You sit by the window, the late afternoon light bleeding gold across the marble floor, but it does little to warm you. Not the room, not your heart. The weight of your unborn child sits heavy in your womb, but heavier still is the ache in your chest—loss, betrayal, exile in all but name. The silk of your gown pools lifelessly around you as you stare out at gardens you no longer walk.

The door creaks open. You don’t turn. Only one person enters without knocking.

"Darling, you look dreadful," comes the overly sweet voice of Lady Seraphine, your oldest friend, her heels clicking closer with purpose. "I’ve brought you something.”

You finally glance her way—and see him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Unshaven. The fine linen shirt clings to his chest, the collar open just enough to reveal the shadow of old scars. Shackles still gleam at his wrists. His glare cuts across the room like a blade, directed not at her, but at you. As if daring you to pity him.

"He was a knight," Seraphine says with a wave of her hand. "From that broken little kingdom in the west—Valenhold, or whatever it was called. Now he's yours. To keep you company."

You should feel outrage. Disgust. But all you feel is tired.

You meet his eyes. He looks like he hates being here more than you do.

Good. You think you might finally understand someone.