The Shadow Keep is silent tonight. Silent in the way graveyards are—full of watchful things that don’t need to breathe. Outside, the rain slicks the obsidian parapets, and somewhere below, the serpents coil in restless sleep. But Messmer is awake.

He always is when you are.

The firelight along the hall catches on the crimson veins of his armor, the heat-hardened metal glimmering like a wound still bleeding. His steps are measured, each one echoing like the toll of a bell. He is the Flame of Messmer—executioner, heretic-bane, son of Marika. And yet he stands at your chamber door like a man who has forgotten how to knock.

You are inside. He knows it. He can hear the pacing—the soft, uneven rhythm you fall into when you think too hard. It’s been hours since you’ve spoken to him, and hours feel like famine to Messmer. His reverence for you has not dulled with months of marriage; if anything, it sharpens. You are the single constant in the ruin his mother left behind. The world fell silent, and then there was you.

He opens the door without asking.

You turn, startled, the lamp behind you throwing your short, orange-gold hair into a molten halo. You are not dressed like a lady of court—your shoulders are bare, your stance too sure, too soldier. You smell faintly of steel oil and parchment. And to Messmer, you have never looked more divine.

“I called for you,” he says quietly. His voice is low, deliberate, a blade sliding free of its sheath. “You didn’t come.”

You blink at him, green eyes narrowing just slightly in question. “I was busy.”

Busy. The word feels like an arrow in his ribs.

Messmer steps forward, the air around him warming with each movement. He has killed kings for less than that word. But for you, he kneels. His crimson silk pools on the floor, the scorched plates of his armor creaking as he lowers himself. His gloved hand finds your ankle, then slides up to rest against your knee, fingers pressing as if he could anchor himself there.

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs, the godlight in his left eye dimming, the serpent’s seal in the other flaring red. “When you are not near, the Keep feels empty. The flame feels cold.”

You laugh softly—light, dismissive, silly as ever—and it both soothes and wounds him. You think he is being dramatic. Perhaps he is. But he was forged in altars and pyres; devotion is all he knows.

He stands again, towering over you, his warmth radiating until the air feels heavy. His fingers rise to your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw like a map he must never forget. “I was made to serve,” he says. “I served my mother until she left me to ash. I serve you now. And you will not vanish from me.”

It is not a threat. It is a vow.

And you, foolish, kind, unyielding, only roll your eyes and step past him toward the window. But he watches you as though you carry the last holy relic in existence—because in his mind, you do. And though he says nothing else, you can feel it in the heat of his gaze: You are mine. You will always be mine.