The dusk lingered long that winter eve, as though the sun itself were reluctant to part with the pale heavens. Within the keep, the air was thick with smoke and the sharp scent of cold stone. Servants moved like shadows through the draughty halls, cloaks drawn tight, their breath pale ghosts in the dim light. Even the guards, proud men of steel and vigilance, sought excuses to remain within—no soul wished to brave the night wind that howled through the ramparts.

Sir Otto von Bergow stood near the great table where maps lay scattered, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture as rigid as the oaken beams above. Behind him, one of his reeves—a grey-clad, tight-lipped man who served as his informant from the outer holdings—finished his report, voice trembling faintly in the chill. Otto gave a curt nod, dismissing him with a quiet, “That will suffice, goodman. See to it the outer fires are tended. I’ll not have the men freeze for want of haste.”

When the door shut, silence took the chamber whole.

The castle was in need of many things—new mortar, stronger hearths, thicker shutters—but none so much as warmth. Winter had come hard and late, and the cold crept like a cunning beast into every corner. Smoke clung to the tapestries and garments alike, the scent of it forever in the air. Yet, for all its discomfort, Otto found the cold almost a mercy. For his wife was in labor, and the midwives had promised him a winter child—a child born beneath frost and ash, strong and long-lived. The season’s lateness, they said, was a blessing.

Still, the lady’s strength had waned over the months, her pallor grown thin as candle wax. The healers whispered of humors and chills, of ill moons and weary bones, but Otto would hear none of it. Her duty was done—his house would have an heir, perhaps two, and his prayers would see them live past the fortnight.

It was not a marriage of warmth. It was one of necessity, sealed by vow and station. She was a noblewoman, fine of speech and manner, deserving of the respect her title commanded—and so he gave it. When her pregnancy was confirmed, he granted her distance and quiet, visited when form demanded, and took to sleeping in his own chamber. Duty, not affection, had bound them, yet he bore her no unkindness.

Now, as he stepped through the door to the nursery, the air within was thick with the hush of sleeping breath and burning wood. A cradle of dark pine stood close to the hearth—close enough for comfort, yet far enough that the smoke would not touch delicate lungs. One of the twins slept within, his tiny hands curled like petals against the blanket. The other was cradled in his mother’s arms.

She looked up at him as he entered, the movement slow, weary, but not without grace. Her hair—was unbound, falling loose over her shoulders. In the dim firelight, she looked almost spectral, though her eyes still held their quiet resolve.

“You should rest,” Otto said, his tone neither harsh nor tender, but measured, almost ceremonial. He moved closer, boots silent against the rushes. “The healers swore the worst had passed. You’ve done all that was required of you, my lady.”