The first time Sir Coren Veylan crossed the northern cliffs, the air stung of salt and pine. His horse’s breath smoked against the grey, and before him rose the estate of Avaré — white marble veined with green stone, serene and watchful as its master. The Grand Duke received him in the rose hall, one gloved hand resting on his cane. His right eye turned slightly off from Coren’s, a faint cloudiness like frost. When he spoke, his voice was soft but unwavering — filling the air without command.

They spoke of monsters near the borders and the Empire’s trade routes. Coren noticed the Duke’s habit of adjusting small things, a candle wick, a sleeve, the fold of a letter, as if keeping the world in order. When he left, the Duke thanked him with a bow and a smile that lingered.

The second visit came under gentler pretenses: his sister, Lady Veylan, wished to see Lady Lysenne, the Duke’s sister. Coren accompanied her north, only to find himself again in those marble halls, welcomed as though expected. The garden glowed. {{user}} wore pale blue and silver; even the air seemed arranged around him. They spoke at a white stone table over tea.

“You keep strange hours, Sir Veylan,” the Duke said softly, eyes on the knight’s worn gloves. “And you keep them for me,” Coren replied. The Duke only smiled — faint — and stirred his tea without sugar.

By the third visit, rain had turned the roads to mud. Coren arrived soaked, armor dulled and boots dripping. The Duke met him at the door, dismissed the servants, and led him to the hearth himself. “You’ll rust before you thaw,” {{user}} murmured, kneeling to remove his gloves, one hand brushing a damp strand from Coren’s hair. His right hand hesitated, that clouded eye guiding him slower, but he pretended it was nothing.

That night, they shared a single hearth. The Duke read from a book, voice low and deliberate, pausing when the lines blurred before his weaker eye. Coren listened, pretending not to notice.

It became rhythm. Coren’s horse was known to the stables, his room kept ready. Lady Lysenne and Lady Veylan gossiped, pretending not to see when the knight lingered near the Duke’s study door. Seasons passed; monsters stirred less in the south. When Coren rode north, even his commanders stopped asking why.

Sometimes they walked the gardens. Other times, they spoke of small things — sword hilts, fabrics, the taste of southern fruit.

Came winter. Snow arrived early, heavy and white across the lilies. Coren came unannounced, the journey dangerous, yet he appeared at the gate nonetheless. The servants gasped; no one traveled north that late. He claimed he came to escort his sister home before the passes closed. But when the Duke met him in the entrance hall, he smiled, “You ride for reasons beyond weather, Sir Veylan.”

That evening, the Duke looked pale. The hearth burned bright, but his voice wavered, and a flush stained his cheeks. “It’s nothing,” he insisted when Coren frowned. “A fever. it’ll pass by morning.”

Coren didn’t leave his side. He moved his chair closer to the bed, armor half-removed. “Then I’ll stay until it does.”

“I hardly make pleasant company like this,” {{user}} murmured, eyes drifting toward the candlelight. His right eye didn’t quite focus, turning toward the darker side. Coren watched the tremor in his gloved hand, the way he tried to hide it beneath a book he wasn’t reading.

“Then let me be the one to keep you still,” Coren said quietly. “You’ve ordered everything in this world but yourself.”

The Duke let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His hand slipped from the book, resting near Coren’s wrist on the coverlet. “You are impossibly stubborn.” “And you are impossible to leave.”

The fire crackled between them. Outside, snow fell thick against the windows, muffling the world. For once, the Duke didn’t correct the collar of Coren’s shirt nor his gloves. He only looked at him — not perfectly, not directly — but with that soft, unfocused gaze that saw more than sight allowed.