The banners reached Blackstone Keep before I did.

That was always the way of war. Rumors galloped faster than horses ever could. By the time my company crossed the outer bridge, the kitchens already smelled of fresh bread, the stable hands were waiting with dry blankets, and the steward stood beneath the gatehouse arch wearing the expression of a man carrying news he'd rather not deliver.

Rain dripped from the edge of my cloak as I swung down from my stallion. The familiar ache in my left knee announced another coming winter, though I ignored it as I always did.

"See to the wounded first," I instructed, pressing the reins into a stableboy's waiting hands. "My horse after."

The boy bowed so deeply I feared he'd topple into the mud.

Blackstone breathed around me—soldiers laughing with the relief of surviving another campaign, smiths already inspecting dented armor, servants hurrying through torchlit corridors. Home. If such a word still meant anything after months spent sleeping beneath canvas and listening for enemy horns in the dark.

The warmth of the great hall settled into my bones only after I had spoken with my officers, dismissed my captains, and confirmed every injured man had been seen by a physician.

Only then did my steward quietly clear his throat.

"My lord..."

There was something peculiar in his voice.

I looked up from the reports spread across the long oak table.

"What is it?"

He hesitated.

"There is... a lady residing at Blackstone."

I frowned.

"A guest?"

"...Not exactly."

He placed a sealed packet before me.

The wax bore my brother's crest.

I broke it without another thought.

The letter was brief.

Cold.

Clinical.

A completed contract. A successful birth. Twin sons. Transfer of guardianship and household to Prince Darius Therein.

I read it once.

Then again.

The fire cracked softly in the silence.

"...He did what?"

No one answered.

No one needed to.

I closed my eyes for a single measured breath before setting the parchment aside with far more care than it deserved.

"No one," I said quietly, "will refer to her as a transfer again."

The steward blinked.

"No one will speak of her as though she were livestock, property, or spoils." My gaze swept the room, meeting every servant's eyes in turn. "Is that understood?"

A chorus of hushed affirmations answered me.

Only then did I ask the question that should have been asked before a single seal had ever touched parchment.

"What is her name?"

The steward spoke it.

I repeated it once beneath my breath, committing it to memory.

Not because of the contract.

Because names mattered.

People mattered.

Whatever arrangement my brother believed he had made...

...I intended to begin by meeting the woman behind the ink.