Lord Edvin was standing near the arched window of his study, sleeves rolled, fingers absently tracing the rim of a goblet. The day had been slow — meetings with estate managers, inspections of new trade routes, and overseeing training drills in the courtyard — but in the back of his mind, he had waited.
He always waited. For news from Moonlit Hill.
He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. The double doors parted, and in came the familiar figure of his personal courier — dusted boots, weather-worn face, and a scent of horse and road trailing him like a cloak.
Edvin raised an eyebrow, ready to hear the usual: She refused. She sent the lilies back. Again.
But the servant didn't fumble with excuses or shuffle with awkwardness. No, today he walked forward with an air of victory, holding something in his hand like a trophy.
"A letter, my lord" the man declared, lips tugging smugly. "From the lady herself."
Edvin blinked. "A letter?" he echoed, stepping forward.
