The courtyard hadn't even cooled from training when the horns started.
Not the sharp, panicked blasts of alarm. The long, rising call from the outer gate—announcing visitors.
Harrow's head turned like someone had tugged an invisible leash.
"That's not the butcher's cart," he muttered.
William, still catching his breath, wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his forearm. His shirt clung to him. His ribs ached under the fresh bandages. The bruised place where a spear had tried very hard to end him throbbed in time with his pulse.
"Who is it?" he asked.
Harrow didn't answer. He was already striding for the archway that led toward the inner yard, aura still faintly red at the edges from the Fire Muti demonstration.
"Henry!" a voice called from the colonnade above.
William looked up.
His brother leaned on the stone rail, cloak thrown over one shoulder, hair still damp from a more civilized morning. Beside him, Aunt Cecilia clutched her shawl like the wind might try to steal it.
"They've raised the Maximilian colors," Henry called down. "Royal escort at the gate."
Aunt Cecilia clicked her tongue. "And of course he is drenched in sweat."
William's stomach dropped and tried to crawl out through his boots.
"Now?" he said, to no one in particular.
Harrow stopped just long enough to give him a look that held equal parts sympathy and cruelty.
"Congratulations," the master-at-arms said. "You get to meet your fiancée smelling like a barracks."
"Can I at least—"
"No time," Henry cut in. "They're already in the outer yard. Mother wants you presentable in five minutes. Which, coming from her, is generous."
William swore under his breath, grabbed his cloak from the training bench, and did what he could with ruined dignity.
He wiped his face, shoved his hair back, and tried to smooth out the worst of the creases in his tunic. It still smelled like horse and steel. His boots were dusty. His hands shook just a little.
The coal under his sternum pulsed once, warm and steady.
Not now, he told it silently.
He crossed the courtyard fast enough to make the stitches in his side tug, then forced himself to slow as he reached the arch into the inner yard. Running into a royal party like a startled dog was not, according to every etiquette lesson he'd ever endured, ideal.
The inner yard doors swung open.
Servants poured out first—Lockhart livery in white and gold, moving like a tide to form neat lines. Trumpeters took position along the balcony. Somewhere to his left, Erica squealed, "They brought horses!" before someone shushed her.
Then the gate to the street groaned inward.
The royal standard came first—white sun on blue and gold—snapping in the cold air.
Behind it rolled a modest carriage by royal standards, drawn by four white horses and flanked by Sun-Knight guards. Their cloaks gleamed bright as new snow. Their armor caught the morning light and threw it back at the walls.
The carriage door opened.
Princess Elizabeth Maximilian stepped down into Lockhart Keep's yard as if she had done it a hundred times before.
She hadn't.
William had only seen her a handful of times in person—at court, across crowded halls, once in the corridor outside his father's study. She looked different here, against familiar stone.
Travel cloak of deep blue, hem dusted from the road. Simple dress beneath, winter-appropriate but cut well enough that William's mother would approve. Her hair was braided back in a coronet, no heavy crown, just a silver circlet catching the light.
Behind her trailed a small entourage—two ladies-in-waiting, a Sun-Knight officer, a pair of royal household scribes burdened with document cases, another guard carrying a lacquered box.
William realized he was staring.
Henry nudged him with an elbow hard enough to jolt his ribs.
"Remember to breathe," his brother murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "And don't fall over. Mother will never forgive you."
Lady Lockhart descended the steps to meet the princess, posture perfect, smile calculated somewhere between warmth and the proper amount of awe.
"Your Highness," she said, dropping into a graceful curtsy. "Lockhart Keep is honored."
"Thank you, Lady Lockhart," Elizabeth replied. Her voice carried clearly but not loudly, shaped for halls and courts. "I hope my visit is not an inconvenience."
"Never," William's mother said. "May I present my sons—Lord Henry Lockhart, heir of House Lockhart, and Lord William."
Elizabeth's gaze shifted.
For a heartbeat, William was pinned like a recruit in front of a drill line.
He bowed.
"Your Highness," he managed. "Welcome to Lockhart Keep. Again."
Her eyes flickered, just a hint, remembering the last time—formal introductions, stiff smiles, ink not yet dry on engagement terms. A flash of nine-year-old William spilling wine on her shoes.
"I am glad to see you standing, Lord William," she said. "When last I was here, you were… less so."
Heat crept up the back of his neck.
He hadn't known she'd seen him like that—unconscious, bloodstained, stitched up like a butchered boar.
"Apologies for the… state," he said. "Master Harrow thought it best not to let the spear holes grow lonely."
One of the Sun-Knight guards frowned faintly at his tone. Elizabeth's mouth twitched, almost a smile.
"Training already?" she asked. "The healers in Albion will be offended."
"They can file a complaint with Harrow," William said. "I'll be unconscious again by then anyway."
Henry made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh if their mother hadn't been within swatting distance.
"Perhaps," Lady Lockhart cut in smoothly, "we could move this inside. The morning is still cold, and our guest has had a long ride."
"Of course," Elizabeth said. She glanced once more at William. "If you're not too tired, Lord William, I would… appreciate your company. For a short time."
It wasn't a command. Not exactly. But it wasn't really a request either.
He swallowed.
"I'd be honored," he said.
⸻
They ended up in the solar.
It was one of the few rooms in the keep that ever felt warm in winter—high windows to catch the light, a thick rug over stone, a banked fire burning low. The table near the window had been hastily cleared of ledgers and replaced with a tea service. Someone had even found fruit.
Elizabeth stood by the window, gloves off, fingers resting lightly on the sill. The Maximilian blue ribbon on the flowers at William's bedside and the sash at her waist matched almost exactly.
Her entourage kept a respectful distance.
The older lady-in-waiting—gray at the temples, eyes like a hawk—occupied a chair near the door, embroidery in hand. The Sun-Knight officer stood just outside, visible through the open doorway, pretending not to listen.
Henry had been swept away by their mother to "give the princess space." Aunt Cecilia had gone to "see to refreshments" in a tone that promised to interrogate every kitchen servant in the castle.
That left William alone in the room with the future queen of Britannia and an older woman who might count as a small army.
He felt more exposed than he had on the wall at Ashford.
Elizabeth broke the silence first.
"I hope the journey back from Ashford was not… excessively unpleasant," she said, still looking out the window.
"Dragging a mostly dead boy three days in a cart?" William said. "I imagine it was worse for the horses."
She turned then, brows lifting.
"I didn't mean the cart," she said. "I meant waking up after."
He blinked.
"Oh," he said. "That."
The coal under his sternum pulsed, a little stronger. He remembered light and a voice that shook something in him, but like a dream half-lost. Whenever he tried to grip it, it slid away and left only warmth.
"It's… strange," he admitted. "People keep calling me 'Gate Knight' like I did something on purpose. Mostly I remember mud, screaming, and being very confused that more men kept coming through the same hole in the wall."
Her mouth did the almost-smile again.
"The songs are already less poetic than the rumors," she said. "According to the court, you personally wrestled a Germanian bear, lit the sky with holy fire, and convinced a legion to turn around by glaring at them."
"I'll take the bear," William said. "It sounds less tiring."
A faint sound escaped the lady-in-waiting—might have been a contained laugh. Elizabeth's shoulders loosened by a fraction.
"They speak of you in Albion," she went on. "Ministers. Generals. Priests. They argue whether you were reckless or necessary."
"And what do you think?" he asked, before he could talk himself out of it.
Her gaze sharpened.
"In private?" she asked.
"If I may be so bold, Your Highness," he said.
She considered him for a moment, weighing something.
"I think," she said slowly, "that the War Office should not be surprised when men do the things their own stories taught them."
He blinked. "Is that… criticism?"
"It is an observation," she replied. "They tell boys tales of knights who stand in front of burning villages and refuse to step aside. Then they send one of those boys to a burning village and tell him to watch."
William remembered her voice in the corridor, before Ashford. I just wish this had been my choice. Or his.
"I didn't want anyone to burn," he said quietly. "That's all."
Her eyes softened, just a fraction. It was like watching ice consider melting.
"I know," she said.
Silence again, but less sharp.
"You sent the flowers," he blurted.
Regal composure cracked; she blinked. "I—yes. It seemed… appropriate."
"Thank you," he said. "They made the room smell less like boiled herbs and fear."
Her cheeks colored, just a shade. "I am pleased my attempt at interior reform was successful."
He almost smiled. "And you came. Before. While I was—"
"Unconscious," she finished. "Yes. The court was very dramatic about it. 'The princess at the hero's bedside.' They forget paperwork doesn't sign itself. It was inconvenient."
The words were sharp. The tone wasn't.
"Inconvenient?" he repeated, trying not to sound as crushed as the word made him feel.
"Imagine the bureaucratic chaos," she went on, almost lightly. "If you had died, the scribes would have had to tear up half the betrothal documents. I am told ink is expensive this winter."
He stared at her.
Then, slowly, he laughed. It hurt his chest, but he couldn't stop.
"I see," he said. "So I bled on a gate to save the Crown's stationery budget."
"At least you understand your place in the grand design," she said.
The lady-in-waiting's needle paused, then resumed, just a little faster.
The coal inside burned warm, not frantic. It pushed against his ribs like it wanted more space.
"I'm glad I didn't make things… complicated for you," William said, the humor fading toward something more serious. "Truly."
Her eyes searched his face.
"I was… angry, when I heard," she said. "That you had gone to Ashford. That you had stood. Partly because it was foolish. Partly because no one asked me if my—" she hesitated, choosing the word "—intended was to be included in such stories."
He swallowed.
"I didn't ask anyone anything," he said. "I just… couldn't ride away."
"I know," she said again. "That's the problem."
She crossed to the table, fingers brushing the rim of an untouched tea cup. When she spoke next, her voice was softer.
"But," she added, "when the reports came—the villagers' letters, the men's statements, the healers' complaints—I was… relieved. That you had refused. That someone under our banners remembered the stories for something other than speeches."
The coal flared.
For a heartbeat, his vision sharpened. The room's colors brightened—the blue of her sash, the gold thread on the rug, the precise line of her jaw. A faint, invisible pressure hummed around his skin, like a storm about to break.
He clenched his fist.
Not here. Not now.
He forced his aura down, the way Harrow had taught him with Martial Muti—breath in, breath out, let the surge settle. No light cracked his skin. His eyes did not glow. To anyone else, he just looked like a boy trying not to sway on his feet.
Elizabeth's brow furrowed.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Just… tired," he said. "Gate memories. They sneak up on you."
She nodded once, accepting the lie, or choosing not to prod it.
"I didn't come only to reinforce court gossip," she said. The older woman by the door adjusted slightly, listening closer. "My father asked for a Lockhart account of Ashford before the War Office buries it in justification."
William's spine straightened automatically at the mention of the king.
"You want… a report?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "In writing. For him. And for me." She hesitated. "I would like to know what it actually felt like. Not what they sing. Not what they argue."
He thought of mud and blood and Hobb's hand clamping his shoulder on the walls.
"I can try," he said.
Her mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite a command.
"Good," she said. "Send it when you're able."
She took a breath, as if shifting gears.
"And, William," she added.
He looked up at the sound of his name without title.
"For what it is worth," she said quietly, "I am glad you are not a story they sing about in past tense."
His throat went tight.
"Me too," he said. "Though 'the idiot who survived' isn't much of a ballad."
"We'll work on the title," she replied.
The lady-in-waiting cleared her throat delicately.
"Your Highness," she murmured. "The schedule."
Elizabeth straightened, the moment closing like a book.
"Right," she said. "There are still ministers to endure and brothers to scold."
She moved toward the door, then paused by the table. Her fingers brushed the blue ribbon around the neck of a water jug, echoing the one on the flowers by his bed.
"Rest, Lord William," she said, formal again. "Britannia has already wrung enough from you this week."
He bowed as best he could without pulling stitches.
"I'll try, Your Highness," he said. "But Master Harrow has very strong feelings about idleness."
"I'll have a word with him," she said, so dryly he almost missed the joke. "After all, we wouldn't want the Gate Knight to wear himself out before the next time the War Office miscalculates."
"Please don't call me that," he blurted.
She stopped in the doorway, looked back over her shoulder.
"What would you prefer?" she asked. "Unlit Heir? Decorative Sword Stand?"
He winced. "Those are terrible options."
"I agree," she said. "So, for now, I will use the one that involves a gate and three thousand Germans."
She inclined her head.
"Good day, William."
"Good day, Elizabeth," he said, before his brain remembered to add the Your Highness.
Her lips twitched.
Then she was gone—swept away in a rustle of cloaks and soft leather boots, Sun-Knight guards falling into step as the solar door closed behind them.
The room felt larger without her, but not emptier.
William let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and sank carefully into the nearest chair. His ribs protested. The coal under his sternum settled into a steady, quiet burn.
Through the window, he could see the royal carriage being readied again in the yard—the flash of blue and gold, the bowing heads, Erica bouncing up and down on the steps until Aunt Cecilia snagged her collar.
He looked at his scarred hands.
A boy who'd stood in a gate and refused to move. A boy a god had weighed and sent back. A boy a princess crossed a city to speak to.
None of it felt real.
He reached out, fingers brushing an imaginary blue ribbon in the air.
"I'll try not to make things… too inconvenient," he muttered.
The coal pulsed once, warm approval or simple heartbeat.
Outside, the carriage wheels started to turn.