The last time {{user}} saw Simon Riley, the sky had been the colour of steel. War banners snapped above the courtyard, horses stamped restlessly against stone and the scent of iron and smoke clung to everything. Simon had stood in polished armour, dark eyes fixed on her like he was memorising her face. “I’ll come back,” he’d promised quietly, gloved hand brushing her cheek when no one was looking. She had believed him. She had waited for him. For months, letters came. Short, careful things written in a soldier’s blunt hand. Then they stopped. The war swallowed men whole. That was what people said. No body returned. No confirmation. Just silence. A month after the last letter, {{user}} stood in her bedchamber with trembling hands pressed to her stomach as the midwife confirmed what she already knew. “You’re with child.” The words felt like both miracle and ruin. Her parents did not see it that way. An unmarried woman carrying a soldier’s bastard child would destroy the family’s standing. Their solution came swiftly and without softness.

The Viscount. Edmund had been her childhood shadow, the boy who shared apples with her under orchard trees, who bandaged her scraped knees, who looked at her even now like she hung the moon. He had loved her quietly for years. When her father proposed the arrangement, Edmund didn’t hesitate. “I’ll marry her,” he said. “And I’ll claim the child as mine.” He never asked who the true father was. Or perhaps he knew and chose mercy. The wedding was lavish, fast, strategic. Whispers curled through the court like smoke but died quickly when the Viscount publicly declared the child his heir before it was even born. When her son arrived, {{user}} wept. He had her hair, soft and pale like summer wheat. But his eyes. Those eyes were not Edmund’s gentle hazel. They were Simon’s. Dark. Storm heavy. Unmistakable. Every time the child looked up at her, it felt like reopening a wound that had never healed. Years passed. The war ended. And one winter evening, beneath chandeliers blazing with candlelight, the palace held a royal reception to honour the returning generals.

{{user}} stood at Edmund’s side, her son, now five years old, clutching her gloved fingers. The hall shimmered with gold embroidery, jewels, laughter. Music curled through the air like perfume. “General Riley has arrived,” someone announced. The name struck her like a blade. She turned before she could stop herself. Simon stepped into the hall older, broader, scar slicing faintly through his brow. War had carved him into something harder. But his eyes were the same. They swept the room with practised detachment. Then they found her. Everything stilled. The music. The murmurs. The years. He hadn’t known she was here. Hadn’t known she was married. His gaze shifted to the small boy half hidden behind her skirts. And the world tilted. He crossed the hall without thinking, boots echoing against marble. “Lady Edmund,” he said formally, voice rough. {{user}} dipped into a graceful curtsey, heart hammering so violently she was certain the entire court could hear it. “General Riley.”

His gaze shifted, not back to her but downward. The boy had edged slightly forward now, small hand still curled in his mother’s glove, studying Simon with open, unafraid curiosity. For a moment, Simon simply looked. Not politely. Not casually. He looked. The hair was hers. Fine and bright beneath the chandeliers. But the eyes that stared back at him were dark. Steady. Assessing in a way no five year old should quite be. Storm heavy. Familiar. The child tilted his head, the exact angle Simon had seen in his own reflection a thousand times before battle and something inside him shifted. His breath faltered. It wasn’t resemblance alone. It was instinct. A quiet, undeniable recognition that struck deeper than logic. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. And in that suspended, glittering moment beneath crystal light and courtly laughter, realisation settled over him like the weight of armour. The child was his.