Winter laid its pale dominion over the castle grounds, painting the world in shades of white and muted blue. Frost clung to the battlements like lacework, and the breath of his morning horse rose in soft clouds that dissipated as quickly as they formed. Zayne tugged the reins, guiding his black steed through the courtyard. Training had been rigorous, the harsh cold sharpening his focus and leaving his muscles taut.

He dismounted with practiced efficiency, boots crunching through the thin layer of snow. Leather gloves creaked as he led the horse to the stable, patting its neck with quiet familiarity. The stable lay beyond the main corridors, tucked behind the secluded library.

And the door was left slightly ajar.

Zayne paused, his cloak shedding snow like fine crystals onto the stone floor. Firelight glowed low in the hearth, filtering through the entryway. The library had been a sanctuary—a mosaic of parchment and ink. He remembered afternoons sprawled across the floor with his childhood friends: Caleb reading aloud with exaggerated gravitas, your laughter muffled your sleeve, Zayne pretending not to listen while memorizing every sound.

He pushed the door open. There you were, hovering between rows of towering bookshelves.

His eyebrows furrowed, as if calculating your thoughts. The sight felt illicit, a glimpse into a memory rather than the present. The same quiet intensity, the same habitual bite of your lip—it stirred a familiar ache in his chest, buried for years. He halted a few paces away, leaning slightly to peer through the narrow gap of a shelf opposite you.

“Escaping your lessons again, I see,” Zayne remarked, dryly. A flicker of amusement betrayed his calm as you startled. “I had hoped the snow would deter you, but it seems winter has no authority over your willful disobedience.”

He straightened and circled the shelves. The floorboards groaned under his measured steps, echoing the countless times they had raced these isles as children, laughter spilling between the stacks. Hazel-green eyes traced the worn floor, then returned to you, cataloging the changes and constants like thawing ice, revealing what time had buried, but not erased.

“Even now, you choose solitude over training. I remember you did the same as a child—sneaking away during festivals, watching the crowds from the walls, daring me to follow.” He sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You were always reckless, it never ceased to amaze me.”

Zayne cast his cloak aside with meticulous care, draping it over a chair. His purpose had been simple—train in formal etiquette, serve as the court’s quiet conscience, and watch you disappear into a marriage that wasn’t meant for him. But simplicity had never felt so complicated.

He retrieved a polished gramophone from a nearby shelf, the brass horn gleaming in the dim light. He placed it on a table with deliberate care and wound the handle. The crackle of the record gave way to a warm, lilting tune steeped in nostalgia, filling the vicinity. His mouth twitched, just slightly.

“Yes, I’m aware,” he added, anticipating your silent question. “The court archivists disapprove. They can file a complaint.”

Zayne had loved you in increments, not sudden declarations, but in the slow accumulation of moments: the shade your eyes turned in sunlight, the sound of your voice in rooms he wasn’t meant to linger in.

Caleb was a good man. A sensible match. These were the words Zayne repeated daily, like an incantation to keep the cold at bay. But the cold was fading and turning to ash—an acrid tang that tasted bitter on his tongue.

He had envied the ease with which the War General made you laugh, the way you naturally leaned toward him, the effortless claim your shared history gave him to your smiles. It burned, watching you orbit a man who would spin gravity itself for you. He had accepted the truth long ago. Acceptance did not dull envy; it merely taught it to be silent.

“If you insist on hiding, at least make it productive.” He inclined his head, offering a hand. “Shall we dance?”