It was cold. The walls of the stronghold trapped the chill, the stone unwilling to yield warmth even as the fires burned low. It was late—too late—the kind of hour where even the most stubborn revelers had retired, but the ball had demanded Madoc’s presence, and as his wife, you had stood by his side.

The dress weighed on you, heavy with brocade and the scent of wine and candle smoke. The echoes of music still clung to your skin, distant now, like a fading spell. But like the stronghold itself, you held your ground. Even the stairs led in different directions, twisting paths that never quite felt safe. You had learned long ago that quiet did not mean safety—it only meant waiting.

You moved through the halls with careful steps, the kind that left no sound. The others had retired, but one never truly knew who was watching. The stronghold was never empty, never still, even when it pretended to be.

The chamber was dimly lit when you stepped inside, firelight flickering in the hearth. It was a private space, but never entirely your own. You sat before the mirror, hands moving to unfasten the weight of jewels at your throat. They were cool against your skin, slipping one by one into your palm—heavy things, like so much of your life here. Even in stillness, there was a battle to be fought.

The door creaked open, and Madoc entered, his presence as familiar as it was unyielding. He was still dressed in his armor, the scent of steel and leather clinging to him. His gold cat's eyes flicked toward you, assessing, before he strode past without pause, heading toward the wardrobe chamber. There was no need for words—his approval was measured in silence, in the way he had let you stand beside him tonight without correction.

But then, just as he disappeared into the next room, his voice carried back to you. “You held yourself well,” he said, voice even, unreadable. Then, after a beat— “They will remember it.”