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  The sun loomed high above the half-built arch of Jerusalem’s new stone bridge, casting gold over laborers and scaffolds. The sound of chisels echoed through the canyon, rhythmic and steady, a testament to months of effort carved into stone. Baldwin stood atop the temporary platform overlooking the construction site, robes gathered at his ankles, crownless for practicality’s sake, but no less regal. Beside him stood Tiberias, his trusted advisor, arms crossed and gaze sharp.

  His royal cloak fluttered against the wind as he and Tiberias observed the laborers hauling stone and timber, their voices mixing with the distant roar of the river below. Dust swirled in the air as masons shaped the final arches, while engineers stood with their wooden scrolls, calculating the precise moment the bridge would be safe to bear weight.

  “How long until it bears the weight of a thousand men?” Baldwin asked, eyes tracing the mortar lines.

  “The architect says before the winter rains return,” replied the man they spoke with—a governor of the province, robed in white linen stained with clay from the site.

  “Good,” Baldwin murmured. “this road will carry more than soldiers. It will carry peace.”

  Just as Tiberias was about to comment on the ironwork below, a sudden cry cut through the air.

  “Your Grace!!”

  They turned. A figure dashed across the dusty path, stumbling slightly as she ran—Amara. Her dress, once white, was smeared with mud, her braid undone, cheeks flushed from exertion and panic.

  “Your Grace—!” She reached them, panting, her voice broken by the sprint. “T-the queen—s-she—she fainted!”

  Baldwin’s blood froze. Without pause, he turned on his heel. “Bring the horses,” he commanded, already moving. “now.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

  By the time the palace gates loomed ahead, Baldwin was no longer the king of public poise. His gloves were gone, hair windswept from the ride, face pale beneath the sun. As he entered the royal chambers, the scent of lavender greeted him—Hyacintha’s favorite—but it did not soothe him.

  She lay in the grand bed, her figure still and porcelain-pale against the silken sheets, dark curls spilling across the pillows. A physician stood at her side, having just completed his examination, and now looked to Baldwin with careful measure.

  She was alive.

  The palace physician, an elderly man with wise, observant eyes, stepped away from her side as Baldwin approached. He bowed low before speaking.

  “Your Grace,” the physician began, his voice solemn yet carrying something else—something almost …  joyful. “The Queen is not ill.”

  Baldwin’s brow furrowed, his throat tightening. “Then why did she collapse?”

  The physician’s lips curved into a faint smile.

  “Because, Your Highness … she is with child.”

  The air itself seemed to shatter.

  Baldwin froze, the words crashing over him with the force of a thousand storms. His mind reeled. His heart pounded.

  Hyacintha … was pregnant.

  A child. Their child.

  The physician continued, completely unaware of the silent chaos within Baldwin’s soul. “Her body is merely adjusting, Your Majesty. She is otherwise healthy. I even felt the child’s movements—the feet and fists are strong.”