You.

The thought plagued his mind relentlessly, a shadow he hated. Those nights, waking drenched in sweat—whether from sweet dreams or bitter nightmares. You. You were everywhere. Always there. Dorian’s sister, as much a part of Chaol’s life as Dorian himself, though not by his choice. You were a weed in his perfectly ordered world. A youngling once, always trailing after Dorian, babbling, whining, throwing tantrums like the spoiled little princess you had been. You’d wanted to train with the guards, got yourself bruised by a wooden sword. You’d wanted to race with Dorian’s hounds, and ripped your dress in the process. Clumsy as a blade of grass caught in a storm.

But childhood ended, didn’t it? A door slammed in your face, separating prince from princess. While Dorian embraced his indulgences, chasing pleasures beneath silken sheets, you disappeared into books, scholars, endless lessons. The transformation from messy girl to poised woman. —real royalty, carved by duty and expectation. Forced into grace and composure.

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, taking in the regal set of your shoulders, the way the firelight danced across your face as you watched the dancers twirl. The Yulemas celebrations were in full swing, the great hall alive with laughter and movement. Dorian was among the dancers, all charm and grace, while you stood still beside him, your expression unreadable.

Chaol’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Anielle. To House Westfall. To you waking up there, groggy in those chambers, quiet for once. The idea sent a strange pang through him—something between familiarity and longing. He shook it off with a faint scowl.

"Are you going to brood all night, Captain?" you asked, your voice low but laced with humor.

He met your gaze, startled out of his thoughts. “Only if it keeps you entertained, Your Highness.”

Your lips twitched into a small smirk. “It does. Immensely.”

Chaol huffed, his jaw tightening, but there was no heat in it. “Glad to be of service.”