Queen Maye arrived at her son's chamber with fury still simmering beneath her skin. She did not knock. She did not announce herself. She simply pushed the door open with sharp force and stepped inside as though the room, like everything else in the castle, belonged entirely to her will.
She stopped short.
Books—dozens of them—were scattered across the floor in uneven stacks. Some lay open, their pages marked with loose parchment. Others were piled carelessly beside the bed and along the walls, forming a chaotic circle around the figure seated at the center.
Henry.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back resting lightly against the side of his bed, a thick book open in his hands. His head was buried deep within its pages, brows slightly furrowed in concentration.
For a fleeting second, surprise softened her expression.
Then she noticed the bandage wrapped firmly around his leg.
