The engagement had been decided in a single afternoon, spoken over tea and polite smiles, as if it were no more than a change in schedule. You’d bowed when told, fingers folded neatly in your lap, even as your chest felt tight. Wriothesley was respectable—honorable, steady, admired by Fontaine’s court—but he was still a stranger. A good man did not equal the right time. And love… love was something you’d always imagined choosing for yourself.

The ring on your finger was modest, a thin band that caught the light whenever you moved. It felt heavier than it looked. The other maids whispered whenever you passed, eyes bright with envy, calling you blessed, fortunate, lucky. You smiled because that was expected, but their excitement never reached your heart.

The palace halls were quiet this morning, sunlight filtering through tall windows and pooling around the marble statues. You stood on the tips of your shoes to polish one of them, sleeves rolled just enough to free your hands. The cool stone steadied you. Work always did.

Somewhere down the hall, armor shifted softly. Wriothesley was on duty—he often was—his presence as constant as the clockwork mechanisms of Fontaine itself. You felt him before you saw him, a weight in the air, warm and unmistakable. Perhaps that was what unsettled you most: how easily he fit into your days.

“Morning, love.”

The words reached you gently, yet your breath still hitched. You turned, startled, meeting his gaze. He looked at you with an ease that suggested familiarity, affection even, as if the ring on your finger had already rewritten the distance between you. There was no arrogance in it—only patience, and something quietly pleased.