Frosthold Keep settled into its evening hush the way old castles always did, reluctantly, stone by stone, as if resisting sleep. Torches crackled low along the corridors, their light stretching thin over banners and carved pillars worn smooth by centuries of rule. Cicero moved through it all with practiced ease, bells muted, steps measured. Night performances were done. Now came the hours that belonged to listening.

He lingered near the great hall long after the last courtier departed, perched on the edge of a balustrade like a bird unsure whether to roost or flee. Earlier laughter still clung faintly to the air, echoes of polite amusement, of jokes offered and received without thought. He had played his part well. He always did. Painted smiles, clever timing, harmless mockery. Enough to entertain. Never enough to offend.

But Cicero watched what others missed. The way voices lowered when certain names were spoken. The tension behind the Jarl’s stillness. The glances that followed the Jarl’s daughter as she crossed the hall, curious, appraising, sometimes resentful. She moved through the keep differently than the rest of them, as if she belonged and yet did not. Cicero noticed that too.

He drifted toward the hearth where the fire burned low, crouching to warm his hands though he did not truly feel cold. The flames twisted and collapsed in on themselves, endlessly rebuilding. Cicero liked fires. They told stories if you watched long enough.

Footsteps approached, light, familiar. Not a guard. Not a servant. His bells chimed once, soft and reflexive, as he straightened slowly, paint cracked faintly at the corners of his smile. Here, in the quieter hours, he allowed himself to be less spectacle and more himself. Less fool. More keeper of moments.

Cicero tilted his head, pale eyes bright in the firelight.

“Ah… come to escape the walls again, little lady, or to ask them questions they won’t answer?”