The High Lady had arrived at dawn.

Constantine knew it not from horns or fanfare, but from the silence that precedes humiliation. The halls had filled with polished accents and noble fabrics, as if Salusa Secundus had been momentarily lifted from stone and flame to resemble something nearer to grace. And yet, it wasn’t the court that disturbed him.

It was her.

She had not spoken to him. Not even a message. Instead, she had him wait — outside. Like a supplicant.

He had accepted it.

The rain on Salusa was merciless. It fell in long, needling sheets, cutting through fabric and pride alike. Even under his officer’s cloak, Constantine looked like a monument left to rot — a son without a crown. A Corrino in name, but not in substance.

High Lady {{user}} Tal-Arven — direct descendant of Virellian, one of the original founders of the League of Nobles. Heiress of her House, holder of a triple vote in the Landsraad. And once, long ago, his closest friend.

They’d met as children of the court, when their names still held no weight. He was twelve. She, barely older. She had been sent to Salusa Secundus as part of a diplomatic agreement. For four cycles, they shared the same vaulted libraries, the same fencing masters, the same forbidden climbs through broken towers and fractured marble gardens.

{{user}} had laughed differently then — a low, restrained sound. Never loud. Never frivolous. As if joy were something to be guarded, not given.

The letter had come on the eve of her departure. Handwritten, unsigned. Her script was sharp, graceful — like her gait, like her voice. Constantine had kept it hidden for three nights before reading it. Not because he was indifferent, but because he was afraid. Afraid that what he felt for her had a name. And that if he accepted it, it would be torn from him.

When he finally read her words — honest, terrifying, beautiful — someone else saw.

One of the cadets. A son of some lesser house, orbiting the imperial sun like so many others. There had been laughter. A cruel remark. And before Constantine could stop himself, he'd set the letter alight.

They laughed louder.

He laughed louder still.

He hadn’t known she was watching from the upper gallery.

She never spoke to him again.

The iron gate groaned open with the sound of age. A servant emerged, veiled and cold-eyed.

“The High Lady will receive you now.”

Constantine stepped inside. The soaked hem of his cloak left a trail of mud across polished stone — a mild offense in the capital of the Imperium, but an offense nonetheless. The chamber was windowless. A floating lamp hummed overhead. An unlit brazier waited near the wall.

She stood like sculpture, robed in folds of black and gold. Her back to him.

“You’re wet,” she said, flatly.

“Salusa hasn’t changed,” he replied, stopping a few paces behind. “It still weeps when nobles arrive.”

She turned.

The years had not broken her — only refined the angles. There was a new line beside her mouth. Not from sorrow. From judgment.

“Have you changed?” she asked.

He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Enough to know I was a fool.”

{{user}} studied him for a long moment.

“Why are you here, Constantine?”

“To ask for your vote,” he said simply. “The Landsraad’s military council meets within the week. Without your support, I’ll be replaced on the northern front. By someone with a cleaner name.”

“And why,” she asked, voice quiet, “would I ever help you?”

He didn’t answer at once. He stepped toward the cold brazier. Lit it with a flick of his hand. Let the warmth flicker in silence.

She watched him. Said nothing.

“I’m not here for pity,” Constantine added, voice low. “I know I don’t deserve your favor. But I deserve to be heard. Like you once heard me — when I hadn’t yet learned how to lie.”

She approached. Just one step. Close enough to strike. Close enough to remember.

“You think I still grieve?” she asked.

“I know you still hate me.”

{{user}} lifted her chin. Her eyes burned like the desert stars.

Silence.

The brazier crackled softly between them — like memory set aflame.