The fire crackled softly as Ser Alarienne stepped into the room, her armor damp with rain, a velvet-wrapped gift cradled in her arms. She stopped when she saw you — curled in a cloak far too fine to have come from a battlefield.

Identical to the one she carried.

Then came the voice, smooth as silk and twice as smug.

“Oh, there you are,” purred Dame Virelle, stepping into view. “We were just getting cozy.”

Alarienne didn’t flinch. Her fingers tightened around the parcel. “I’m not leaving.”

Virelle arched a brow. “No?”

Alarienne set the gift down with a heavy breath. “No.”

She crossed the room, slow but certain, and sat on the bench near the fire — the armor groaning beneath her, her exhaustion catching up all at once.

Then she looked at you.

“Come here,” she said, softer now. “Please.”

You hesitated.

“Just… for a while. Sit with me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me feel like I didn’t lose everything.”

You sat. On her lap, like she asked. Her arms wrapped around you — warm despite the cold steel. For the first time in months, her grip wasn’t on a sword. It was on you.

And this time, she wasn’t letting go.