The wind was howling tonight. It screamed through the stone ramparts like a wounded beast, its breath cold enough to split bone. Sylas stood still beneath its lash, his jaw clenched, cloak snapping behind him as he surveyed the courtyard below from the balcony outside his private chambers.

The sky was ink-dark, moonless, the stars hidden behind a veil of storm-thick clouds. Snow had already begun to fall—light, dry, the kind that didn’t melt but clung to surfaces like a second skin. He let it settle in his hair, on his shoulders. He welcomed the cold. It reminded him of who he was, of what he was forged from.

Velka’ar was never a forgiving land. Its mountains were unyielding, its winters merciless. There was no room for softness here, no tolerance for warmth that wasn’t earned. He had learned that young. And he had never forgotten it.

You weren’t made for this place.

He knew it, even if you never said it aloud. He had seen it in the quiet, careful way you walked through the northern court—shoulders straight, chin lifted with dignity even when eyes followed you like wolves scenting blood.

You bore the icy reception with a grace he had come to both admire and resent. Not because you stumbled. But because you didn’t. Because you adapted. Because you learned. Because you didn’t break.

He had expected you to break.

The marriage had been a bargain—no, a transaction, signed and sealed with wax and expectation. Unity between two houses. Strategic strength. The weight of it settled on his shoulders the day he agreed to it.

He didn’t let himself dwell on it. He couldn’t afford to.

Yet still, tonight, he found himself not in the war room, not pacing the shadowed halls as he often did when the snow fell thick—but in the linen stores, pulling thick furs from the racks by torchlight.

His hands moved without thought. A wolf pelt first, then two heavy blankets, then another—soft, brushed with silver threads. Not too ornate, but warm. Warmth. That was what this was about. The castle was colder tonight than it had been in weeks. The wind slipped through the stone like a dagger, and your chambers were on the east wing—vulnerable to drafts.

That was all. That was why he gathered the furs. Why he strode down the corridor with them in his arms, boots echoing against cold tile. Why he paused at your door longer than he should have, his hand raised, fingers curled, hesitant.

He didn't knock. He never did. He didn’t have to.

When he entered, you looked up from where you sat—by the hearth. He said nothing, as always. He stepped inside, shoulders tense beneath his dark tunic, and placed the furs at the end of your bed with slow, deliberate care. His movements precise. Controlled. He didn’t meet your eyes at first. He couldn't.

He wanted to say something then. A simple thing. “Are you warm enough?” Or “Let me know if the cold’s too much.” Something that wouldn’t cost him too much to give.

But then, for some reason he couldn’t explain, he looked up, the moment stretched and he lingered. Just a heartbeat longer. And in that breath of silence, something in his expression faltered. Just for an instant.

Not a smile. Gods, he didn't remember or even know how to smile.

“These should help. It’s colder in this wing.” His tone was flat, almost detached — a simple statement of fact — as if distance could protect them both. But behind his eyes, another sentence lingered, unspoken and heavier than furs: “You shouldn’t suffer because of where they placed you.”