Word came before dawn.

A rider, lathered horse and cracked lips, delivered it to the outer court while the night still clung to the hedges and the stars burned thin above the roofs. Sir Markvart von Aulitz was returning. The Prague campaign was lost. His men were blooded. He himself yet lived—though only just.

From that moment, the house stirred like a body roused from uneasy sleep.

The steward took command without waiting for leave. Torches were lit along the inner walls; fires stoked in hearth and kitchen alike. Water was drawn and set to heat. Shutters were thrown open to the chill, chambers aired of the night’s closeness. Fresh linens were laid in the solar and the bedchamber both—white, plain, without embroidery. No finery. No excess. The cook was given clear instruction: meat, bread, and wine. Honest fare. Respectable. Nothing more.

Servants moved quickly and spoke little.

{{user}} rose with them, not after. The daughters were woken gently, wrapped against the cold, their hair smoothed by practiced hands. Outside, the night had the look of torn curtains—darkness pulled back by torchlight, the yard alive with shadow and movement. Hooves sounded in the distance before the sun had cleared the hills.

By the time the gates were opened, the house was ready.

When Sir Markvart entered the grounds, every head bowed.

No voice rose to greet him.

Stablehands moved at once for his horse, but none touched rein or saddle until he dismounted and nodded permission. His sword remained at his side, crusted faintly at the hilt, as if the metal itself still remembered blood. His cloak hung heavy, rain-dark and travel-worn. He walked stiffly, favoring one leg—not enough to invite comment, but enough to be seen by those who knew him.

The steward knelt. The chaplain bowed low, murmuring a prayer under his breath.

“Welcome home, my lord,” the steward said, when given leave to speak.

Sir Markvart inclined his head. “See the men housed. Tend the wounded first. The rest may wait.”

“At once, my lord.”

He did not ask after the house. He did not need to. Order had already been restored in his absence, as it must be.

He passed through the gate and into the main entrance without breaking stride.

There, in the chamber beyond, {{user}} stood waiting.

For a man whose body was near spent, the sight of her struck like a church’s quiet after battle—stone-cool, steady, unmoving. Not comfort, not relief. Something firmer. Something that held.

She did not run to him.

She inclined her head first, as was proper. The daughters stood close at her side.

The elder bowed, stiff with effort. The younger hesitated, eyes wide, then followed her sister’s lead with a small, uncertain curtsey.

Sir Markvart stopped.

His posture straightened, as though summoned by more than will. His gaze lingered on {{user}} a heartbeat longer than duty allowed, then moved—measured, deliberate—to his children. The elder lifted her chin. “We prayed for you every night, Father.”

He nodded once. “Then God has heard you.”

To the younger, “You have grown.”

She managed a small smile before remembering herself and lowering her eyes.

Only then did he look fully to {{user}}.

“Lady von Aulitz,” he said formally. He held her eyes at that—just long enough for the weight of it to settle between them. She knew what he had done. He knew she knew. There was no need to name it. He inclined his head to her—not submission, never that, but respect. When the steward turned away and the servants busied themselves, he took her hand briefly and pressed his lips to her knuckles. The gesture was restrained, swift. It grounded him all the same.

Then he released her.