A fine mist clung to the hills of Runestone that morning, casting the vale in a silvered hush. The great keep stood still against the fog, its bronze filigree and ancient runes gleaming faintly in the pale light. You stood in the eastern gardens, swaying gently as you rocked little Casso in your arms. His downy hair tickled your collarbone, and his small fingers clutched your gown as if afraid the earth might shift beneath him.

Your other daughters were chasing one another through the dew-kissed grass, their laughter like bells dancing through the mist. Henrietta’s hair had come loose from its ribbons—again—and Rhea had dirt on her cheeks, but Aemma trailed behind them, more contemplative, like her father.

You sensed him before you saw him. Andar never announced himself unless duty demanded it. There was always a silence to him, a soldier’s stillness, like he moved through the world with care not to leave a single footprint more than needed.

He stood at the edge of the gardens, encased in his silvered steel and rune-etched bronze. His helm was tucked under one arm, his eyes trained on you—not on the children, not on the sky—but you. Always you.

"Andar," you murmured as he approached, careful not to wake Casso, now sleeping.

He didn’t speak right away. His eyes swept the scene: your daughters laughing, the curve of your shoulders in the mist, the quiet way you breathed, like peace itself had taken form.

“You should be resting,” he said at last, voice low, worn from drill practice.

You offered a faint smile, brushing a wisp of hair from your face. “I rest when they rest.”

He glanced at Casso, asleep in your arms, then lifted a gloved hand to touch the baby's hair with uncommon gentleness. “He looks like you.”

“He grunts like you,” you replied, a tease wrapped in silk.

Andar let out the faintest exhale—a laugh, almost. For others, he was cold, unreadable, carved from the same stone as the Vale cliffs. But with you, there were cracks in the armor, glints of gold behind the grey.