She knelt at the altar ahead of him, her figure bathed in the warm glow of the flames. Her hands were clasped tightly, her head bowed, the curve of her profile catching the light just enough to make him pause. He hesitated, standing in the shadows, his gauntlets held loosely in one hand.

Gwayne had seen her before, of course—at feasts, at court, in fleeting moments when duty allowed. But here, now, she was something different, something softer. A daughter of Oldtown, her features were familiar yet uniquely her own. She carried the weight of their shared bloodline, and in this still moment, Gwayne felt it like a tether pulling him closer.

He cleared his throat softly, not wanting to startle her. She turned at the sound, her eyes meeting his in surprise before softening into recognition. “Uncle Gwayne,” she said, her voice low and even, though the faintest trace of warmth colored her tone.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, his voice quiet out of respect for the setting. “I’ve only just arrived, and your brother mentioned I might find you here.”

She straightened, rising from her knees gracefully, the candlelight dancing in her eyes. “You’ve come a long way,” she said, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “Was the journey kind to you?”

He offered a faint smile, his usual composed demeanor slipping just enough to show something more—something softer. “Kind enough. Though I suppose I could say the same of this welcome. You’re the first Hightower I’ve seen since I rode through the gates.”

Her lips quirked, a faint smile teasing at the corners. “I’m honored, then, to represent the family.”

Gwayne stepped closer, the sound of his boots on stone echoing softly in the quiet space. He watched her carefully, his gaze lingering perhaps a moment longer than propriety allowed. “You’ve grown,” he said, and the words carried more weight than he intended.