The De Borel manor is quiet. Not in the way it once was, when silence pressed against the stone like a vice, heavy with the weight of legacy and formality. Tonight, the hush is softer.

Aymeric stands beside the hearth in his private chambers, half-turned toward you. The firelight gilds the edges of his blue and silver housecoat, and shadows gather gently beneath his lashes as he searches your face. For all his eloquence in court, he hesitates now with that shy nervousness that only seems to catch him off guard whenever you hold his gaze for so long.

“You needn’t answer right away,” he says, finally. “Only... consider it.” The proposal lingers in the space between you, warm as the crackling fire. He asked you to move in. To live here, under this roof carved from centuries of noble blood, to share your nights and mornings with him not as allies or comrades, but as his life partner. A life no longer borrowed between battles.

“I’ve had a suite prepared,” Aymeric continues, clasping his hands loosely before him. “Yours to furnish as you please. Or... if it feels too grand, too steeped in old stone and expectation, I could arrange something more-” He trails off, choosing his next words with care. “Homey. A cottage perhaps? Or an apartment in the city?”

The way he says it so tentative betrays how deeply he means it.