The fire crackled softly in Domerica’s chambers, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. The harp rested in her lap, her fingers gliding over the strings, filling the room with a melody both wistful and sweet. It was a song of the North, of windswept moors and quiet snowfall, but softened by the Vale’s gentler air.

Across from her, one of lord Redfort's sons sat, listening intently. He was not her true brother, but in him, she had found something close, a kindness foreign to the Dreadfort.

As the final note faded, she let out a breath and looked to him. “I never had someone else to play for. I hoped I would get a little sibling to play for. I always wanted a brother,” she admitted, voice quiet, almost unsure.