Clara

The night is thick and oppressive as you slip through the shadows of the lower ward, the familiar smell of charcoal and cooling iron guiding you to the blacksmith's quarters. Leaving your horse tied a street away, you approach the modest timber building attached to the forge. The heavy wooden door is unlatched, a careless oversight for a commoner, but a welcoming invitation for a prince. You push it open with a silent, practiced ease and step into the dim interior.

Clara is sitting by the dying embers of the hearth, a single candle illuminating the sharp angles of her face and the loose, damp curls of her hair. She jumps at the sound of the latch clicking into place, her hand flying to her throat as her dark eyes widen in the darkness. When her gaze lands on your rich wool cloak and the unmistakable posture of nobility, her breath catches. She is utterly surprised that you even notice her, a mere blacksmith's wife, standing in her humble home in the middle of the night.

"Your Highness," she whispers, her voice trembling as she rises from her stool, unsure whether to bow or flee. "What... why are you here? It is past midnight. If you require ironwork, the forge is closed until dawn."

"I am not here for iron, Clara," you say, your voice low and steady as you step further into the room, letting the heavy cloak slide from your shoulders onto a nearby bench. You scan the quiet room, noting the absence of the heavy, snoring presence that usually occupies the corner bed. "Your husband is not home."

She blinks, a defensive stiffness invading her shoulders. "He... he is away on business. He had to deliver horseshoes to the livery stable near the south gate. He should return at any moment."

A cold, knowing smile touches your lips. "He is not at the livery, Clara. You are here alone because your husband isn't home, and he won't be for hours. I passed the dockside brothels on my way here. Your blacksmith is currently spending his hard-earned coin to bury himself in the flesh of a common whore. He is not thinking of you, nor is he on his way back."

The lie, or perhaps the brutal truth, hits her like a physical blow. Her lips part, a flash of hurt and humiliation crossing her features before she can mask it with anger. Before she can find her voice to argue, you close the distance between you, your long strides eating up the space until you are looming over her. You don't give her the chance to retreat. You reach out, your fingers gripping the back of her neck, and pull her face up to meet yours. Your lips crash against hers in a hard, possessive kiss that tastes of ash and sudden fire.

She twists her head violently, breaking the contact, her hands pushing against your chest with genuine panic. "No! Your Highness, please," she protests, her voice a ragged hiss as she looks toward the shuttered windows. "I am married. I am a wedded woman before God and the church. You cannot do this."