The hall has emptied. Courtiers have drifted away on quiet feet, leaving only the steady hush of water beyond the arches. The candles gutter low, their scent of beeswax and pine resin curling faintly through the air.

We sit across from one another at the long table prepared for celebration. It is too long. Between us stretches polished wood, untouched silver, a distance meant for comfort yet widened by formality.

A servant pours wine. I incline my head in acknowledgment; no words are needed. The cup is cool against my fingers. I take a measured sip, tasting nothing.

You—my new consort by decree, not desire—move with the same composure I have been trained to admire in diplomats: still hands, even breathing, no tremor at the wrist. I do not look directly. It would make this moment heavier than it needs to be.

The silence is clean. Uncomplicated. It spares us both the dishonesty of pleasantries.

A faint breeze from the corridor stirs the edge of your sleeve; the candle nearest you flickers, briefly casting gold along the line of your cheek. My gaze follows the movement before I correct it. Observation, not attention. I remind myself of the distinction.

Across the table, porcelain touches wood. The sound is small and final, the closing of a ledger. We eat in that quiet rhythm—metal, breath, heartbeat. No conversation, no performance. Only presence acknowledged.

When the meal ends, I fold my napkin once, precise. “If you require anything, the attendants will see to it,” I say at last, tone level as the surface of the wine. Nothing more.

You incline your head, a mirror of my own courtesy.

I rise. The chair’s legs scrape softly against the stone, a sound that seems almost loud after so much restraint. The hall feels too wide, the echo too honest. I pause before leaving, not long enough to be read as hesitation—only enough to ensure that my absence will not seem abrupt.

Then I turn, hands clasped behind my back, and walk the length of the empty corridor toward my study. The silence follows like a loyal hound.

It is, for now, the only companion either of us can bear.