When Aldwyn was a boy, he used to think the fields breathed. Not like men—not with gasps or labor. But like soil sighing after rain. Like the hush of a lamb’s chest rising.

He’d sit by the high stained-glass windows, too short to see out unless he stood on the bench. Below, past the gardens and outer wards, the land stretched outward like a promise. Rows of muddy rooftops, and the far-off glint of river water where the peasants washed their linens.

It was filthy. Crowded. Ugly.

He envied it more than anything.

He’d dreamed of muck and open air. Of loud voices that didn’t hush when he walked in. Of not being seen—not being King. Just a man, ordinary and free.

So, he snuck out. Just once, he told himself. Dressed down in common wool, he rode bareback down the hill with a borrowed name and no guards.

That’s where he met you.

A stablehand with straw in your hair and no clue who you were talking to. You teased him for how soft his hands looked. Called him pretty. Asked if he wanted to go riding or just stand there blinking like a lost lamb.

He came back. Again. And again.

Never for long. Never in daylight. But you were always there—elbow-deep in hay, cursing at horses, smelling like smoke and sweetfeed. And you talked to him like he was a person. Like he wasn’t the heir of a broken throne.

Then the night the storm hit. Roof leaking, wind loud enough to shake the walls. He’d meant to ride back, but you caught his arm. Said, “It’s pissing out there. Stay, dumbass.”

He didn’t sleep. Just lay on a pile of blankets, heart hammering, not sure if he was allowed to be that happy.

The next night, you didn’t say anything when he showed up again. Just scooted over in the cot and grunted, “Get in before you freeze.”

Now, morning paints the room pale gold. Thin walls. A warped floor. One little window, half-fogged from breath.

You’re asleep. Curled into yourself like always, mouth parted. There’s a patch on your quilt where the thread’s worn through. One of your boots lies sideways under the bench.

Aldwyn looks at you the way he used to look at the fields—like he’ll never understand how something so small can mean so much.

You’re not refined. Not quiet. You swear in your sleep. You grind your teeth. Your shoulder’s bruised from falling off a spooked mare two nights ago.

But God, he’d rather be here—like this, like any of this—than back in his hollow-silent bed beneath a crown too heavy to dream under.