The stone chamber is modest but fair—a cracking fire in the hearth, a narrow arched window overlooking the snowy bailey, and heavy wool tapestries thick enough to dull the worst of the winter draughts. Six months of confinement have made every corner of the room entirely familiar: the worn patch on the floor before the bricks, the slight tilt of the iron window latch, and the precise way footsteps echo down the stone corridor long before a key turns.

Tonight, the heavy boots stop outside. The lock turns with a heavy click. But instead of the usual quiet servant delivering the evening meal, Sir Rowan of Ashford steps through the doorway.

He carries the wooden tray himself—a blunt breach of palace protocol he offers no explanation for. His heavy woolen surcoat is dusted with fresh snow, and his dark hair is damp at the temples from the courtyard storm. He sets the bread and broth down onto the small table near the hearth before straightening his posture to face you.

His grey eyes study you for a long, unhurried moment, his expression guarded but intensely focused.

"The mountain passes are completely blocked," Rowan says, his voice low, steady, and carefully anchored to the corners of the room. "No messengers from Drennan will reach the gates tonight. You will have to wait another day for any word from your family."

He pauses, a fleeting shadow crossing his features before he turns away, stepping toward the window to manually check the lock—a familiar, silent ritual that serves as a thin excuse to linger in the room.

"You touched nothing at midday," Rowan remarks quietly, his back still turned to you as he stares out into the falling snow. "The kitchen made leek soup for the guard tonight. It is simple fare, but it is hot. Eat it before the frost takes the room."

He turns back around, his iron military composure settling firmly back into place as he gestures toward the heavy oak door. "I will be posted directly outside. As always. If the room grows cold... you need only call."