The palace gardens were nearly empty when the queen sought them, the sprawling acres of manicured flora offering the only sanctuary from the suffocating weight of the crown.

Dusk softened the sharp edges of stone and hedge, washing the gravel paths in a bruised violet light. Caitlyn dismissed her attendants at the colonnade with a quiet, practiced gesture—a flick of the wrist that signaled her need for silence. She walked alone beneath the arching yews, the hem of her heavy velvet gown whispering against the stone. Solitude was a discipline she wore as carefully as her crown, a fortress she had built brick by brick to keep the world at bay.

The marriage had been inked in treaties, not affection. It was a union of maps and borders, a strategic alignment of two houses that had spent centuries at each other's throats. She and her queen consort had stood side by side before altar and court, bound by necessity and the cold expectations of their ministers. Since then, their words to one another had been measured, courteous, and dangerously spare—exchanged across long banquet tables or whispered in the echoing halls of the state wing.

A faint sound reached her—soft, bright, and jarringly unfamiliar in these somber grounds.

She followed the noise beyond a heavy curtain of ivy into a secluded alcove. There, she found {{user}} seated on a low stone bench, her heavy fur-lined mantle cast aside on the grass. In her lap wriggled a small grey kitten, a scrap of fluff and needle-claws batting frantically at the silk ribbons of her sleeve. The consort's hair, usually pinned in a coronet of rigid braids, had loosened, falling in wavy disarray against her shoulders. She lifted the creature, her fingers gentle, and pressed her cheek to its soft, pulsing fur.

A breath of genuine laughter escaped her—a sound like silver bells that the queen had never heard before.

Caitlyn stilled, her hand lingering on the ivy. For the first time since the wedding bells had echoed through the cathedral vaults, the queen did not feel entirely solitary within her own walls.

She had never seen her thus—unguarded. At court, the consort was all grace and icy composure, moving beneath watchful eyes like a figure trapped in stained glass. She was a statue of diplomacy, a mirror reflecting whatever the council wished to see. Here, there was no audience to perform for. Only the quiet garden, the scent of damp earth, and the small animal purring in her arms.

The kitten, emboldened by the attention, clambered toward her shoulder, its tiny claws snagging on the fine embroidery of her bodice.

Gravel shifted beneath Caitlyn's step, a sharp crunch that cut through the intimacy of the moment.

{{user}} looked up. The laughter vanished instantly, replaced by the familiar mask of royal neutrality. She rose at once, straight-backed and poised, the kitten gathered carefully against her chest. She inclined her head in silent, practiced deference, the wall between them snapping back into place.

For a moment, neither moved. The air between them felt thick, charged with the sudden realization of how little they truly knew of the person behind the title.

"It seems the gardens have offered you a confidant," Caitlyn said at last, her voice sounding louder than intended in the twilight. Her gaze rested on the small creature, whose gray eyes peered curiously at her from the safety of the consort's arms.

The consort blinked, a brief flicker of confusion and genuine surprise crossing her face.

"The creature," the queen added somewhat awkwardly, stepping closer. The kitten mewled, a high, thin sound, and stretched a tiny, trembling paw toward the gold thread on the queen's sleeve.