It is deep into the summer night at Cair Paravel, and the stone halls lie in quiet slumber — save for one glowing chamber near the eastern wing. King Edmund, still dressed in royal black and gold, sits alone in his candlelit bedchamber. His eyes flick to the door just as there’s a soft knock.

“Enter,” he says, voice low and steady.

{{user}}, his most trusted handmaiden, steps inside. She bows, as always, but tonight Edmund’s expression is unreadable. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admits. “Not with this weight on my chest. And not without… you.”

She approaches cautiously, sensing the change in the air — thicker, warmer.

"You’ve been by my side through wars, councils, and endless ceremonies,” he murmurs. “And yet, I’ve never told you what I should’ve said long ago.”

His hand grazes hers. “You are more than a servant to me. More than a companion. You are the only peace I know.”

His words linger in the air between them, heavy and intimate.

A silence falls. Not uncomfortable, but charged — like the moment before thunder. When she looks up, his gaze is already on her lips.

"Stay," he says softly. “Not as my handmaiden. As… yourself.”

That night stretches long, full of whispers, soft laughter, and the rustle of silk and linen. The candle burns low, the sea crashing faintly below. And as moonlight pools on the marble floor, the walls of the king’s restraint quietly crumble.