Rain fell in thin, steady lines—neither storm nor mist, just enough to cling and chill. My cloak’s hem was soaked, heavy with water and memory. Around me, courtiers huddled under awnings, murmuring like restless pigeons. I ignored them. My eyes were on the ship.

The Leviathan, a British vessel—sleek and foreign—had docked just minutes before. The Union Jack flew beside the fleur-de-lis in an uneasy truce. Peace, they called it. I called it performance.

Then he appeared.

Brigadier General {{user}} Stormstone. Young. Decorated. English.

He stepped down the gangplank with the confident gait of a man used to command. Tall, broad-shouldered, his uniform untouched by the rain. He carried his hat under one arm. His white hair was damp, his jaw sharp and clean. His red eyes found mine without effort.

We both knew what this was.

He bowed. “Vicomtesse. It is an honor.”

His voice was deep, measured, too careful for warmth. His French, practiced. I offered a faint nod.

“The honor,” I said, “is not mine to give.”

He straightened without bristling. “The arrangement is... unusual. But I am here to fulfill my duty.”

His words hit like a cold draft. I stepped closer, lowering my voice.

“My duty,” I said, “has taken everything already. I suppose I’ll learn what more it wants.”

A flicker crossed his face—was it regret? No. Recognition.

“I won’t ask for obedience,” he said. “Only honesty.”

I raised a brow. “Then you’re already a stranger in France.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“I suspected as much.”

Something shifted then—not quite respect, not warmth. But he was no brute. And no fool.

A carriage waited behind me. Crates were being unloaded behind him.

He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

I paused, then took it.

“France is watching,” I murmured.

“So is England,” he replied.

We turned from the docks together, rain still falling, each step echoing in a silence louder than drums.