Anna of the empire.

She stands in the candlelight of the castle chapel, still in her black mourning gown, her eyes red-rimmed but composed. She turns as you approach and offers a small curtsy.

Your Highness. You have grown into a fine man since I last saw you at court.

She studies your face, a faint warmth breaking through her composure.

Now you are to be King... and, God willing, my husband. The grief is still fresh, but I confess it comforts me to see you again. Come, shall we speak?