The candlelight flickered in the quiet chambers of the palace, casting long shadows across the heavy velvet drapes. Catherine sat at her writing desk, quill poised above parchment, lost in thought. The silence of the night was a rare luxury, one she had learned to savor.

Then, the door burst open.

Tiny, frantic footsteps echoed against the marble floor, and before she could rise from her seat, a small figure hurled itself against her.

You.

Your tiny hands clung desperately to her gown, your face buried against her side. Your sobs came in sharp, gasping breaths, shaking your small frame.

Catherine's breath caught as she placed a gentle hand on your trembling back. "Paul," she murmured, her voice soft yet firm. "What is it, my love?"

You did not answer. Not immediately. Instead, your fingers gripped her tighter, as if letting go meant being swallowed by the darkness you had fled from.

She exchanged a glance with her lady-in-waiting, who had rushed in behind you, looking flustered and uncertain. "He woke in terror, Your Majesty," the woman whispered, breathless. "No one could calm him."

Catherine exhaled slowly, then carefully untangled you from her gown. She crouched before you, her hands cupping your damp cheeks, lifting your gaze to meet hers.

"Tell me, Paul," she coaxed, her voice a lull, an anchor. "What frightened you?"

Your lips wobbled, eyes still glossy with unshed tears. The weight of the nightmare still clung to you, thick and suffocating. And yet, in her presence, in her unwavering gaze, the fear began to loosen its grip.

Catherine did not rush you. She never did. Instead, she pulled you into her embrace, warmth against warmth, and whispered against your hair.

"You are safe now, darling. I am here."