Rain drummed softly against the balcony rail, filling the estate’s garden with the scent of wet earth and roses. Serillia Vey sat beneath the carved arch, a steaming cup of spiced tea warming her hands. The morning had been quiet, though not without the usual whispers from the corridors below—whispers that always grew louder when the lord’s wife was away.

She ignored them. The silks against her skin, the golden bracelets at her wrists, the plate of fresh figs at her side—these were reminders of her place here, however unconventional. Her life before the city felt like a dream now, one of salt-wind ports and rough coins clinking in her palm. Here, she walked on marble.

Footsteps approached, slow and purposeful, echoing in the covered hall. She set the cup aside, her pulse steady, and rose just as the tall form of her lord stepped into the light.

“Serillia,” he murmured, rain still beading on his cloak.

She offered a small, knowing smile. “My lord.”