The morning sun streamed softly through the latticed windows of the small study in the west wing, where Neriah sat cross-legged on a cushion, the folds of her gown pooling around her ankles. A spread of parchment was laid out before her—maps, missives, wax seals, and outdated heraldry she was meant to correct. Testing, Lady Vax called it. But today, Lady Vax was not present.
Today was Kaelith.
And Kaelith never let anything stay dull for long.
"Okay, practically," Kaelith said, perched on the edge of the table like a particularly elegant cat, "you got the Edravon house sigil wrong—but only just slightly wrong, so I'm not going to scold you. Much."
Neriah blinked. "The sunburst is supposed to be inverted?"
Kaelith nodded dramatically. "Inverted, and edged in scarlet. Always edged in scarlet. Lady Vax would've quizzed you for three hours on symbolism alone, but don't worry. You're safe from her today." She stretched, grinning, then reached for a honeyed fig from the tray beside her.
"I'm surprised she let you handle one of my sessions," Neriah said, amused.
Kaelith beamed. "Well, I'm not completely frivolous, despite what the court thinks. I'm the Crown's Handmaiden, I run the embroidery committee, and I am—by my own estimation—very charming."
"You did help start that embroidery campaign," Neriah said, brushing ink from her fingers. "Lady Vax said the King granted you land for it."
"He did!" Kaelith lit up. "And not just any land—a generous swath near the southern fields. It's fertile, good for flax and cotton growth. I think he liked the idea of work that helps the realm thrive… and, of course," she added with a mischievous sparkle, "I may or may not have dropped your name several times while presenting the idea."
Neriah's brow rose. "My name?"
"Mhm. I told him you were enjoying the embroidery idea and that it brought people together. He listens when it's about you." Kaelith smiled gently.
The words made something flicker in Neriah's chest—warmth, guilt, something in between.
"Kaelith," she said after a moment, lowering her gaze, "you and Damon… I know he's your half brother but you two seem really close."
"We are," Kaelith replied, her voice growing softer. "Not from the same mother, but we were both brought to Arkenfall young. I wasn't anything special. Even our father - the past king, barely saw me. But Damon…" She paused, setting the fig aside. "He noticed me. Saw that I could do more. Be more."
There was reverence in her voice—deep and genuine.
"He gave me purpose," she added. "He gave me safety."
Neriah studied her, brow furrowing slightly. "Even after he… killed your brother?"
The question hovered like a ghost between them.
Kaelith's posture stilled.
"If he hadn't killed Roderic," she said, voice low, "I would've done it myself."
Neriah's eyes widened.
But Kaelith didn't elaborate. The brightness in her features dimmed—not sadness, exactly, but the hardening of old wounds. Her fingers clenched briefly in her skirts.
"It's not something I talk about," she said after a beat. "But I'll tell you this—Damon saved me from a place I never thought I'd escape. And he didn't have to. He wasn't even King yet."
She offered Neriah a small, almost apologetic smile. "So no. I don't fear him."
Neriah hesitated. "Even with all the… blood?"
Kaelith tilted her head thoughtfully. "I've seen worse than blood. I was here when the halls of Arkenfall ran red with it. The bloodbath after my father's death… It wasn't a battle. It was a massacre. We nobles turned on each other like starving dogs. Sons killed fathers. Wives poisoned husbands. Everyone wanted the throne."
A beat of silence.
Kaelith stood then, walking toward the window, looking out across the spires of the castle.
"I remember hiding in a hearth," she said quietly, "with ash in my throat and my heart in my ears, while the kitchen master slit another servant's throat two feet from me."
Neriah stared, words caught in her throat.
"I was sixteen," Kaelith said. "That night taught me everything I needed to know about power."
She turned back around. Her voice was gentle again—but clearer.
"The BannerLands is a bloody place, Neriah. It always has been. The throne isn't for the gentle or the uncertain. Damon rules like he must, not like he wants. And believe me—he's doing a good job cleansing the rot."
She smiled again, bright but no longer giddy.
"There are men in this court who smile in daylight and gut you by sundown. Damon isn't one of them. He shows you exactly what he is. That's why I trust him."
Neriah looked down at her hands, fingers curling in her lap. Something about Kaelith's words—honest, heavy—made her heart shift, subtly.
"I think I needed to hear that," she said softly.
Kaelith came and sat beside her, bumping her shoulder gently. "Good. Because I was going to say it whether you did or not."
They shared a quiet laugh.
**********************
The streets below the citadel simmered with tavern songs and drunken footsteps, the occasional echo of a door slamming shut. But not here—not on the quiet lane behind the East Quarter, where a small lantern burned in a shuttered window and the world held its breath.
Lord Gareth stood beneath it.
No guards flanked him. No sigil adorned his cloak. Tonight, he was not the King's Hand.
He was just a man.
He rapped twice—soft, measured—and waited.
The door opened only a crack, chain still drawn.
But then she saw it was him.
"Gareth." Her voice was breathless, surprised. She looked over her shoulder before unlatching the chain. "You shouldn't be here."
"I never should," he murmured, stepping inside.
The room was modest—clean, warm, with worn books stacked on a narrow shelf and a kettle steaming faintly on the hearth. It didn't smell like ale and smoke. It smelled of rosemary, and something else… lavender, maybe. Something softer.
She was barefoot, wrapped in a dark robe, her copper-colored hair falling loosely down her back. She looked younger this way. Less like the girl men paid to forget their shame, and more like someone who once believed in other endings.
"I thought you said you were done coming here," she said.
He shut the door behind him. "I did."
"You said it wasn't proper."
"I did."
She folded her arms. "And you're here again."
Gareth didn't answer at first. His eyes took her in slowly, drinking in the quiet calm of her presence, the vulnerability she didn't bother to hide anymore. Not with him.
"You changed your hair," he said instead, a low murmur.
"Only because you said you liked it this way."
He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
She walked toward the hearth, keeping her hands busy with the kettle. "Is it the guilt that keeps bringing you back, Gareth?" she asked quietly. "Or the loneliness?"
He didn't reply.
She poured the tea into two mismatched cups.
"I don't want your coin," she said, turning to him. "I never did. You know that."
"I know."
"I was a whore before I met you. I'll likely be one after. But when you're here, I forget that." Her voice cracked—barely. "And it frightens me."
He crossed the room slowly. Took the tea from her hand and set it aside.
"Kayla."
That was the name he'd given her once. A false name, soft and untraceable. But it stuck. It was better than the ones she'd been called before.
He raised a hand and cupped her cheek. Her eyes closed instantly at his touch.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he said, voice rough. "I shouldn't be here. But when I'm not… everything feels colder."
She opened her eyes then, tilting her face up to him.
"You only come to me when you're unraveling," she whispered. "And I only let you because I'm afraid I won't survive when you stop."
His mouth found hers—slow, unhurried, aching. A kiss steeped in all the things he could never say aloud. She held him like someone who knew how much it cost him to let go. And he let her.
They didn't speak again.
Not when he lifted her gently into his arms.
Not when the candle burned low.
Not even when the night deepened, wrapping the room in silence, save for the slow rhythm of two people clinging to something fragile.