On the morning their son turned one hundred days old, which was also the morning of their coronation, Lorraine woke in the familiar, grounding warmth of Leroy's arms, the two of them still sharing a single bedchamber despite every tradition that whispered otherwise, because Leroy had insisted, with quiet stubbornness and the softness he showed only to her, that he would not spend a single night separated from his wife again.
She smiled as she watched him sleep, the lines of exhaustion eased, the weight he carried momentarily softened, yet a single thought tugged at her heart with steady insistence, drawing her gaze to the small bassinet beside them, where their son slept in a bundle of pale blankets and peaceful breaths.
