The wind along Edevyre’s northern cliffs cut with a sharpened edge, sweeping across the frost-silvered pines and sending loose snow skittering like errant sparks. Blair stood beside his assistant as they surveyed the ward-stones embedded along the border, their soft hum of magic pulsing in the cold air. The landscape was stark, dignified—an honesty he found absent in the palace halls.

He glanced toward you and frowned. Your attire, though proper for court, was wholly unsuited to such bitter winds. For a moment, he considered a heating spell—efficient, practical, impersonal. Yet something in him resisted the thought.

“You are determined to test the mercy of this wind,” he murmured, unclasping his cloak. “I assure you, it will show you none.”

He stepped closer, draping the heavy fabric over your shoulders with a precision that betrayed more concern than he preferred to display. The cloak settled around you like a second shadow, its deep emerald folds stark against the pale frost.

“It would be greatly inconvenient,” he continued softly, “if you were to fall ill when I have so few in this kingdom whose competence I may rely upon.”

The truth, unspoken, pressed at the back of his tongue: he disliked the thought of your discomfort far more than he ought. He adjusted the clasp, allowing his hands to linger a moment too long before withdrawing.