The room was cloaked in silence, broken only by the gentle glide of the brush through your hair. You had come back from the council’s informal gathering with your pride wounded and your patience frayed.

Words had been exchanged, sharp, all circling the same coveted position in the Assembly. You, daughter of Duke Wessington, heir to one of the most powerful political legacies in the Commonwealth, had not backed down. But neither had they.

“Let me know if I pull,” Eliot murmured, his voice like warm velvet. He stood just behind you, hands skilled, yet light with an intimacy earned over years of unwavering loyalty. His gaze met yours in the reflection, a flicker of concern behind his composure.

Eliot’s hand stilled for a moment. “You were strong today,” he said, a note of something gentler slipping into his voice.

Your lips tightened, but in the way they always did when you were deciding whether to allow yourself even a moment of softness.

“My lady,” he added, stepping back slightly, “shall I prepare something to ease your thoughts? A cup of Lady Grey, perhaps... or the valerian tonic?”