have to get used to it. You’re my fiancée. And you’re attending my birthday—not as a guest, but as my guest.”

His smile was quiet, but sure. “This isn’t a formal summons—it’s me asking. Personally. And I’m afraid you can’t say no to the birthday boy who may or may not have triggered a minor diplomatic stir just to see you.”

Arrival and Awe

Silverfjaell Hall shimmered like something out of a dream.

Seated on the edge of the fjord, its spires caught the late afternoon sun, casting long shadows over manicured gardens and marble terraces. The estate was older than the monarchy itself, built of pale stone and crowned with silver rooftops that gleamed like frost against the sky.

Guests arrived in waves—carriages, motorcades, and private jets. The House of Cromwell descended in full regalia, their emerald sashes and gold brocade catching every eye. The Montfort-Yateses brought their signature flair, with Baroness Clara in a gown that looked spun from moonlight. The von Ahrensbergs, ever elegant, arrived with Queen Consort Helena and King Alexander arm-in-arm, their children trailing behind like ducklings in tailored coats herded by nannies.

Music floated through the air—strings and soft jazz, then a burst of folk drums from the Iverstad ensemble. Laughter echoed from the garden, where children chased bubbles and nobles sipped champagne beneath the wisteria.

Emma stood at the edge of it all, dressed in a deep sapphire gown borrowed from Veronica’s closet, her hair swept up in soft waves. She looked radiant. Slightly overwhelmed. Entirely out of place—and yet, somehow, exactly where she belonged.

Or so she told herself.

The moment they entered the hall, the shift was palpable. Eyes followed her—not with curiosity, but calculation. Whispers trailed behind her like perfume. She was seven years older than Magnus, not of royal blood, and clearly not Queen Ingrid’s first—or second, or third—choice.

Magnus found her near the rose arbor, took her hand, and led her through the hedges to a quiet corner of the yard where the fjord met the cliffside.

“I used to come here as a kid,” he said, voice soft. “When the palace got too loud, I would steal away run all the way out there by myself and sit here for hours, just listening to the water, until palace security found me and dragged me back. We usually spent the summers in this house because it’s close to the water and downtown.”

Emma smiled. “It’s very beautiful here. Peaceful when you want it, but just a brief trip from the hustle and bustle downtown if you need it. Very lovely.”

He turned to her, eyes searching. “So are you.”

She laughed, but he didn’t.

“I mean it,” he said. “I know this world is insane. I know my life can be a circus and also a parade of obligations. But when I’m with you, it feels like mine again. It makes sense.”

She swallowed. “Magnus…”

“I want you to move in with me,” he said, stepping closer. “Not just for the summer. Not after the wedding. That is about two years out. I want you in my life. In my home. In my mornings. I want to wake up next to you every day. Now.”

Emma blinked, heart racing. “That’s not exactly a small ask. I have a life too, you know.”

“I know. But I’m not asking small. I’m asking real.”

He kissed her then—slow, deliberate, full of everything he couldn’t say in front of the cameras and courtiers. And when they pulled apart, the world felt quieter.

But only for a moment.

They both knew they had to return. It was his party, after all—and the guest of honor couldn’t vanish while dignitaries and old family allies waited, some having traveled great distances just to be seen.

The Parade of Possibilities

Inside the ballroom, the gala was in full swing. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, casting rainbows across the marble floor. A string quartet played near the grand staircase, and waiters glided through the crowd with trays of caviar and champagne.

Queen Ingrid stood near the dais, flanked by her closest advisors and a rotating cast of aristocratic hopefuls. She wore a gown of midnight velvet and diamonds, her posture regal, her gaze sharp.

Emma watched from the edge of the room as Ingrid beckoned Magnus over, her smile tight. “Darling,” she said, loud enough for those nearby to hear, “you must meet Lady Celeste of Arvenmere. She’s just returned from her studies in Vienna. Speaks five languages. Rides like a Valkyrie.”

Celeste, impossibly young and impossibly blonde, curtsied with a practiced grace and offered Magnus a smile that lingered just a beat too long.

“And this is Lady Phillipa of Daventhon,” Ingrid continued, gesturing to a tall brunette in a gown that clung like scandal. “She’s been asking after you since last year’s regatta.”

Magnus offered polite nods, but Emma saw the flicker of discomfort in his eyes. It didn’t matter. The message was clear.

The introductions continued—Lady Eleanor, Lady Caroline, Duchess Sabine—all daughters of dukes and counts, all within a whisper of his age, all groomed for this moment.

Emma felt her stomach twist. She turned toward the stairs, there were people gathered, engaged in quiet conversations even here, so she turned towards the empty balcony, needing air, needing space, needing to not cry in front of a room full of people who would relish it.

Behind her, laughter rang out—one of them had touched Magnus’s arm. Eleanor leaned in too close. Ingrid watched it all with the satisfaction of a chess master setting her pieces.

Emma gripped the railing, staring out at the fjord. The water was calm. Her heart was not.

She didn’t belong here. Not really. Not in this world of titles and bloodlines and curated futures.

And yet—he had chosen her.

But for how long?

The gala had begun to wind down. The music softened, the champagne dulled, and the guests began to drift toward the lounges and balconies, their laughter echoing through the marble halls like fading fireworks.

Moonlight and Truth

Emma had retreated to the balcony; a quiet place filled with orchids and moonlight. She needed space. Air. Silence. But she wasn’t alone for long.

Queen Ingrid entered with the grace of someone who had never once hurried in her life. Her gown whispered against the floor, her diamonds catching the moonlight like frost. She didn’t speak immediately—just walked to the edge of the balcony and gazed out at the garden beyond.

“I thought I might find you here,” she said at last, her voice calm, almost gentle.

Emma turned, spine straightening. “Did you?”

Ingrid nodded. “It’s where I used to come when I was newly married. I found the palace overwhelming. The expectations. The eyes. I would sit here and pretend I was anywhere else.”

Emma hesitated. “I didn’t think you ever felt overwhelmed.”

“Oh, I did,” Ingrid said, turning to face her. “I just learned very quickly that no one cared.”

A beat passed between them. Then Emma spoke, her voice low but steady. “Are you in need of a break from introducing Magnus to every eligible young woman here tonight? Must be exhausting.”

Ingrid didn’t flinch. “I introduced him to guests of the crown.”

“Guests who were all young, female, titled—and very clearly interested in him.”

“They were interested in the future of Nordhaven,” Ingrid replied. “As they should be.”

Emma stepped forward. “He’s engaged. To me.”

“Yes,” Ingrid said. “He is.”

Emma’s jaw tightened. “So why parade eligible women in front of him like he’s still on the market?”

Ingrid’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened. “Because engagement is not marriage. It’s a promise, not permanence. You know that as well as I do.”

Emma’s breath caught. “So, you’re hoping he’ll change his mind.”

“I’m hoping he’ll consider all angles,” Ingrid said. “That’s what a royal must do. Even if he’s not heir to the crown, he is heir to the name. And that means he must be sure of his choices. We are not commoners. We don’t date on whims and foolish ideas. And we don’t marry lightly—because divorce, in our world, is still not just frowned upon. It’s a permanent stain on a name. And must be avoided at all costs.”

She paused, then added, “I know you think me cruel. Over the past century, war, famine, and unwise matchmaking have thinned out the Gyllenborg line more than we care to admit. Sven is the last of his generation. And now, it’s just the two of them—our sons. That’s all we were allotted.”

Emma blinked. “You wanted more children?”

“I did,” Ingrid said quietly. “We were blessed—not just one, but two healthy sons. But secretly, I hoped for a daughter. Maybe two. It wasn’t in the stars.”

She paused, her voice thinning. “Sven and I waited too long. We were cautious, strategic. We thought twenty-nine was the perfect age to start a family. Like you, I thought it was still young. But then you blink… and it’s not.”

Her gaze drifted. “We struggled to conceive for years with each child. And when we finally did, the pregnancies were hard—both boys nearly took everything from me. Magnus especially. We almost lost him.” Her voice caught, just briefly. “That’s why I hold him close. Maybe too close.”

She looked back at Emma. “After that, there were losses. Quiet ones. Ones we didn’t speak of. Until our hearts couldn’t bear another.”

“So when I caution your age, it’s not cruelty. It’s memory. I’ve lived it.”

Emma’s voice was calm, but firm. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Truly. I can only image the heartbreak. But with all due respect, Your Majesty—I’m a doctor. I understand fertility better than most. I know the risks. But I also know the possibilities.”

She met Ingrid’s gaze without flinching. “Medicine has come a long way in twenty years. You don’t need to lecture me. And you certainly don’t need to replace me just because you fear my childbearing days are behind me—at not even thirty.”

Her voice softened, but her conviction held. “There’s more to what makes a good partner than fertility. Even for royals. I would hope you know that better than anyone.”

She let the silence settle, then added, almost offhand, “And for what it’s worth—I’m very much in tune with my own body. And my fertility.”

“I’m not lecturing,” Ingrid said. “I’m warning. Because I’ve seen firsthand what happens when one assumes they’re immune to biology. My elder son and his wife push back every time I remind them to start building the next generation. Magnus won’t take it seriously either. But time doesn’t wait for sentiment.”

Emma stared at her. “You think I’m a risk.”

“I think you’re a reality,” Ingrid said. “And reality is harder to manage than fantasy.”

Emma’s voice trembled. “You think I’m too old.”

“I think time is not on your side,” Ingrid said, not unkindly. “And I think you know that.”

Silence fell. The orchids on a credenza inside swayed gently in the breeze from the open window.

“I love him,” Emma said finally.

“I know,” Ingrid replied. “And he loves you. That is clear. I haven’t a single shadow of a doubt about it. But love is not always enough. Not in our world.”

Emma turned away, blinking hard. “Then maybe your world needs to change.”

Ingrid’s voice softened. “It is changing. Slowly. Painfully. But it is. And you are part of that change, whether I like it or not.”

Emma looked back at her. “Do you want me to leave him?”

“No,” Ingrid said. “I want you to understand what you’re walking into. And I want you to be honest—with him, and with yourself.”

She paused, then added, “Because if you stay, you will be scrutinized. Judged. And if you falter, they will not blame him. They will blame you.”

Emma nodded, her throat tight. “I already know.”

Ingrid studied her for a long moment. Then, with a nod that felt almost like a bow, she turned and left the balcony, her footsteps fading into the marble silence.

Emma stood alone, surrounded by orchids and moonlight, her heart aching with the weight of truth.

To be continued ...