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📜 A Note About the Direction of Masks of Nobility

Hi everyone! I've received a couple of messages from readers who were upset by the most recent AO3 chapter—particularly the focus on Hans and Jitka’s romantic relationship. Since the AO3 version is a bit ahead, I wanted to take a moment here to clarify the direction Masks of Nobility is taking from my side—so no one feels misled, and anyone who needs to step away can do so with understanding.

I'm genuinely trying to handle this story with care and emotional honesty. It's okay if it’s not for everyone—but I want to be transparent: this story is about polyamory. It’s about complicated love, found family, and trying to carve something beautiful in a brutal world

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Where the story is going:

At its heart, Masks of Nobility is about three people—Hans, Jitka, and Henry—finding a loving, meaningful dynamic that gives them all a place of belonging.

Jitka and Henry represent two very different, but equally important, sides of Hans. His love for them isn’t the same, because they reflect different parts of who he is and who he wants to be. (Hans is the main focus of the story, since I really enjoy writing from his POV.)

Jitka embodies statecraft, legacy, duty. She and Hans both grew up under the weight of nobility’s expectations, and they understand each other’s discomfort with that world. Their relationship is messy, chaotic, combative, passionate—and rooted in partnership.

Henry, by contrast, represents something gentler. He’s the man Hans wishes he could be: kind, steady, beloved for who he already is. With Henry, Hans feels no pressure to perform—just to be. And that changes everything for him.

Hans wouldn’t be capable of loving Jitka—or being loved by her—if he hadn’t already been changed by loving Henry. And from Jitka, he learns something vital too: a clever, even ruthless kind of protectiveness. That survival instinct becomes essential—especially in a world where Henry, not being noble, is more vulnerable. Loving Jitka teaches Hans how to protect his people.

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So, what does this mean for the dynamic?

Right now, Jitka’s relationship with Hans is still new. It has the intensity of something just beginning—thrilling, possessive, a little feral. Henry’s relationship with Hans is already established, grounded, and steady. That’s why the current arc is focused on Hans and Jitka—it’s their beginning.

But the story is ultimately headed toward balance. Day-to-day, Hans and Jitka will share a domestic life. They’ll be married, raise a child, and slowly build a gentler kind of love marked by mutual respect.

Henry’s role doesn’t lessen—he’s always there, steady and essential. His and Hans’s dynamic will return to the forefront later. Their bond remains central, even if its expression is quieter right now.

What grows between the three of them isn’t a traditional romance triangle—it’s found family. It’s messy, heartfelt, and a little strange. But it matters.

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And eventually... Henrich.

Henrich’s birth changes everything. He becomes the center of gravity, the shared priority. Jitka, who’s always struggled with closeness, finds peace and unquestioned love in motherhood. Henry and Hans stay “Hansry.” Jitka and Hans become partners in parenting.

It’s not perfect. It’s not exclusive. But it’s theirs.

All three of them create something meaningful together—something that wouldn’t be possible without every single one of them.

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Tags & AO3:

I do have polyamory and poly negotiations tagged under Additional Tags on AO3, and I’ll be updating the summary to reflect that more clearly going forward. Thank you to everyone who's reached out with thoughtful comments or concerns—your engagement means a lot.

If it’s not the story you expected, I completely understand.

🖤 Thank you for reading. Truly.

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Masks of Noblity - Chapter 41 — The Peaches Accord

Henry’s Point of View

They had lost him somewhere near the apothecary.

Radzig was faster than any man his age had a right to be, boots thudding against the cobbles like war drums, hair wild in the wind, Peaches clutched aloft in both hands like a particularly aggressive relic. She was snarling at pigeons. The pigeons were losing.

“HE’S HEADING FOR THE MARKET SQUARE!” Hans shouted, breathless and flailing. “STOP THAT LUNATIC!”

“No one’s stopping that,” Henry muttered grimly as he vaulted a basket of onions.

Crowds parted. Bakers screamed. A small child clapped.

They finally cornered Radzig near a fountain, just before he tried to scale the side of a merchant’s cart using only his pride and an awning rope. He was still holding Peaches in the air like a sacred offering to whatever gods presided over madness and tiny dogs in pearl collars.

“Father,” Henry said, hands on his knees, “you’re going to snap in half if you try to climb that cart.”

“She’s mine!” Radzig snapped.

Hans bent over beside him, gasping. “She’s possessed, that’s what she is. You’ve broken her mind with ribbons!”

Henry straightened. His voice gentled. “Jitka’s sad.”

Radzig froze.

“She misses Peaches. And she misses you.”

Radzig blinked.

Henry stepped closer. “You can’t both stay away forever. She needs one of you with her all the time. The dog… or you.”

Radzig's brows furrowed.

“You can visit her,” Henry continued. “As often as you want. You don’t need permission.” He glanced at Hans. “Right, Hans?”

Hans made a sound halfway between a scoff and a groan. “Fine. Yes. As much as he wants.”

Radzig looked between them, Peaches still held aloft like a blessed loaf. His eyes narrowed, calculating.

“Rooms,” he said.

Hans blinked. “What?”

“Rooms. If I’m to visit when I want, I want rooms. A wing. A study. Access to the dog’s wardrobe.”

“We don’t have a dog’s wardrobe!” Hans snapped.

“I will be bringing it,” Radzig said coolly.

Henry put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make space. And I’ll write you. Updates on Peaches. On Jitka.”

Radzig’s arms trembled slightly as he began to lower the dog, slowly, like a precious holy item.

Hans stepped forward carefully. “I want her happy. I didn’t want this marriage, neither did she. But here we are. And I…” He hesitated. “I... you know about Henry and I. But I’ve also come to care for her, even if—for her—it’s just friendship. I won’t hurt her.”

Radzig was still.

Hans raised both hands in surrender. “Rattay’s where both your children live now. You should be there. You should have a place to sit with them. Talk with them. Be their father. You’re already trying.”

Silence.

Radzig looked at Peaches. Peaches blinked, narrowed her eyes, and snorted.

Then—slowly, reverently—he passed her to Henry.

“Only,” Radzig said carefully, “if you both agree to complete the training course.”

Henry blinked. “The… what?”

Radzig reached into his coat and pulled out a handwritten, leather-bound manual. On the cover, in disturbingly neat calligraphy:

“How to Care for a Lady: Peaches’ Protocol for Personal Dignity, Defense, and Dietary Expectations”

Volume I

Hans opened it. His eyes widened. “There are diagrams.”

Peaches growled.

“Refined taste,” Radzig said proudly. “She only eats off her jeweled plate. She requires a velvet pillow for sleeping and two laps per hour. She bathes in wine once a week. I wrote footnotes.”

Hans looked like he might vomit.

Then Peaches snarled—a guttural, demonic thing—and launched.

“NO—PEACHES, NO!” Radzig shouted, lunging.

But it was too late.

Chaos erupted.

Peaches tore out of Henry’s arms and flew directly at Hans’s boots, shredding the laces like divine punishment. Hans screamed and hopped backwards, tripped over a basket of herbs, and fell flat on his back as Peaches dragged off one boot in triumph.

“GET HER OFF ME!” he shrieked.

Henry dove to help, only for Peaches to whip around, teeth bared, and go for the other boot.

“No! No—Henry—she’s got my hose! She’s got my—”

There was a loud rip.

Hans shrieked again. Peaches, emboldened, began dragging the boot and the stocking into the fountain.

A priest nearby flung holy water. Someone screamed “WITCHDOG!” A flower seller fainted.

Radzig was shouting in old Czech, hands outstretched like he was calling back the dead. Václav had appeared again with wine and was cheering, “She’s summoning her power!”

“I WILL NOT BE UNDRESSED IN PUBLIC BY A DOG!” Hans bellowed.

Peaches snarled, tail high, eyes full of unholy joy.

Henry tackled her.

There was splashing. Barking. A gout of feathers. Possibly fire.

When it ended, Peaches sat upon Hans’s chest, soaking wet and victorious, one boot in her mouth.

Radzig exhaled. “She accepts the arrangement.”

Henry coughed. “Your dog is possessed.”

“I told you,” Hans groaned from the ground, covered in holy water, flower petals, and shame. “She’s not a dog. She’s a curse with legs.”

But Radzig smiled for the first time.

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Chapter 40– The Velvet Siege

Third Person – Hans’s Point of View

They had broken into the manor. That part was undeniable.

It had involved a stone cherub’s arse, an ivy-covered gate, and Václav whispering, “Now be gentle, he’s shy when it rains,” while fondling ancient masonry with suspicious precision.

The door had creaked open like the breath of sin.

Hans stared at the narrow passage winding through the garden wall. “How do you know about this?”

Václav, wine-eyed and irritatingly smug, brushed a cobweb from his sleeve. “I told you. Ziggy and I have known each other for ages. I’m practically his husband.”

“What?” Henry said.

Václav continued, breezily: “We had this installed after the, you know… incident.”

“What incident?” Hans asked, already regretting it.

“The one where I gave Jitka explosives when she was seven. She blew the head off a sundial and declared herself Queen of the Southern Courtyard. Ziggy sulked for a month and refused to let me near the wine cellar.”

Hans stared. Henry looked like he’d bitten into a lemon made of pure trauma.

And then they were in.

The manor was cold. Quiet. Gilded and soft-edged, as though grief had chosen wallpaper.

They stepped into the first gallery and were met by a sea of portraits.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of images lined the walls. Jitka through the years, haunting the canvas in every mood: severe at six, feral at nine, regal and unreadable at twelve with Peaches beside her in what looked like a velvet bonnet.

And always, somewhere in the frame—Radzig.

Older. Heavier with silence. A shadow behind her, a hand hovering near a shoulder that rarely leaned.

The love in the paintings was so obvious it made Hans ache.

Then he stopped.

At the end of the corridor was a large painting, older than the rest. Two figures.

A ginger-haired girl in green brocade, freckled, scowling. Her face was wrong. Familiar. Her nose curved like Jitka’s. Her mouth curled the same way when she was angry. Her eyes—green, sharp, bitter—held a fury Hans recognized too well.

Beside her: a young Radzig.

Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Broad-shouldered and miserable. They weren’t holding hands. They weren’t even looking at each other.

It was a betrothal painting.

“Her mother,” Hans whispered. “The original Jitka.”

Václav clucked his tongue. “Ah yes. That went well.”

“That’s one word for it,” Henry muttered.

“She nearly stabbed me with a hatpin at court,” Václav mused. “I adored her.”

Hans moved on, dizzy now. The portraits didn’t stop. They escalated.

Especially the ones of Peaches.

There was an entire corridor of her. In full battle armour. Riding a roast goose. Crowned. Seated atop a pile of fallen noble hats. One showed her presiding over a mock trial. Another—unsettlingly tasteful—depicted her in repose, wrapped in silk with angel wings.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Hans said.

And then they heard the singing.

Low and harsh. Not song so much as chant—an old Hussite battle hymn, thick with slaughter and pride.

They followed it.

Radzig was in the solar.

Seated cross-legged on a fur rug. Surrounded by spilled wine, ribbons, and half a wheel of cheese.

Before him, Peaches sat on a cushion so plush it could have clothed a count. Her hair—fur?—was being carefully braided with satin bows. Her collar sparkled. Her eyes gleamed with bloodlust and satisfaction.

Radzig was humming softly as he worked. Every so often, he whispered, “Hold still, duckling,” like a lullaby.

“Ziggy?” Hans said. Carefully.

Radzig didn’t look up. “She always liked ribbons.”

“Who, Peaches?”

“My daughter.”

Silence.

“She wore red ones,” Radzig went on, fingers working the braid. “Then black. Said it made her look like the end of a fairytale. She was five when she tried to braid my hair with thorns.”

He gave a tired laugh.

“She’d only just learned how to hold a fork without stabbing someone. She still stabbed someone.”

Václav crouched nearby, resting his chin on his hand. “She set your study on fire that same week.”

“Because I wouldn’t let her name the lizard ‘Blood Pope’.”

Henry sat down beside the hearth. “We’re worried about you.”

Radzig looked up at last.

His eyes were red. And not the drunk kind—though he was that too—but the kind that had sunk into some deep, rotting place and built a nest.

“I had to resuscitate her,” he said flatly.

Hans blinked. “What?”

Radzig didn’t blink.

“Her father—her blood father—went mad. Thought she was a demon. Held her under the water until she stopped moving. Thought he was saving her. I pulled her out myself. That night. Covered in silt and screams. She looked dead. I carried her for miles before she breathed again.”

No one moved.

“I took her that night,” Radzig whispered. “Took her. Bled on the saddle. And made a promise: no one would touch her again without her permission.”

Hans knelt beside him.

“And yet I had to watch her marry a man who couldn’t see the fear on her face. I had to pretend I was a stranger because of politics and law. Because Hannush wanted the Kunštáts to control Rattay. Because I wasn’t her blood.”

“You are her father,” Hans said. “She calls you Papa. She always will.”

Radzig blinked at him.

Hans took a breath. “Come stay with us.”

Radzig frowned. “As what? Hannush’s guest?”

“No. As my father-in-law.”

Radzig stared.

And stared.

And then—

“I’m taking the dog.”

Hans blinked. “What?”

“I’m taking Peaches. You can’t be trusted. You let her near Hannush.”

“I didn’t let her near anyone—”

Radzig scooped the dog and bolted.

“HE’S STEALING THE DOG!” Hans shrieked.

“GET HIM!” Henry roared.

They all lunged.

Through the hallway. Over a tipped table. Into the back courtyard and out the gate.

Radzig ran like a man possessed. Peaches barked like a warhorn. Ribbons streamed behind them like battle standards.

“HE’S LOST HIS MIND!” Hans howled.

“I NEVER HAD IT!” Radzig shouted back.

And somewhere behind them, Václav laughed like a drunk prophet and whispered to the wind:

“God, I love that man.”

They never once suspected he was the King.

Or that he was right.

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Masks of Noblity Chapter 39: The Stew of Secrets

Henry’s POV

The tavern didn’t have a name.

That was probably for the best.

It was tucked into a crooked alley off Prague’s Old Town, wedged between a shuttered cobbler and something Henry strongly suspected was a front for fencing stolen relics. The sign above the door simply read “OPEN (probably)” in faded charcoal.

The air inside was thick with smoke, spilled beer, and the sort of silence people bought with coin and didn’t break unless someone bled.

They took a table in the darkest corner. Václav slouched across from them like royalty slumming it for sport.

A barmaid with more scars than fingers brought them three tankards of something that might once have been ale and three bowls of mystery stew. Václav sniffed his bowl, shrugged, and stirred it with a crust of bread.

“Probably rat,” he said cheerfully. “Tastes like ambition.”

Hans eyed his own bowl like it might bite back. “God, I miss Rattay.”

Henry had barely touched his drink. He was still thinking about Peaches—about Radzig’s eyes above the battlements, wild with grief and lace. About the way the word princess had cracked like a cry from someone drowning.

Václav waved the barmaid over. “Put it on Ziggy’s tab.”

She nodded without even blinking.

“That’s alarming,” Hans muttered.

Václav took a long drink. Then another. Then, abruptly, he said, “Before we steal the dog, you need to understand what we’re stealing him from.”

Henry blinked. “You mean Peaches.”

“No,” Václav said, serious now. “I mean Radzig. This isn’t about the dog.”

He leaned back, tankard in hand, and sighed through his nose. “I’ve known Ziggy since we were boys. Me, him, and Hynek—Jitka’s uncle—were all packed off to Erhart the Elder’s household to be ‘ironed into men.’ He was... well. If King Arthur crawled out of a mountain and decided to raise other people’s children, that’d be Erhart. Bloody terrifying. Always smelled of cold steel and pine.”

Václav paused, swirling the dregs of his drink.

“Didn’t really work out. I’m a drunk. Ziggy’s still stabby. Hynek’s a mad bastard who lives in a cave, possibly on purpose.”

Hans gave a snort. Václav ignored him.

“Radzig’s family was old—proper noble stock—but broke as a wine cart. So they got him engaged to Hynek’s little sister. Jitka the Elder. Yes, another Jitka. I know, it’s confusing. Erhart wasn’t a creative man. His son’s also called Erhart. That one stayed with the Kunštáts when things went sideways.”

Henry frowned. “Wait. She has a brother?”

Hans blinked. “Jitka never mentioned a brother.”

“She wouldn’t,” Václav said flatly. “The Kunštáts kept the boy. Used him as leverage. Same as they used her. I think she loved him once. I don’t know if she still does.”

The silence at the table shifted. Grew heavier.

Václav kept talking. His voice had dropped low—less theatrical now. More human.

“Radzig was meant to marry Jitka the Elder. The family needed it. But then he went out one night to rob some cavern—don’t ask—and on the way out, fleeing some furious priest or highwaymen or whatever, he meets a girl.”

He looked at Henry now. “Anna.”

Henry froze.

Václav smiled, gently. “And that’s where you begin.”

No one moved.

“He fell,” Václav said softly. “Head over heels. Gave up the engagement, gave up the family’s plan. His mother told him to end it. To get rid of her. And you. If you catch my meaning.”

He didn’t have to.

Henry couldn’t look up.

Hans, beside him, had gone very still.

“Ziggy refused,” Václav went on. “Tried to fight it. But then Jitka the Elder also derails the family plan by running off with Erhart the Elder. Who she met through Ziggy, mind you.”

A breath of laughter escaped him. “Not that he minded. She was like a sister to him. But after all that—no match, no money, no inheritance—his mother lost her mind. Tried to have Anna... removed. Jitka the Elder and Hynek got wind of it. Introduced Ziggy to Martin.”

Henry’s head snapped up.

Václav nodded. “The blacksmith. The best of us, probably. He agreed to hide Anna and raise you. To keep you safe. Ziggy gave you up because he had to. To protect you. He could’ve claimed you, but it would’ve put you both in a grave.”

Henry didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

Václav’s eyes softened. “He’s not a good father. But he was one, in the way he knew how. He gave you safety. And when Skalitz burned... he took you back. Because he couldn’t let you vanish again.”

Henry felt his throat tighten. His hands curled on the table.

“And when Jitka the Elder died,” Václav said quietly, “and Erhart the Elder went mad with grief, Radzig... he saw through it. Saw the man couldn’t care for a child like himself so took her raised her as his own. From then on he had a little girl following him through his hall like a duckling. Silent. Just always there.”

He smiled faintly. “Christ, she dressed exactly like him till she was eleven. Doublet, hose, jerkin. I had to get my wife to explain to Ziggy that it was weird they matched. Nobles started asking if she was a boy. He panicked. Got a courtesan to teach her how to walk and flirt and sit like a girl. Gods the dresses he bought her. ”

Hans burst out laughing.

But Henry was still stuck on the word duckling.

“She called him Papa,” Václav finished. “And he called her his girl. That child saved Ziggy as much as he saved her. Pulled her out of a river and never let her go. Don’t hate her for that. Or him.”

The silence returned. Heavy. Sacred.

Then Václav downed his tankard.

“Anyway,” he said briskly, “Ziggy now believes both of his children have been stolen from him by the noble world. So he’s clinging to that dog like a shipwrecked sailor to a barrel of pickles.”

Hans blinked. “I’m sorry—did you just compare Peaches to a barrel of pickles?”

“Try taking her from him and tell me I’m wrong,” Václav said grimly. “He bites. The dog definitely bites.”

Henry exhaled.

His chest felt hollow and full at once.

He looked down at his hands, then across at Hans.

“I thought he just didn’t want me.”

Hans shook his head. “He wanted you alive.”

Henry nodded once.

Then Hans smirked faintly. “So what’s the plan? Bribe the dog with sausages? Fake a seizure and distract Radzig with military maps?”

Václav grinned. “Oh no, Capon. We’re not stealing the dog.”

Hans blinked. “We’re not?”

Václav winked. “We’re liberating a princess.”

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Masks of Nobility – Chapter 38: The Gatehouse of Madness

Henry’s POV

The gates wouldn’t open.

Henry had expected grandeur—Radzig’s Prague estate was, after all, the domain of a royal advisor, a war hero, a man of stern command and colder affections. But they’d been standing outside the carved oak entrance for fifteen goddamn minutes while a falcon stared down at them from the parapet like it was personally offended by their presence.

Hans had taken to pacing, muttering threats at the hinges. Henry stood very still, his arms crossed and mouth set in a grim line.

Because this wasn’t just about a gate.

It was about him.

His father. Behind those walls.

And her—the creature Jitka loved more than her husband, more than Henry, more than reason. They’d come for Peaches.

God help them.

Hans banged on the gate again. “It’s not locked,” he hissed. “It’s just judging us.”

Then—above them, atop the battlements—Radzig appeared.

“I KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE!” he bellowed like Moses descending the mountain.

Henry jerked. Hans yelped. Somewhere, a pigeon dropped dead from sheer existential dread.

Radzig leaned over the wall like a deranged prophet, hair unbrushed, belt half-laced, and in his arms—clutched with reverence usually reserved for royal infants—was the ugliest dog Henry had ever seen.

He didn’t mean that lightly.

It looked like someone had tried to sculpt a dog from wax and then left it too close to a fire. Its eyes faced opposite directions, its teeth jutted up like cursed stalactites, and its body was somehow both squat and proud—like a gremlin who’d won a joust.

And it was dressed.

In a crimson velvet gown, trimmed with lace, adorned with pearls, and—God above—a tiny ceremonial dagger tied to its waist.

Radzig was wearing a matching outfit.

He clutched the dog to his chest and screamed: “She’s not taking my princess!”

Hans choked. “Radzig?”

Radzig’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Hannush has already taken my duckling! He took my duckling to that wretched town and made her marry a man with poetry in his trousers and wine in his soul!” He pointed a trembling, furious hand at Hans. “You sweated on her embroidery!”

And with that, he disappeared.

Just ducked out of sight like a mad warlock, gown and all.

Silence.

Henry blinked. “Was that... was that the dog?”

Hans, wide-eyed, nodded. “And Radzig was wearing matching formalwear with it.”

Henry exhaled. “Apparently.”

Mutt sat politely at his feet, tilting his head like he was trying to understand where the threat was.

“If I ever do that to Mutt,” Henry said flatly, “you are legally obligated to kill me.”

Hans was laughing now—hunched over, gasping, weeping. “Holy saints. Henry. That dog. That’s not a dog. That’s a revenant in a corset!”

Henry hadn’t moved. “That’s my father.”

Before Hans could recover, there was a crash in the hedges to their left.

They turned just as a red-haired man in his forties staggered out of the greenery like a peacock fleeing a duel. He was beautiful in a ruinous, expensive way—jam on his collar, wine in his cup, one stocking missing. His shirt was open to the navel. His expression was one of pleased confusion.

He squinted at them like he was trying to remember if they owed him money.

“Capon?” the man called. “Capon the Limp Prizzle? In person?”

Hans made a sound like a dying flute. “Oh, God.”

The man sauntered forward, sipping from his goblet and popping a grape into his mouth. “What the hell are you doing down here? Don’t tell me she’s sent you for the dog.”

Henry narrowed his eyes. There was something about this man—his ease, his slur of power, his utter lack of shame.

Hans snapped, “Yes. We’re here for the dog.”

The man winced theatrically. “Gods preserve us. I’ve been trying to get Ziggy to hand it over for weeks. But he’s gone full Papa. Keeps calling it his ‘replacement daughter.’ Threw me out when I caught him singing lullabies to it. Full swaddling. He had it in a bassinet, Capon. With a canopy.”

He drank. “Do you know he feeds her roast duck, venison, and imported figs? That he has a menu planner for her? A groomer? A lady’s maid?”

Hans was crying again. “The bonnet, Henry. Did you see the bonnet?”

The man continued. “He made the guards sit through a fashion show. Six outfits. One of them had sequins. The dog curtsied. Then Radzig asked them all for their opinions and made them vote.”

Henry just shook his head. “I want to die.”

“And I,” the man said, pressing a hand to his chest, “have trauma. Do you know what it was like the last time Ziggy got like this? When he made Jitka learn the harp? And held recitals? That girl played like a torture device. The steward walked into the moat voluntarily.”

Hans turned to Henry, barely upright. “She’s not... gifted.”

“She’s cursed,” the red-haired man agreed. “It sounded like someone strangling a goose while screaming poetry.”

Then he turned to Henry, peering close with a theatrical squint. “Hmm. That scowl. Those cheekbones. That air of brooding tragedy and manly tolerance. You must be Henry.”

Henry blinked. “Yes?”

The man thrust out a sticky hand. “Pleasure. I’m Václav.”

A pause.

“Just Václav,” he added, with the confidence of a man who’d never been punished for anything in his life.

Hans straightened. “Wait. Václav?”

Václav ignored him. “Friend of Ziggy’s. Been trying to drag him back to court, but he won’t leave the creature. Says she gets separation anxiety. I say he does. If she so much as sneezes, he cancels meetings. If she yawns, he summons the royal physician.”

He turned, gesturing to the shut gates. “So. You want the dog. I want the hetman back. He’s supposed to be running Bohemia, not shopping for miniature court slippers. So let’s help each other.”

Hans squinted. “You... want Peaches gone?”

“Oh yes. Between us—the Cardinal and Archbishop tried to exorcise her. The cathedral ceiling caved in. One priest ran into the woods and now thinks he’s a goat.”

Henry, still reeling, finally said, “You’re important, aren’t you?”

Václav grinned like a man who’d never had to answer that question honestly. “Let’s just say the kingdom functions better when Ziggy’s doing his job. And he doesn’t do his job when he’s selecting crystal chalices for a dog that bites foreign envoys.”

Hans flailed. “She bites diplomats?!”

“Only if they insult her outfit.”

Henry muttered, “My father is dressing up a goblin and ruining foreign relations.”

Václav sipped from his goblet, utterly unbothered. “Welcome to Prague.”

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I speed-read Masks of Nobility in one go (technically I had to take breaks because I was reading it at work but that doesn't count). I love it so much 😍🥰

Thank you so much for the lovely messages—honestly, they proper cheered me up!

I actually got inspired enough to write the next chapter!

Let me know what you think—I absolutely love reading comments, they make my day. 💬💙

[notablenotions]

Mask's of Noblity-Chapter 37: One, and Some

Hans had always known there was a difference between one and some.

Some were easy. Some were scattered across taverns and markets, stitched together with wine and half-lies and names he never bothered to remember. Some made him feel like a man. One made him feel like a boy with his knees scraped and his heart in his mouth.

Jitka was not some.

And now—thanks to some infernal contractual loophole and a dog that may or may not be a demonic spirit—he was bound for Prague to fetch a creature he’d never met. A dog. A dog, for God’s sake. All to have her. Just once. No strings.

But Hans knew better. One time would never be enough. Not with her.

They had returned to Rattay just before noon, and the familiar walls brought no comfort. The sun was too bright, the cobblestones too loud, and Henry was waiting by the stables with Mutt and that knowing, quiet look Hans hated more than anything—because it meant Henry already knew something was afoot.

Henry scratched the dog’s ears without looking up. “So,” he said casually. “You’re going to Prague.”

Hans blew out a breath, tossed the reins to a groom. “You heard that, did you?”

“Everyone heard that. You shouted at the tailor for twenty minutes about Peaches needing matching embroidery.”

Hans groaned. “God’s teeth, I didn’t even know dogs had wardrobes.”

Henry turned to him now, amused, but there was something beneath it—something older and quieter.

“So. Peaches,” Henry said. “The reason you’re ready to sell your dignity for a night with your wife.”

Hans gave a weak smile. “You’ve met her, Henry. You know there’s no dignity left in me.”

Henry laughed softly. “Fair.” Then, with a glance toward the keep, “She said her ‘papa’ is the one looking after the dog?”

Hans paused. “Yes.”

There was a beat.

Then Henry asked, softly, “Who is her papa?”

And Hans blinked.

Then frowned.

And realized—he didn’t know.

Jitka had spoken of him with such warmth, such brightness—like a hearth you didn’t dare sit too close to. The man who raised her, shielded her, loved her. But she’d never said his name. Not once.

Hans’s eyes scanned the courtyard—and landed on Hannush, moving across the stones in the stiff, too-purposeful stride of a man trying very hard not to be noticed.

Something—something round—fell from beneath his cloak and hit the ground with a dull, leafy thunk.

A cabbage.

Hannush yelped, bundled it up again with a look of guilt so intense Hans felt the urge to confess something just standing nearby.

“Hannush!” Hans called.

The man froze. Like a child caught stealing pies.

“Who is Jitka’s papa?” Hans asked, stepping closer. “She speaks of him constantly but never names him.”

Hannush’s eyes widened. “You—you don’t know? He gave you a book on duckling care”

Hans shook his head.

Hannush looked around wildly, as if someone might arrest him for saying it. Then leaned forward, and muttered, “It’s Radzig.”

Another cabbage slipped from his cloak. He cursed, kicked it, tried to grab it, then fled.

Just turned and bolted across the courtyard, cloak flapping, arms full of contraband vegetables.

On any other day, Hans would’ve laughed until he wheezed. Tormented the man for weeks. But not now.

Now, he turned slowly to Henry.

And saw it hit.

Henry stood still, so still even Mutt whined at his feet.

“Radzig,” Henry said. Not a question. Not really.

Hans didn’t speak.

Henry's voice was calm. Too calm. “The man who left me and my ma in Skalitz. The one who let me think my father was a blacksmith. Who raised another child instead of me.”

Hans felt it like a blow. He’d known Henry had made peace with the truth of it, but this was new. This was Jitka. Not just any child. The child he raised lovingly enough to be called papa.

And Henry—blood of his blood—had been left with ashes and lies.

Hans opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then Henry, still staring into some middle distance, murmured, “You said... Jitka said her papa’s been dressing the dog.”

Hans blinked.

Henry turned to look at him, eyes wide now, almost wild. “Does that mean Radzig—my father—has been dressing up a dog?”

Hans made a strangled sound. “I think... yes?”

Henry sat down on a barrel. Mutt immediately leapt onto his lap.

They were both quiet for a moment.

Hans could still see the look on Henry’s face—that silent flitting of emotion. Hurt, betrayal, absurdity. The very specific devastation of knowing your estranged father was out there treating a pug-demon like a duchess while you’d been smeared in charcoal and left in the mud.

Hans sat down beside him.

“She didn’t tell me it was Radzig,” Hans said finally. “Not on purpose. I don’t think she hides it for cruelty. Just... it’s hers.”

Henry nodded. “I know.”

Hans looked at him sideways. “You alright?”

Henry let out a short laugh. “No. But I’ll live. I’ve had worse.”

They sat in silence again.

Hans rubbed the back of his neck. “She was practically glowing. Talking about him. About Peaches. The only times I’ve seen her... well, soft.”

He paused. Thought about it. Thought about the way her voice had gentled, the brightness in her eyes, the smile she fought not to let show.

She loved them. Radzig. Peaches. It was the only time Hans had seen her genuinely open. Not to him. Not yet. But it was there.

And something in him hated how much he envied them.

“I don’t think she told me the full truth,” Hans said quietly. “About how she ended up with Radzig. About Peaches, either. She hides things behind jokes and cruelty. Behind that wicked mouth.”

Henry raised a brow. “She does have a wicked mouth.”

Hans gave a breathless laugh. “She does.”

They sat for a while longer, watching the gates of the courtyard, Hannush long gone with his smuggled cabbage.

Hans thought of Jitka.

Of the look she’d given him when she said no strings. Of the tug inside him, low and dangerous, knowing that if he touched her once, he’d never stop. Of the way her eyes lit up only for two things: the man she called papa—

And that damned dog.

“Pebbles would hate her,” Henry said after a moment.

Hans blinked. “Hate who?”

“Peaches. The dog.”

Hans turned to him. “I think Pebbles would fall in love immediately and let the dog ride her into battle.”

They laughed.

But Hans’s smile faded as he looked toward the castle and knew—knew—that he would ride to Prague for a dog in a lace bonnet.

And it wouldn’t be enough.

Because Jitka wasn’t some.

She was a one.

And a one would ruin him.

Just like Henry.

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Masks of Noblity Chapter 36: A Deal With A Devil

Jitka couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped her lips as they walked down the stone corridor toward their shared guest room. The feast had been every bit as tedious as she’d expected. The lowborn nobility, eager to show off their borrowed wealth, had fawned over the garish decorations and half-hearted courtesies. To Jitka, the whole evening felt like a performance of what she knew nobility to be—empty, shallow, and desperate to appear something they were not.

She had seen it all before—time and time again in the court of King Wenceslaus, where the laughter was loud and the politics thick like cheap wine. Even Jobst’s court, where scheming was the game and power was held like an open secret, was more tolerable than this farce. There, at least, the players knew their worth and their place, and the conversations were sharper than knives. Sigismund’s court was filled with the clever and the heretical, proving their worth in ways that would make any lord question their own complacency. But this? This was a mere imitation, a game of posturing and foolishness, led by a minor noble who would never matter beyond his borders, even if he was destined to be Hans’s vassal one day.

It was an imitation of power. An imitation of nobility.

Jitka’s gaze drifted to Hans, who walked beside her, his hand brushing against hers occasionally as they walked. He was in a foul mood, the weight of his own frustrations clear in the tension of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. She saw the way he was fighting his thoughts, his mind racing with something he wanted to say, something he wanted to change. He was on the edge of it, ready to push the boundaries, to cross a line that she knew he didn’t understand.

And that line, the one that was growing thinner by the day, was one Jitka refused to cross. She couldn’t. Not yet. Because once Hans pushed through it, once he truly saw her for what she was—what she had been all along—there would be no going back. It was a place she couldn’t allow him to visit. She had been too carefully crafted to break down for anyone but Radzig—or Peaches. But not him. Not Hans.

She caught a glimpse of his mouth opening and closing, words dying on his lips as he looked at her, wanting to break the silence. He wasn’t just frustrated. He was aching.

Jitka could see it in his eyes.

A spark of warmth began to coil in her chest, a slow burn that sent heat rushing through her veins. She was tired. And the last few months had worn her down in ways she had not expected. The subtle shift between them—the slow, unspoken growth of whatever this was—had caught her off guard. She had avoided it, toyed with him, deflected his deeper affections, but it was clear now that Hans was beginning to see through her.

But he wasn’t the only one with something to hide. Jitka knew her own weaknesses, and the growing, inevitable attraction she felt for him was a beast she could not tame. But she’d be damned if she let him get close enough to see it.

She turned to him, a slow smile curling her lips as she noticed how uncomfortable he was, how much he was struggling with his desire, and her own subtle, yet knowing game. She had played this before.

“Clearly, you’re struggling, my dear husband,” she said, her voice dripping with a sweetness she didn’t feel. “How about this? You clearly want me out of your system. I can see right through you. You want to fuck me and move on. I’ll agree to it.”

He stopped walking, his face a mask of confusion and hope. His eyebrows furrowed. She kept her tone light, but the spark of amusement in her chest only grew.

“But there’s a price,” she continued. “You see, I have a dog. And before you say anything, I know it’s odd. But she is no different from Mutt, really. One of the crueler terms in our marriage contract was that I was not allowed to bring my baby girl to Rattay.”

Jitka could see Hans’s confusion deepen, but she carried on, forcing herself to look down briefly, to make it seem like this was a deeply serious matter, even though part of her wanted to laugh.

“Hannush specifically put it in,” she added, almost absentmindedly, her mind drifting back to the day Peaches had utterly tormented Hannush in ways that made even Jitka laugh. She couldn’t let herself get distracted by that now, though—she had a point to make. “So my precious, delicate baby girl has been left with my adoptive papa. He takes very good care of her...”

She looked up at Hans, letting him see the single tear she forced to her eye.

“You see,” she whispered, voice almost trembling with emotion, “the contract is worded poorly. There’s a loophole, you see.”

Hans’s eyes widened, and for a split second, she saw the light of understanding in them. Jitka’s heart fluttered. He was quick. Too quick, sometimes, for his own good. But this was a game she was prepared to play.

“Wait,” Hans said slowly, catching on. “If someone else brings the dog for you... it wouldn’t be breaking the contract.”

Jitka nodded, keeping her eyes steady on him. “Exactly. That’s all I ask. Bring me my dog, and I’ll sleep with you. No strings.”

Hans cleared his throat, clearly processing this new revelation. “But why doesn’t your papa bring her himself?” he asked, still looking perplexed. “And what do you mean... adoptive papa?”

Jitka’s stomach churned with the question, but she fought to keep her voice even. “My papa didn’t fully adopt me. He just... raised me. Took me in when my family couldn’t—or wouldn’t—care for me. My father was dying, and my uncle Hynek... well, he was in prison. So Papa raised me as his own, with permission of the king, mind you. It’s... odd. But I adore him.”

She looked down again, trying to mask the wave of sadness that had rushed over her.

“When my family decided to marry me off to you,” she continued, “they made sure they never fully completed any legal adoption. They didn’t want Papa to have a say. They wanted control over me, and so... they made sure the marriage was arranged behind his back. They waited for Papa to be distracted, and then they did the deal. The rest is history.”

Jitka felt her breath catch. She had never said this much about her past before. It was a part of her she didn’t show to anyone. Not even Henry knew the full truth about her upbringing. Only Radzig. Only Peaches.

She glanced back at Hans, who was digesting her words in silence. She almost wished he hadn’t. The look on his face was... too thoughtful. Too knowing.

She shook her head, forcing herself to smile again. “Anyway, Papa is devastated. According to letters from those around him, Peaches has become like a replacement for me. He won’t bring her to Rattay because, well, I'm worried about his reputation. People will think it’s strange that a grown man carries around a dog dressed in outfits. But I can’t go to Prague to fetch her....”

Jitka didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t need to. Hans could fill in the gaps. He was quick. He always had been.

She smiled sweetly, holding out her hand. “So. You’ll bring my dog to me, won’t you? And in return, I’ll do what you wish. No strings attached.”

---

Hi everyone—long time no see!

It’s been a while, and there’ve been a few long gaps—still haven’t managed to get things up on AO3, though hopefully one day…

I’ve been struggling with my mental health for a while now. Writing genuinely helps me, but executive dysfunction makes it hard—I know it’ll help, but I just can’t get myself to do it sometimes. So I haven’t written much lately. I also feel kind of guilty posting chapters here when I know lots of you are hoping to read it on AO3, haha.

Anyway, I didn’t want to dump too much, but I also wanted to be honest. Thank you to everyone who’s stuck with me and sent kind messages—it really means more than I can say.

Here’s the next chapter. 💙

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Radzig vs Martin

And that's how henry became a baker (jk)

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hi, sorry, I just wanted to ask, and this is prolly going to sound super dumb, are authors chill with people commenting on their old fanfics and stuff?

just want to make sure that I'm not inadvertently being annoying

I believe I speak for most authors when I say they’ll never be annoyed by any positive comments from their readers

authors, reblog if you love receiving new comments on your old works

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Mask's of Nobility-Chapter 35

Hans’ POV

The dance ended, but the ache did not.

The applause had faded. The musicians had shifted to something livelier, less intimate. Courtiers returned to their wine, their gossip, their hollow games. But Hans sat beside Jitka at the long table as if tethered—breath shallow, body humming, throat dry.

She looked entirely unbothered.

He studied her—how she sliced her bread with court-trained elegance, how she tilted her head as if politely curious about a conversation she wasn't actually hearing. A curl of moonlight-pale hair had come loose from her pinned style, falling against her cheek like something drawn by a fevered hand. She brushed it back without thought.

Hans was drowning in thoughts.

“I suppose,” he said, voice low and even, “this conversation isn’t over.”

Jitka didn’t look at him. “I didn’t realize it had started.”

He leaned closer, just enough that the others at the table wouldn’t hear. “A man failing to romance his wife is a failure I cannot live with.”

Her knife paused.

“And you’re so afraid of failure?” she asked, mildly. “Strange. I’ve heard it’s your specialty.”

Hans gave a humorless chuckle. “Not when it matters.”

She turned to look at him then. Those blue eyes—clear as the sky after a storm, just as likely to strike.

“Many a noble marriage,” she said calmly, “is not founded in love, Hans.”

There was no cruelty in her tone. Just truth.

“I’d rather not be the wife who discovers it,” she continued, “and then throws herself off the battlements when her loving husband gets bored and finds himself in a brothel.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she leaned in.

So close.

Too close.

The scent of her—amber, smoke, and something else he hadn’t named yet—curled around his senses like a noose.

“And for your romantic failings,” she murmured, her voice silk-dipped sin, “I’ve heard all about those.”

Hans stiffened.

Jitka’s lips were a breath from his ear now. The breath that creased his skin there sent a bolt down his spine, pooling hot and fast in his gut.

“Henry told me,” she whispered, “at embroidery circle.”

Hans almost choked. “You—what—”

“About the camp incident,” she continued, ignoring his sputter, “before you two were lovers. When you took a lovely village girl to see your... what was it Henry said?” Her breath was a velvet ribbon sliding down his neck. “Ah, yes. Your noble member.”

Heat exploded across Hans’s cheeks. And not just his cheeks.

Jitka leaned back just enough to meet his eyes—mock-innocent, gleaming.

“He said,” she added, the words sliding like wine down his spine, “you were stung by a bee on said noble member. And ran to him, breeches down, wailing, demanding help.”

Hans could barely breathe.

“He had to balm it,” Jitka went on, sipping her wine delicately, as if discussing the weather. “Henry said it’s the closest he’s ever looked and been to your noble member. Even now, as your lover.”

She leaned back, satisfied. She didn’t need to touch him. She didn’t have to. Hans could feel the pressure building—tight, hot, unbearable.

She looked down—pointedly—then back up, her mouth twisting into a delighted smirk.

“Oh my,” she said sweetly. “Is it hot, husband? You’re looking rather... flushed.”

Hans tried, failed, to adjust his position discreetly.

Jitka’s smile widened like a blade unsheathed.

“Truly,” she said, biting back a laugh, “you must calm yourself. Think of the bees.”

He made a strangled noise.

She took another sip of wine.

“I told you,” she said casually, “you’re too easy to wind up.”

Hans clenched his jaw.

“And that,” she added, sharp now, “is why I’m not interested.”

That hurt.

She didn’t blink.

“Because look at you. Look at what I can do to you,” she said, still just low enough that no one else could hear. “And I’m the one you once called a witch. You were right.”

Her voice softened—mocking again, like honey turned rotten.

“In public, no less. How shameful for the heir to Rattay. To have such little self-control.”

Hans groaned. Quietly. Desperately.

Jitka tilted her head, as if considering mercy.

Then chose violence instead.

“Oh—before I forget—” she said brightly. “Henry mentioned something else. What was it?” She tapped her lip, thinking. “Something about a washer woman. And a bear.”

Hans’s soul tried to leave his body.

“He was very vague,” she continued, voice all sugar and malice. “But I would very much like the full story.”

Hans didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

She leaned back, smiled sweetly, and resumed her wine like a woman who had not just utterly destroyed her husband with the gentle power of a whispered anecdote.

Hans stared straight ahead, cheeks burning, trousers betraying him, his own desire an unrelenting punishment.

She was toying with him.

Like a cat with a mouse.

And he—idiot Hans Capon—had thought he was the hunter.

He cursed under his breath. At the gods. At women.

And then, with great bitterness and very real shame, he cursed Henry.

And embroidery circles.

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Chapter 34: Masks of Noblity 

Hans’ POV

The Baron’s great hall glittered with the hollow sheen of wealth: wax-dripped chandeliers, tapestries depicting the victories of men who had never lifted a sword, and a shallow stage occupied by a quartet of musicians attacking their lutes as if rhythm could be bludgeoned into submission. The air reeked of roast boar, tallow smoke, and the ambition of minor nobility—all choked down with sweetened wine and the sound of forced laughter.

Hans Capon had endured worse. But rarely while wearing such an infuriatingly tight doublet. Or while trying not to stare at his wife like a starving man at a feast.

Lady Jitka Capon, draped in midnight-blue velvet with a bodice scandalously snug and sleeves trailing like ribbons of ink, was currently pretending she didn’t know how to dance.

“This is torture,” she muttered under her breath as they were called forward. “You know that, yes? I’d rather skin a deer with a spoon.”

“You lie,” Hans said, offering his hand with a smug little bow. “You love the attention.”

“I hate attention.”

He took her hand anyway, smiling. “And yet here you are. Wearing a dress that should be tried for sorcery.”

The dance began—slow and sweeping, the courtly steps designed more for display than intimacy. But when Jitka moved, Hans faltered.

He had expected stiffness. Sulking.

Instead, she flowed like ink spilled over marble. Her hips shifted with calculated grace. Her chin lifted in mock defiance. When she turned, her skirts whirled with the arrogance of smoke.

It wasn’t just seductive. It was lethal.

Other men noticed. Hans saw them—eyes tracking her, mouths parting. She was his wife, and still they stared like fools.

He leaned in during a pivot, voice low and burning. “You told me you hated dancing.”

“I do.”

“And yet you move like a sin in search of a willing priest.”

She smiled with too much teeth. “That’s because Papa panicked.”

Hans blinked, thrown. “What?”

“I was eleven. Some lady of court pointed out that he was raising me like a boy. Said it was improper for us to wear matching jerkins.”

Hans nearly stumbled.

“So,” she continued, as if discussing rainfall, “since he had no wife and fewer manners, he asked his favorite courtesan to teach me ‘womanly ways.’” She twirled, arm arcing gracefully before returning to his grasp. “Dancing. Flirting. Walking like I had secrets between my thighs.”

Hans swallowed hard. “And did she succeed?”

Jitka smirked. “Depends who you ask.”

“I’d like to thank her personally.”

“Of course you would.”

They danced another slow circle. Heat coiled low in Hans’s belly. He let his hand rest just a breath too low on her back. She didn’t move it. But her eyes gleamed like blades.

“Shall we play another game, husband?” she said smoothly. “You like poetry, yes?”

Hans blinked. “I—yes.”

“Good. Then speak in verse. I find it’s the only time you’re honest.”

He grinned. “Very well.”

She went first, voice low but cutting, every word threaded into the rhythm of the dance.

“I’ve tasted no love, nor dared the flame,

My hands are clean, but not my name.

I've worn desire like a hidden knife—

I do not bleed, I take the life.

For those who love, I offer warning:

I leave them ruined by the morning.”

Hans's heart thudded, stunned by the precision of her cruelty. Her poetry was a weapon. Beautiful. Brutal. Like her.

He gathered himself, breath catching as they turned again. He met her gaze.

“Your lips speak thorns, your steps deny,

Yet here you dance, and meet my eye.

You call me fool, a flame too fast—

But I would burn if it would last.

I’ve shared my bed, it’s true, not few—

But none have ever danced like you.”

Jitka arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Then keep your flames and scattered heat—

I am no coin for you to cheat.

You want my heart, but call it lust—

I know your mouth. I know your trust.

You have the blacksmith’s heart, I see—

And you mistake his stead for me.

I will not crack for passing fire—

Nor join the line of your desire.”

Hans felt the flush rise to his ears. The verse struck too near—too clever, too cruel, too true. But he was not without weapons.

They turned. Closer. Closer.

He spoke into the hush between steps.

“The blacksmith’s arms have held me well,

In truth, he’s soot, where you are spell.

With Henry, I find rest and grace—

But you? You tear the mask from face.

If love is calm, then he is shore—

But you, my storm, I ache for more.

I’ve lied, I’ve strayed, I’ve lived in smoke—

But what I feel for you? That chokes.”

Her mouth parted—then closed. Her verse was slower this time. Almost... quiet.

“Your hunger flatters. Your tongue is sweet.

But sweet turns sour beneath deceit.

You say you burn, that I’m your vice—

Yet leave your mark on others’ thighs.

I know your nature, Hans Capon—

A rake, a rogue, a passing dawn.

My heart is steel. My soul is flame.

I will not answer to your name.”

The music slowed. The last spin began. He drew her in as tradition demanded—hands firm at her waist, her breath hot against his throat.

He whispered, so only she could hear:

“I’ve touched too many. I won’t deny.

But none have ever made me try.

I want your laughter. I want your scorn.

I want the girl your pain has sworn.

If I’m a fool, then let me be—

The fool who kneels before you, see.”

They held the final pose.

Jitka’s eyes were unreadable.

“Bold words, husband,” she murmured, voice like velvet over broken glass. “But I’ve no intention of being one of many.”

“I never said you were.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She broke the hold and curtsied.

The crowd applauded.

Hans bowed. But he was watching her the whole time.

And Jitka—Jitka walked away with the grace of a woman who had never once tripped over love.

And left Hans standing in the center of the floor, drowning in it.

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Hi Masks of nobility has been pretty quiet I'm hoping to get it over to A03 this week or next week I'll post the link up here. I'll probably post here first though.

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This!

Exactly what he wanted, he received...

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