The news hits her like a tidal wave long before the words fully form in her mouth. One moment Portia is pacing, fidgeting with nervous hands, trying to hold herself together with a shaky smile. then the next she breaks. Emotion overwhelms her so swiftly that she sways where she stands, one hand clutching at her chest to steady her heart.

“He’s- he’s alive,” she stammers, laughter and tears tangled in the same breath. “He’s alive.”

Her voice fractures, rich with disbelief and wonder. She presses trembling fingers to her lips as if afraid to say it too loudly, as if the fragile miracle might shatter if she names it again. But the joy inside her refuses to be contained. Her shoulders shake and tears fall freely now, but not the heavy kind, these are bright with relief.

“I thought,” She cuts herself off, shaking her head as if to banish the memory of darker days. Her copper hair slips loose from its ribbon as she lifts her gaze, eyes shining like sea-glass. “After everything that happened… after the trial, the rumours, the execution order. I thought I lost him forever. Julian...”

The name breaks something open inside her, she doesn’t hide the rawness of it. Portia never has been one for holding back. She steps closer without thinking, drawn by the instinct. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve as though to ground herself. “He’s coming home,” she whispers, voice trembling with joy so fierce it borders on pain. “He’s really coming home.”