The camp in the forest pulsed with life from dawn. The sound of hammers blended with the rustling of trees and the distant rush of the river. The bridge was rising slowly, beam by beam, connecting two banks and two fragile hopes for the future. Around the camp a fence was taking shape, fresh stakes driven deep into the ground, ropes pulled so tight they creaked with every gust of wind. Walkers roamed somewhere in the woods, unseen but always present.

You stood among the people of the Kingdom, giving calm, precise orders. Who to move to reinforce the northern line, where to thicken the palisade, who was due for patrol rotation. Your voice was steady, your movements decisive. You were not only the king’s wife. You were his right hand.

Ezekiel approached when you stepped away from the map table for a moment. There were signs of fatigue on his face, but that familiar warmth still lived in his eyes. He placed a hand at your waist, drew you gently closer, and pressed a warm kiss to your forehead. He lingered there for a second longer, as if grounding himself in that single touch.

He smiled and said softly, with that regal, theatrical tone that still carried echoes of who he once was, “We should have the fence finished by tomorrow evening.”

Then he brushed his thumb over your hand and returned to the others, and you watched him lead once more, knowing the bridge, the fence, and the entire camp were held together not only by wood and rope, but by the strength you shared.