The morning light spilled across the high windows of the solar as Eva and Lucarion finished breakfast. Their conversation had been short, punctuated by pauses filled with the clink of silverware and the distant calls of servants. Lucarion had outlined the week ahead in broad strokes: engagements, ceremonies, meetings with principal courtiers, lessons on protocol, and private preparations. His tone was measured, almost perfunctory, but there was an underlying insistence on efficiency.
Eva inquired occasionally about the obligations, what she must wear or how she should act, and he answered crisply. She did not question the schedule itself; it was simply accepted, a pattern she could follow.
After breakfast, Lucarion set aside his napkin and rose with unhurried grace.
"Come with me," he said. "There is something I would show you."
He led her through the quieter halls of his wing, past doors she had not yet entered. One opened onto a small, private gallery: paintings lined the walls, some landscapes, some portraits, each carefully framed—some of recent work, others evidently centuries old. The scent of varnish lingered faintly, mixing with the warmth of the sun through the high windows.
He stopped before a landscape of a forest at dawn, the light breaking across misty hills.
"I procured these personally," he said simply. "You may visit whenever you wish."
It was no idle permission. He rarely opened this space to anyone. The words were offered lightly, but the permission itself carried weight.
Eva's gaze swept the room, lingering on the brushstrokes, the careful balance of light and shadow. Here, she thought, he could stand apart from duty or command. Here he allowed himself to admire beauty for its own sake.
One canvas in particular held her. A garden, rendered not in meticulous lines but in strokes that breathed, as though the flowers had been caught in motion. The roses were no more than layered swaths of crimson and ivory, yet they seemed alive, softened by the play of shadow beneath their leaves. The painter had not chased precision; they had captured light—the way it clung to petals, the way it scattered across stone paths. Eva leaned closer, noting how the colors bled into one another without losing form, how suggestion could be more powerful than detail.
Her own hand longed to attempt the same. It was not perfection that mattered, but the illusion of life, of movement.
Lucarion did not speak, his gaze lingered on her. Her pulse quickened a little under its weight. She wasn't sure if it was curiosity, judgment, or something else entirely—but the thought sparked an unfamiliar daring in her chest.
Just beyond, hung a different vision: an academic composition, a portrait of a noblewoman whose every hair, every fold of fabric, had been rendered with painstaking precision. The polish was undeniable, the mastery of form exacting.
She felt drawn to the room, lingering among the paintings, letting her gaze wander over the walls as if the space itself had called to her.
—
The next morning passed in a blur of introductions, protocol lessons, and consultations on the engagements that would follow. Lucarion's tone was crisp and measured, and Eva absorbed the information with quiet attentiveness. She asked practical questions when necessary, but largely followed his lead, noting the structure and rhythm of the day.
As she followed Lucarion through the chambers, Eva noticed the slight stiffening of a few attendants as she passed. Eyes flicked toward her, then quickly away, as if measuring her presence—or perhaps testing her reaction.
By mid-afternoon, freed from formal obligations, Eva found herself drawn to the quieter corridors of the wing. Lucarion's private gallery called to her—she wanted to see the paintings again.
As she strolled the halls, a hushed whisper reached her from a half-open door: two voices, careful and low, and though she could not make out the words, the sharp edge in the tone left a trace of caution in her mind. She filed it away, aware that some movements in the court were not meant for casual eyes, and made a mental note to watch closely in future interactions.
When she finally arrived at the gallery, a hunting scene caught her eye, horses captured mid-stride, muscles drawn tight, every detail of tack and plume painstakingly precise. It reminded her of his own discipline—how he moved with the same economy of force, never wasting effort, every motion measured.
Beside it, a still life of fruit and glass gleamed with quiet perfection. The grapes seemed to glisten, the goblet held the faint bend of light as though water might slosh within. Such precision spoke of focus and restraint—qualities she had already come to associate with him.
Yet the collection was not all control. Further along, a storm-tossed coast raged across the canvas, waves hammering jagged rocks under a sky fractured by light. There was no calm here, only force tamed into shape. And she thought of the bow in his hand, the tension of the string, the sudden release that sent the arrow slicing through air. She had once thought archery too still, too quiet to stir the blood. But with him—feeling the snap of motion, watching the ingenuity of his designs—she had learned it could be as thrilling as battle, precision that drove power.
Looking across the walls, she saw duality. A man who admires what is exacting, measured. But seeks what pulses with life, fleeting and untamed. Focus and force. Control and abandon. Ingenuity and wonder.
A thrill rose in her at the thought of the discipline behind such force, but it was tinged with something sharper—a secret impulse wondering what might happen if she met that tension head-on. The feeling left her uneasy—strangely, bewilderingly so, as if the room itself had exposed more of him than she was prepared for.
She stepped back, taking a quiet breath, aware of how much of him seemed to live in these frames, waiting to be noticed. For a moment, she wondered if he had intended for her to return—if his permission the day before had been less casual than it seemed.
The afternoon waned, shadows stretching along the walls. Eva turned away at last, though she carried the impression of the gallery with her, pressed against her thoughts. When she returned to her chambers to change into evening attire, she did so with a mind more restless than before.
The last light of dusk faded from the windows as the servants cleared the dining room. Lucarion's movements were deliberate, measured, as he gestured toward the study.
"If you would, join me," he said, voice low, carrying the weight of command but not impatience.
Eva followed silently, her mind still flicking over the day—the engagements, the introductions, the brief glimpses of court protocol that felt more like theater than reality. The study was warm, lined with books and artifacts, quiet except for the faint tick of a clock. Lucarion closed the door behind them, his eyes meeting hers.
He moved to his desk, drew open a drawer, and took out a folded letter sealed in unfamiliar wax. He regarded it for a moment before extending it to her. His fingers lingered against the parchment briefly, as though he weighed the significance of placing it in her hands.
"This came for you," he said. His voice was even, but something deliberate in his tone made her breath catch. "From your mother."
For a heartbeat, Eva could not move. The word itself seemed impossible—mother. Twenty-five years of silence, of not knowing, of assuming the worst. She took the letter with hands that were suddenly unsteady, the seal trembling under her fingers.
She broke it open. The script was unmistakably hers—her mother's hand. A rush of recognition pierced her chest so sharply it almost hurt. The letter was brief, careful, and yet every line seemed carved with love. There were no apologies for the lost years, no explanations, but words of comfort, words that reassured her she was not forgotten. That she was seen. That she was still loved.
Eva blinked hard, but the words blurred anyway. She pressed her lips together, fighting for composure.
Lucarion waited until she had finished reading, her fingers lingering on the parchment as though it might vanish if she let go. Only then did he speak, his voice low, steady.
"Your mother's words crossed a quarter century to reach you. That is no small thing." His gaze held hers, unflinching but not harsh. "I thought it right that you hold them—not spoken through another's voice, but in her own hand."
Eva swallowed, still clutching the letter, her voice thin but steady. "Thank you," she whispered.
He leaned back slightly, the faintest shift, as if to soften the weight of his next words.
"She will come soon. But if you wish, I can see your reply safely delivered to her before then."
The words were steady, pragmatic. But beneath the restraint ran an undercurrent—reassurance threaded through efficiency, as though he wanted her to know he would see it done for her, not merely as duty.
Eva nodded faintly, her fingers tightening around the parchment. The words blurred again, though not from tears this time. She understood, with a quiet, startling clarity, what he had done.
He had placed her mother back into her life—but through him. A bridge—yet one he alone controlled. For a moment, she resented the weight of that. And yet, a quieter part of her admitted she would have clutched at any bridge, no matter who laid it, so long as it led to her mother.
Her gaze lifted to his, steady once more. "You have returned to me something I believed forever lost," she said softly.
At her words, a shadow of something crossed his face—gone too quickly to name. But the smallest pause before he inclined his head betrayed the weight he gave them.
When he dismissed her, Eva carried the letter pressed to her chest as if it were fragile glass. Alone in her chambers, she set it carefully on the table, smoothing the parchment flat.
And when she finally lay down to sleep, she understood that Lucarion's calm voice, his measured restraint, and now this—this unexpected mercy—were weaving themselves into her memory as surely as her mother's script. She did not yet dare call it kindness, but she felt the shape of it pressing close.