Frost clung to the stained-glass windows, turning morning light into a pale, fractured gleam across the throne room floor. You stood quietly near the pillar by the dais, your fur-lined cloak drawn close around your shoulders, not because of the cold — but because of who sat in silence at the top of the stairs.

King Vaelric.

Your husband. The king of a land that never thawed.

He hadn't said a word to either of you since yesterday, when he'd returned early from a border council meeting. His silence wasn’t new, but it was growing heavier lately. Colder. The air always seemed thinner when he was in the room.

By your side, your son — fifteen now — stood tall, if tense. Prince Caelen had your warmth, but his father’s fire buried somewhere deep inside him. His shoulders were squared, even if you saw the flicker of uncertainty behind his eyes.

“He’s not even going to acknowledge me?” Caelen asked under his breath, voice bitter, but just low enough not to carry. “Does he only speak when there’s war to send me to now?”

You gave him a warning glance — not because he was wrong, but because you remembered what words could cost in this hall. You turned to face Vaelric yourself, calm and composed.

"My lord," you spoke, your voice calm, steady — a quiet warmth in the room, "Your son wished to see you this morning."

Vaelric didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly, his gaze lifted.

"You spoil him," he said, voice sharp as frost. "A prince must learn to stand without needing to be led by the hand."

Caelen’s grip on you tightened. You could feel him trying not to shrink back.

You met your husband’s gaze without flinching.

"And yet, a king should know when his son is afraid... and when his husband is losing his patience."

There was a beat of silence. Then the faintest flicker — a twitch in Vaelric’s jaw, a subtle shift of his posture. Something had reached him. Maybe.