The day of the Royal Hunt dawned cold and brittle, the autumn air sharp with the scent of dying leaves. Versailles shimmered with restless excitement—courtiers in brocade and velvet gathered with gilded muskets and polished boots, eager to play at conquest in the manicured forests.
But for Marie and Montmorency, today was not about the hunt.
Today was about survival.
Marie stood before a mirror in their shared apartments, her gown of forest-green silk simple but elegant, chosen deliberately to suggest humility rather than ambition. Léonie pinned a feathered hat to her hair, her fingers trembling slightly.
"All of Versailles will be watching," Léonie whispered. "Are you certain of this, Marie?"
Marie caught her reflection's gaze—steady, unflinching. "We have no other choice."
Behind her, Montmorency adjusted the lapels of his dark riding coat, the silver embroidery glinting like armor. His expression was carved from granite, but when their eyes met, something warmer flickered through.
"Ready?" he asked.
Marie turned fully to him. "Always."
Together, they stepped into the storm.
---
The hunting grounds spread wide and glittering beneath a pale sun, a sea of rustling gold and crimson leaves. Horses stamped and snorted, their riders laughing too loudly, too nervously.
At the head of the gathering stood Queen Marie Antoinette, radiant in a white riding habit trimmed with sapphires. Her face was carefully neutral, but her gaze was sharp as she watched the courtiers assemble.
Geneviève d'Artois was not far from the Queen's side, clad in blood-red velvet, her smile thin and poisonous.
Marie felt the weight of every stare as she and Montmorency approached, their presence a challenge in itself. The air tightened, expectant.
A herald stepped forward, calling for silence.
"The Duke of Montmorency wishes to address Her Majesty."
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
Montmorency dismounted in one fluid motion, striding forward with Marie a step behind. Every movement was deliberate—a performance for the eyes of the court.
He knelt before the Queen, bowing his head.
"Your Majesty," he began, voice clear, carrying over the gathered nobles. "I come before you not as a supplicant, but as a loyal subject who believes honesty to be the highest form of service."
The Queen's brow arched faintly. "Rise, Duke. Speak your truth."
Montmorency stood, casting a glance at Marie—a silent promise—and then turned back to the Queen.
"There are whispers," he said. "Rumors dredged from the grave. They speak of my bloodline—of scandal, of shame."
A rustle of excitement swept the assembly.
Montmorency's voice never wavered. "It is true. Many years ago, my late father erred grievously. He fathered a child outside his marriage, a secret kept hidden from the court."
A shocked murmur broke from the crowd.
Geneviève's lips curled into a vicious smile.
"But that child," Montmorency continued, "was granted lands far from Versailles, and no claim was ever made upon the House of Montmorency. I am the rightful heir, by birth and by law."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"And yet," he said, voice lowering, "I do not deny my father's sins. I do not excuse them. I acknowledge them—as every son must when bearing the weight of his name."
The Queen's expression was unreadable.
Marie stepped forward then, her own voice ringing clear.
"And I stand with him, Your Majesty. In truth, in loyalty—and in love."
Another murmur swept through the gathering, sharper this time.
Geneviève's smile faltered.
The Queen leaned back slightly, considering them both. Her fingers drummed lightly against her jeweled riding crop.
"You have courage," she said at last. "Rare indeed in these halls."
Montmorency bowed his head. "It is not courage, Majesty. It is necessity."
The Queen's gaze flicked to Geneviève, who blanched under the scrutiny.
"I find it curious," the Queen said aloud, "that such old wounds have been brought to light now—so conveniently."
Her words hung heavy in the crisp air.
Geneviève opened her mouth, but the Queen cut her off with a raised hand.
"No more games," she said, coldly. "I will not have Versailles turned into a pit of vipers while we hunt nobler prey."
She looked back to Montmorency and Marie.
"You have my favor. For now."
It was a reprieve—but a precarious one.
Marie curtsied deeply, her heart hammering.
Montmorency murmured, "Merci, Votre Majesté," and led Marie away from the clearing before the wolves could regroup.
---
They retreated into the deeper woods, their horses weaving through ancient oaks and brambles.
Only when they were truly alone did Marie exhale the breath she'd been holding.
"We did it," she whispered.
"Not yet," Montmorency said grimly. "Geneviève will not accept defeat so easily."
Marie slowed her mount, reaching across to brush his hand.
"Then we will face her together."
He smiled then—a real smile, weary but filled with fierce pride.
"You amaze me, Marie."
She laughed softly. "You said that once before."
"And I will say it again, every day, for the rest of our lives—if we survive this court."
She sobered. "Do you truly believe we can?"
Montmorency guided his horse closer to hers, so close their knees brushed.
"With you at my side?" he said, voice low and rough. "I believe we can survive anything."
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his for a brief, stolen moment beneath the gold-drenched trees.
It was dangerous. Reckless.
It was necessary.
---
Meanwhile, back among the court, Geneviève fumed silently. The Queen's veiled accusation had been clear—and the courtiers were already shifting their allegiances.
The Marquise de Chalon offered Marie a smile. The Comte d'Orléans watched Montmorency with newfound interest.
The tide was turning.
Geneviève gripped the reins of her horse until her knuckles whitened.
"You think you've won," she whispered under her breath. "But the game is not over."
Already, she was crafting her next move—a deeper, darker cut that no public confession could heal.
If she could not destroy them with scandal…
Then she would destroy them with betrayal.
---