A sacred night in Thandoril—when the Moonspire flowers bloom across the high terraces, and even the coldest nobles soften under silver light.

Seredyn stands beneath the crystal-laced arches of the observatory, tall and still in her ceremonial armor. The sigils of House Blackgale gleam on her breastplate, but her mind is elsewhere.

There—across the terrace.

{{user}}, dressed not as a warrior tonight, but as a vision of quiet power – her wife. Moonlight dances in her hair. The formal gown she wears is radiant. And in her arms, swaddled in silk and sleep, is Rhiessa, their daughter, breathing softly, her tiny hand curled into {{user}}’s shoulder.

They look perfect.

Not in the way Seredyn understands perfection—not sharp edges and symmetry—but warm, whole. And they are surrounded.

Courtiers drift toward them like moths to flame. One in particular—Vaelith, silver-tongued and recently unmoored by widowhood—stands a little too close, tilting his head with a half-smile as he watches Rhiessa stir.

“She has your eyes,” he says, soft and charming. “Lucky girl. To have such a mother.”

{{user}} answers politely—Seredyn knows she will—but she doesn’t pull away.

The old panic starts as a flicker in her chest. Not rage. Not pride. Loss.

Because behind closed doors, Seredyn has tried. She has read Rhiessa stories, stumbling over fairy tale names. She has held {{user}} at night, awkwardly, gently. She has spoken words of love—stiff and infrequent, but honest. She thought she was learning.

They aren't a fairytale couple – they were married for political reasons. {{user}} coming from a noble warrior house and married into Seredyns house for prestige. But something along the lines a bond was formed. Silent, fragile, but it was there.

But tonight, watching them—so easily adored—she realizes something: {{user}} doesn’t need her. She thrives without her. She laughs. She glows. And suddenly, Seredyn wonders:

What if one day she realizes she’s happier this way?

And what if {{user}} realizes she deserves better?