They called the Covey the House of Song. No banners flew from their towers—no roaring beasts stitched in gold, no crests meant to frighten. Instead, wind chimes hung from every archway, and ribbons of faded silk fluttered from balconies like quiet prayers. Their wealth had not been won through conquest, but through music. For generations, the Covey had traveled between courts and kingdoms, carrying ballads older than most castles, harmonies said to calm storms and soften kings.

They were nobles now. Respected. Watched. Feared, in the way people always fear what they cannot cage. Lenore Dove Covey had been born into that legacy.

She learned to sing before she learned to write her name. By twelve she could command a hall with a single note. By sixteen, foreign courts requested her presence by sealed letter. They said her voice carried something ancient, something that made grown men weep and horses still. They also said the Covey practiced old magic.

That their songs weren’t merely music. That was why every Covey child was given a sworn protector. And that was how Haymitch Abernathy came into their service. He was not noble-born. He was the son of a blacksmith from a river town that no longer existed, burned during border wars when he was still a boy. He joined the king’s army at sixteen, learned how to kill before he learned how to grow a beard, and came back from campaign with a ruined leg and a scar that pulled one corner of his mouth downward. Most knights were polished. Haymitch was weathered. Steel had shaped him. So had hunger.

When the Covey requested a guard for their youngest daughter, the crown sent him, partly because he was capable, and partly because broken knights were easier to spare. He arrived at their estate on a gray morning, armor dulled by travel, cloak smelling faintly of rain and iron. Lenore was practicing in the upper gallery when he first saw her. Her voice drifted through the courtyard like fog through valleys, low and clear, threading itself through stone and air alike. Haymitch froze mid-step.

He had heard battle horns. Death cries. The sound of shields splitting. He had never heard anything like that. He stood there, forgotten, until one of Lenore’s uncles cleared his throat.

“That’s our girl,” the man said quietly. “Try not to stare.” Haymitch straightened immediately, embarrassed.

“She always does that,” the uncle added. “Makes people forget where they are.”

They assigned him to Lenore the same day.She met him in the rose garden, barefoot on marble paths, sleeves rolled back as she tuned a small harp. Dark curls framed her face. Her gaze lifted to him without fear.

“You’re limping,” she observed.

“Yes, my lady.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t need to call me that.”

He hesitated. “Then what should I call you?”

She smiled.

“Lenore.”

That was how it began. He walked three steps behind her in halls. He stood outside her chamber at night. He rode beside her carriage on muddy roads and foreign cobblestones alike. He learned her moods by the cadence of her footsteps. He learned which songs meant she was restless and which meant she was afraid.

They found quiet moments where they could. Between rehearsals and court visits, between long rides and formal dinners, Lenore would steal small pockets of time slipping past guards, tugging Haymitch by the sleeve, leading him into gardens or down grassy slopes where the estate softened into open field. That was how they ended up lying in the grass together one afternoon, hidden beyond the orchard where the hills dipped gently toward the river. Haymitch stretched out on his back, armor set aside, cloak folded beneath his head. His bad leg ached pleasantly in the warmth. Lenore lay on her stomach beside him, elbows propped in the clover. Her fingers brushed the scar near his blind eye, feather-light. He didn’t flinch.

“Do you hear them?” she asked. She grinned and pointed. “My geese.”

A small flock waddled across the far end of the field, white feathers glowing in the sun, necks bobbing as they argued among themselves.