Alaric Auro Dukker sat at his desk with his shoulders hunched and his hands braced against his temples, fingers pressing into skin as though he might steady his thoughts by force alone. The tall windows of his study stood open, letting in pale winter daylight and the distant sounds of the people working in the Keep—,the muted rhythm of a household that did not stop simply because its lord was tired.
The desk before him was a battlefield of its own.
Stacks of ledgers lay open and half-marked. Reports were pinned beneath a brass paperweight shaped like a bird of prey with open wings—shipping manifests from the southern mills, tax tallies from trade, petitions from village elders and mayors written in uneven hands. A thin layer of frost clung to the corners of the glass panes, but inside the office it was warm enough, the heat from the manor's hearths carrying through the halls.
Alaric exhaled slowly, long and controlled, and then sighed.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against his knuckles.
Blackwood was stable—on paper, at least. The western hamlets had recovered from last year's poor harvest, aided by grain reserves he'd released early despite protests from the treasury. The river town of Lowmere was still disputing dock rights with its neighbor upstream. The northern watch-posts were requesting additional manpower after increased beast sightings near the old Ironwood stretch, a forest long abandoned to overgrowth and teeth.
None of it was catastrophic.
All of it required him. Normally as a lord he should have people working with him to see to these things but Alaric wasn't like other lords. Yes the power structure of Blackwood was decentralized to give his people freedom but at the top he made sure to do everything himslef Well, his wife was his advisor so he wasn't exactly alone. There was no detail about his people that was not painfully considered before coming out with what he though was the right solution. He gave his people the ability to protest anything that they thought was constricting but they had never done anything like that. They trusted their lord. That did not reduce the workload though most especially now that his wife was , for the time being, indisposed.
Alaric thought back to his visit to the bureau, the windows cracked open to the cold. Roric was not his usual self. He had a cold determination about him. Noticing this, Alaric went staright to the point.
He asked plainly what had happened, Who happened to cause Roric to act. Roric's jaw had tightened, his gaze steady but distant.
"I'm still gathering information," he'd said.
Alaric pressed, voice sharpening with rank, reminding him of lives, of what a clash between Saints meant. For a moment, Roric looked like he was contemplating something.
He met Alaric's eyes and said quietly, "Trust me." The word had landed heavier than any report. Alaric had felt the lord in him recoil—and the friend step forward. He waved him off, told him to hurry up and tell him what was going on. Even now, the memory left a knot in his chest, not of doubt, but of faith deliberately chosen.
He straightened a fraction, reaching for his quill again—only to pause when he felt movement behind him.
Soft footsteps. Familiar.
Before he could turn, slender arms slipped around his shoulders from behind, and a gentle weight settled against him. A kiss brushed his temple, warm and unhurried.
"Elara," he murmured, voice rougher than he intended.
She leaned down slightly, her cheek resting against his hair.
"You sighed loud enough to be heard halfway down the corridor," she said softly.
"I thought you might need rescuing."
He let out a short, tired breath that might almost have been a laugh.
"If you've come to steal me away, I'm afraid the paperwork will still be here when we return."
"That's unfortunate," she replied, easing around to his front and, without ceremony, sitting sideways on his lap. Her white winter dress folded neatly around her knees, the fabric soft and simple, her warmth immediate.
"I was hoping to abduct you."
Alaric's hands came to her waist on instinct, steadying her, his thumb brushing against the curve of her back.
"You shouldn't—"
"I'm fine," Elara said gently, already anticipating the concern.
"And I missed you."
That quiet admission loosened something in his chest.
She studied his face then, her expression softening as she took in the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the tightness at the corners of his mouth.
"What's wrong?" she asked, brushing her thumb along his jaw.
"This is more than trade disputes and road repairs."
He hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, he nodded toward the desk. "It arrived this morning."
Her gaze followed his, landing on the single unsealed letter set apart from the others. The wax bore the insignia of the capital.
Elara reached out and scanned the contents.
Her brows drew together.
"They're being absurd."
Alaric huffed quietly. "You're being charitable."
"What does this have to do with you?" she asked, eyes flicking back to the page. "Or Blackwood?"
"Very little," he admitted. "Which is precisely the problem."
She folded the letter carefully and set it down. "The Twelfth Prince?"
He nodded. "Apparently he's decided that he'll take no allies from the noble houses. Declared it publicly. Announced that he'll become king without their backing."
Elara blinked. "That's… bold."
"Foolish," Alaric corrected mildly. "And effective."
She frowned. "But he's a child. Around Elias and Jamie's age, isn't he?"
"Yes he is," Alaric said. "Which is why no one expected him to matter despite his power."
Elara's fingers tightened slightly in his sleeve. "Then why would someone try to assassinate him?"
"Thats not the problem," Alaric replied. "The problem is tha they failed."
"Now every faction is accusing every other of orchestrating it. No one wants to look complicit. No one wants to look weak. So they undermine one another instead."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "And you've been summoned."
"A series of meetings," he confirmed. "Councils. Hearings. Invetigations disguised as courtesy."
She sighed, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. "How long will you be gone?"
Alaric's arms tightened around her. "I don't know."
Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable. Outside, a bell rang faintly—midday.
"I'll try to be back as soon as I can," he said quietly. "But… I can't promise when."
His hand drifted down, resting gently against her stomach, reverent despite the familiarity.
"I want to be here," he said. "For the birth of our child. I don't want to miss it."
Elara's hand covered his.
"You won't," she said firmly.
"Elara—"
"I still have about a month and a half," she continued.
"And even if I went into labor early, I'd wait for you."
His brows knit. "Don't say that. Don't burden yourself with—"
"I'm not," she said, smiling softly. "I'm reassuring my husband."
He searched her face, the calm certainty there, and felt some of the tension ease from his chest.
She brushed her fingers through his hair, slow and soothing.
"Go," she said. "Do what you need to do. I'll hold the fort."
"You always do," he murmured.
She leaned in and kissed his temple again, lingering.
"You look better already."
"I feel better," he admitted. "I suppose that means you should stay."
She laughed quietly, standing. "If I stay, you won't work."
"An argument could be made that I'd be more productive."
She rolled her eyes fondly and smoothed his hair one last time.
"Get back to it, Auro."
He watched her leave, posture lighter than it had been moments before.
Elara walked slowly down the corridor, one hand resting against her belly as a gentle flutter stirred beneath her palm. She smiled to herself, rubbing small circles there.
"You behave," she murmured fondly.
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows at the manor's end, and she paused there, gazing out into the courtyard below.
Elias stood near the steps, bundled in his winter clothes, speaking with Jamie. The girl gestured animatedly as she talked, her hands slicing the air. Elias listened, nodding, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. Aina approached them moments later, arms crossed, expression cool as ever, though Elara caught the faint tilt of her head as she addressed the other two.
There was a brief exchange—Jamie's grin widening, Aina's unimpressed snort, Elias stepping between them with practiced ease.
Then the three turned and headed out through the gates together.
Elara watched until they disappeared from view.
Her smile lingered.
'My dear children...'
The town would keep moving. Papers would pile. Politics would snarl. But for this moment, with the sun warm against her face and the sound of her children's laughter echoing faintly in her memory, that was enough.