England held its breath. The king had two sons: one sickly, fading fast... and another, young Henry, spoken of only in whispers. Power hung by a thread. And families like the Boleyns? They sharpened their ambitions into blades.
Thomas Boleyn and his brother Gilbert understood one truth: visibility meant power. While their tenants froze and starved, the brothers threw lavish parties, imported the finest musicians, and drowned the court in displays of wealth.
Thomas had three children. Each one a carefully crafted weapon.
**Anne—15.** Dark hair, green eyes, terrifyingly clever. She could read a room better than most diplomats and wielded charm like a second language.
**Philip—14.** Golden-haired and effortlessly charismatic. Too lazy to be a warrior, too clever to need to be one. He lived for laughter, wine, and late-night schemes with his sister.
**Marie—12.** Ginger curls, soft green eyes, tender heart. Far too gentle for the vicious world she'd been born into. She preferred poetry to politics, flowers to gossip. Her mother's daughter, through and through.
---
The New Year's Eve gathering was the event of the season. Silks swirled, viols hummed, and the Boleyn name floated on every whispered conversation.
Anne commanded the great hall. Philip matched her drink for drink, wit for wit. Together, they were spectacular.
Marie? She slipped away to the gardens. Listened to a poet by the fountain. Wandered to her roses, the only honest place she knew.
That's when her cousin Matthew found her.
"Show me the flowers in the maze?" Soft voice. Pleasant smile.
She had no reason to refuse. She trusted him. She trusted everyone.
They walked deeper into the hedges. The party noise faded. And when no one could see them, Matthew changed. Grabbed her wrist. Shoved her against the hedge. Tried to kiss her. When she turned away, trembling, his hands moved to her breasts.
"Matthew...stop...*please*—"
He didn't.
**Footsteps.**
Three men appeared at the path's end. Two in deep blue uniforms trimmed with gold. Foreign. Italian, maybe. Swords at their sides.
Between them walked a boy about Matthew's age. Fifteen, sixteen at most. Unnervingly beautiful, dark hair, winter-blue eyes. Black uniform, finer than the soldiers'. A golden sigil on his back: an eagle clutching a single blue rose.
Despite his youth, he moved like a seasoned warrior. His voice was calm, commanding, tinged with an accent that made Marie's heart skip.
"Are you harmed, my lady?"
Marie managed a shaky nod. Couldn't speak.
Matthew stepped forward, flushed. "This is family business—"
One soldier snapped, "My lord wasn't addressing you."
Matthew scoffed. "You think fancy uniforms—"
The dark-haired boy ignored him completely. Took Marie's wrist, the one Matthew had twisted, and examined it with a frown.
"You should be quiet," he said without looking at Matthew. "Your crime speaks loud enough."
Matthew's face reddened. He stepped forward. A soldier's hand went to his sword
The boy raised one hand. The soldier froze.
Then those blue eyes locked on Matthew. "We're emissaries. Your king invited us. To insult us is to insult the Crown."A pause. "Treason's a bold choice for someone with everything to lose."
Matthew spat—literally—on the boy's shoe. "Italian scum."
Then he stormed off, humiliated and furious.
The blue-eyed boy just watched him go.
Marie burst into tears. "I'm sorry—I didn't—"
"You have nothing to apologize for." His voice softened in a way she'd never heard from a noble. He took her elbow gently, led her through the maze, spoke of harmless things. The crisp air. The music. The stars.
Slowly, Marie calmed. Even giggled once. He was composed. Gentle. Safe.
At the maze's end, he paused. Lifted her hand. Pressed a slow, formal kiss to her knuckles.
Marie's breath caught. "Your name?"
He stepped back into shadow, gold sigil gleaming. "We'll meet again. When we do... I'll answer."
Then he vanished into the night.
Marie stood frozen, flushed, shaken, enchanted, with no idea how that moment would change everything.
---
Marie never told anyone about the labyrinth. But she never forgot him either. The black hair. The winter-blue eyes. The mysterious sigil.
Years passed. She searched for it but found nothing. The only similar one belonged to the King of Italy—two roses. His had one. And his rose was blue, not red.
The Boleyn children grew up. Each shaped by ambition, pressure, and their father's relentless expectations.
King Henry VII died. Young Henry VIII rose to power, tall, broad-shouldered, indulgent, charming, and famously hungry for everything. The court exploded with celebration.
Anne Boleyn's debut. And everyone felt it.
She entered Whitehall like she owned it. Eighteen now. Magnetic. Dangerous.
Her dark hair cascaded in waves like spilled ink on silk. Her eyes, deep, intelligent, smoldering, held cunning wisdom. There was something feline about her gaze. Something that promised both secrets and danger.
Her lips were full, expressive, curved in a perpetual half-smile that said *I know exactly what you're thinking*. Pale skin highlighted sharp cheekbones and an elegant jaw.
Her figure? A Renaissance masterpiece. Slender but impossibly curved, generous bosom, narrow waist, hips that swayed with hypnotic grace. When she moved, it was pure confidence. Pure power.
Her smile was calculated. Her wit had teeth.
Philip, seventeen now, had grown into his intelligence. He drank to listen. Flirted to gather secrets. Made sure every important gaze fell on Anne.
Marie, fifteen, stayed in the shadows. Crowds exhausted her. Attention even more so.
But she couldn't hide her beauty.
Voluminous ginger curls cascaded past her shoulders like liquid fire, catching candlelight and transforming it to warmth. Her face was ethereal, soft, achingly innocent. Luminous green eyes, wide and trusting. When she smiled, dimples appeared and her whole face lit up with guileless joy.
Her lips were naturally rose-pink, full, impossibly soft-looking. Unconsciously inviting.
Where Anne was sharp and feline, Marie was rounded and lush. More curvaceous, generous hips, tiny waist, a figure that made men forget themselves. But unlike Anne, Marie had no idea of her effect. She moved with natural, unpractised grace.
There was an innocence about her that glowed. Warm. Inviting. Pure.
She was devastatingly beautiful in a way that made men lose their minds and manners.
---
Trumpets announced the new king. Henry entered with boyish arrogance, young, fit, hungry. Laughing loudly, grinning wide.
He noticed Anne. But when his eyes hit Marie? They lingered.
Marie lowered her chin, flushing. Felt exposed. Trapped.
The queen noticed too. Jaw tight. Hands clenched.
Introductions followed. Gilbert presented his son Matthew, now an officer. Thomas introduced Anne, newly appointed lady-in-waiting. The queen's smile was brittle. She'd seen Henry's hungry look.
Matthew tried edging toward Marie. She evaded him expertly, slipping behind relatives, shifting seats, pretending not to hear. She'd learned.
The hall quieted.
Soldiers marched in. Mediterranean blues and blacks. Gold-threaded sigils gleaming. They parted in two lines.
Between them walked a young officer.
Marie registered the commanding way he moved first. The confidence. The authority.
The black hair.
The blue eyes, older now. Sharper.
The same delicate yet masculine beauty from the labyrinth. He'd grown extraordinary. More striking. More disciplined. More dangerous. The scar on his eyebrow said everything.
The emissary announced: "The Italian delegation salutes Your Majesty. His Imperial Highness, the Prince of Aragon, Padua, and Napoli, Lorenzo Augustus of House Sforza, cousin to Alfonso II of Italy."
Gasps rippled through the hall.