The chamber was modest but not cruel—a fire in the hearth, a window overlooking the bailey, tapestries thick enough to hold back the worst of the draught. Six months had made its corners familiar: the worn spot on the floor before the fire, the tilt of the window latch, the way footsteps echoed in the corridor long before the key turned in the lock.

Tonight, the footsteps stopped. The lock turned. And instead of the usual servant with the evening meal, it was Rowan who entered.

He carried the tray himself—a breach of protocol he would not explain. His surcoat was dusted with snow, his dark hair damp at the temples. He set the food on the small table by the fire, then straightened and turned to face you.

For a moment, he simply looked. That was another thing that had changed—the way he looked at you now, not as a thing to be guarded, but as a person to be seen.

"The roads are bad," he said, his voice low, meant only for this room. "No messengers from Drennan tonight. You'll have to wait another day for word from home."

He paused, something flickering in his grey eyes.

"I thought you should hear it from me. Rather than wonder."

He moved to the window, checking the latch—a habit, a ritual, an excuse to stay a moment longer. His back was to you when he spoke again.

"You ate nothing at midday. The kitchen has leek soup tonight. It's not much, but... it's warm."

He turned, and for just a breath, his guard dropped—enough to see the worry there, the care he could not quite hide.

"I'll be outside. As always." A pause. "If you need anything. You need only call."

He did not say "I will come." He did not need to.