The sun had barely cleared the pale grey mist over Arkenfall's eastern towers when Neriah stepped into the private antechamber prepared for her father. She had barely slept, but she couldn't bring herself to wait another hour—her fingers had trembled with anticipation ever since the steward informed her of Lord Velmorn's arrival.
When the door opened, her father was already on his feet.
"Neriah."
The sound of his voice undid something inside her. She rushed forward, and he met her halfway, arms wide. She buried herself in his embrace, clinging tightly as though letting go would undo everything good that had survived this strange, tumultuous court.
Lord Velmorn didn't speak for a long time. He simply held her.
"You look well," he said at last, pulling back just enough to look at her properly. "Though I see court life has been... intense."
She laughed softly and touched his face, noting the new strands of grey in his hair, the deepening lines near his eyes. "And you look exactly the same. Except more tired."
"A symptom of riding from Halemond on short notice," he said wryly. "And perhaps the endless reading of dull petitions. The ink stains on my hands are proof enough of that."
They sat across from each other then, warm tea between them, the light from the windows stretching softly across the marbled floor. Neriah let herself feel the calm she'd been denied these past days. Her father's presence was familiar, grounding.
"So," Lord Velmorn said, fingers curled around his cup. "How are you faring in court?"
She hesitated—but only for a breath. "I'm... learning. Lady Vax has been thorough, and the Hand of the King doesn't tolerate lazy thinking. I've sat with emissaries, signed documents I barely understood—before I was made to read them again under torchlight." She gave a slight grin. "But I'm surviving."
"And the King?" Lord Velmorn asked casually, though there was a sharper glint in his eye.
Neriah took a small sip of tea. "He's been generous. And... attentive."
She didn't mention the space between them. The silence in the corridor when she passed him. The bloody executions or how his voice still echoed in her chest when she closed her eyes.
Some things were too raw to offer yet.
Lord Velmorn studied her, and for a moment she thought he might press—but he simply nodded, satisfied for now. "Good."
Neriah's brow furrowed.
"I've sent letters to Kara," she said quietly. "More than once. I've heard nothing. Have you?"
Lord Velmorn's expression shifted. "I've sent three."
"And?"
"Nothing."
The silence thickened.
"She's avoiding us?" Neriah asked, unsure how to interpret it. "I know Kara—she can be wild, yes, but to ignore both of us?"
Lord Velmorn exhaled through his nose. "You know your sister. If she's determined to disappear into Duskwood's shadows, not even a search party would rattle her. She's stubborn. Hot-blooded. And no doubt chasing some scheme she hasn't thought through."
Neriah bit her lip. "I just… I hoped she'd write back."
"I know." Her father leaned forward, his hand settling gently over hers. "But we can't force her to answer. And if she doesn't respond soon... I will ride to Duskwood myself. Whatever it is she's tangled in, I'll find her."
Neriah gave a small nod. "Thank you."
"She's still my daughter. I didn't raise you both just to lose you to the wind."
Their hands remained joined for a moment longer. Neriah let herself take comfort in it—her father's steady warmth, his unflinching support. For everything that was uncertain in her life now, he was one of the few constants that remained.
They spoke for a long while after that—of Halemond, of old friends, of distant cousins and the spring festival she'd missed. Velmorn teased her about the court's ridiculous rules and the royal fashion trends she was expected to follow. Neriah rolled her eyes and promised she'd never wear velvet as long as she lived.
It felt like home.
Even here, in a castle built for power and iron, Neriah felt—if only briefly—safe again.
**********************
The days that followed passed in a kind of slow, soft haze—like drifting snow over a battlefield already quieted by blood.
Neriah had not returned to the King's chamber.
Her own room, once used only for the occasional nap or change of gowns, had now become her full retreat. Gwen had, at first, protested softly—fluttering about with candles and questions and gentle fretting—but even she had grown quiet after a while.
And Damon?
He hadn't summoned her.
That fact alone twisted inside her chest more than she was willing to admit. She told herself she was glad for the space, glad that he respected her silence, her distance. But there were moments—odd, unexplainable moments—when the ache to simply hear his voice would press against her ribs.
She saw him sometimes. At a distance. At court, or passing in the halls, or standing tall among his council. Always composed. Always unreadable.
Sometimes she wondered if he was doing it on purpose—not wearing his crown.
Other times, she wondered if he missed her.
The truth was, Damon missed her desperately.
But, he would not come unless she wanted him to.
He had watched her that night when she turned away from him, eyes wide with fear she tried to disguise as confusion. He'd left her chamber with the heavy understanding that love—true love—must give space to fear, must weather even its darkest shadows.
So he waited.
And she drifted.
The castle was too large. Too quiet. The stone corridors too winding. Even with her lessons and duties and Gwen's chatter, Neriah felt the emptiness settle around her shoulders like a shawl she could not shrug off.
She told herself she didn't mind. She told herself she had no right to miss him when she was the one who asked for distance.
But still.
She missed him.
Missed the way he held her hand without needing a reason. Missed the way he listened—really listened—when she rambled about Lady Vax's impossibly dry lectures. Missed how his gaze softened when it found her in a room.
She hated how her heart leapt whenever someone knocked on her door, hoping—foolishly—that it was him.
And yet…
Maybe she was just being dramatic.
Lord Travis had been a horrible man. A trafficker. A criminal. A danger to innocent people. Damon had given him justice—not cruelty. A clean death. A swift one. He could've done worse.
He could've let others do worse.
Neriah closed her eyes and let the memory flicker—blood on stone, the swing of the axe, the stillness after. But behind it, there had also been resolve. Strength. Damon had not flinched. Not gloated. He had stood as kings should stand—certain.
The BannerLands did not survive on softness.
And Damon—Damon was young, yes, but he was not weak. He could not afford to be weak. Not with lords like Travis festering under his rule.
Neriah pressed a hand to her chest.
She had fallen for his kindness. His quiet. His unexpected gentleness. But was she really surprised to learn that he could be something more? Something harder?
Maybe she was naïve.
Maybe this—this blood, this fear—was simply part of life in the BannerLands. And maybe Damon had only done what needed to be done.
So why couldn't she just understand that?
Why did her chest still squeeze with confusion and longing every time she thought of him?
She wanted to see him. Gods, she wanted to see him.
But she didn't know what she'd say if she did.
She didn't know what she needed—only that the space between them felt too wide.
And somehow, growing wider by the day.