The morning did not arrive with drama.
It never did.
It slipped in quietly, pale light threading through worn curtains, touching the wooden floor as if afraid to disturb those still breathing inside the house.
Saelis was already awake.
She moved softly—the kind of softness learned when love sleeps nearby. The kettle rested above the fire, water beginning to murmur—not boiling yet, merely considering it. The scent of warm bread lingered in the air, familiar and steady, clinging to the walls as though the house itself wished to remember this morning.
Thorne sat at the small table, fastening the leather strap around his wrist. His hands were rough, marked with thin scars that never fully faded—small, honest wounds earned from years of shaping stubborn wood into something willing to endure.
"You're up early," she said quietly.
He smiled without lifting his head.
"The doorframe won't fix itself."
She set a cup before him and brushed past his shoulder, a brief touch, unspoken but complete. They had learned long ago that not every affection needed words.
In the corner of the room, their child stirred.
A small sound. Half a breath. Half a dream.
Saelis turned at once and knelt beside the low bed. The boy's hair fell into his eyes—dark, unruly, refusing order even in sleep. She brushed it back gently, and his fingers curled around her sleeve as if he feared she might vanish before morning finished arriving.
"Stay," he murmured.
"I will," she whispered. "Always."
He did not understand the word.
But he trusted the tone.
Behind her, Thorne watched, his expression softening into something the world rarely saw. In the workshop, he was precise. In the palace, he was careful. But here—here he was simply a man watching the two lives his hands could never truly protect.
Another presence shifted near the doorway.
An older man sat quietly, polishing a small wooden box with slow, practiced motions. He said nothing, only nodded. Family did not always announce itself with words. Sometimes it existed simply by remaining.
Thorne stood and reached for his coat.
"I'll be late," he said. "The hinges for the west wing—they want them reforged."
Saelis stiffened, just slightly.
"The palace?"
He nodded once.
"They sent word yesterday."
She said nothing. She had learned not to ask questions that did not wish to be answered.
He leaned down, pressed a kiss to the child's forehead, then to her temple. There was no urgency in it. No shadow. Only the quiet confidence of a man who believed the world would allow him to return.
"I'll walk you halfway," he added.
She shook her head.
"You'll already be late."
A pause. Then he smiled, resigned.
"Tonight, then."
"Yes," she said. "Tonight."
He left to the sound of steady boots against stone, unhurried.
The house exhaled.
Saelis finished preparing herself in silence. The uniform lay folded where she had left it the night before—clean, pressed, unremarkable. She dressed carefully, smoothing each crease, as though order itself might keep chaos away.
At the door, the child ran to her again, wrapping his arms around her legs.
"Don't go."
She knelt and met his eyes.
"I'll come back," she said. "I always do."
He considered this, then nodded solemnly, as if accepting a contract written in trust alone.
Outside, the air was cool.
The city was waking—vendors calling softly, shutters opening, the distant sound of metal striking metal as workshops stirred to life. For a moment, Saelis stood still, letting the ordinary world settle around her.
Then she turned toward the palace.
With every step, the warmth thinned.
Streets widened. Stone replaced soil. Voices faded into echoes. The palace rose ahead, pale and unmoving, its towers indifferent to the lives orbiting them.
She did not think of the king as she passed through the gates.
She thought of her child's hand clinging to her sleeve.
Of the smell of bread.
Of Thorne's hands.
The palace did not care for such thoughts.
Inside, the air was colder still. Torches burned low despite the hour, their light subdued, disciplined. Servants moved with practiced silence, heads lowered, steps synchronized not by command but by habit.
Saelis took her place among them, invisible as she had learned to be.
Until she wasn't.
She did not notice at first—the way her mind drifted as she polished a silver tray, her thoughts returning, unbidden, to the morning. To laughter that had not yet learned caution. To a house that did not demand quiet.
A voice broke through the haze.
"Your hands have stopped."
She startled, the tray clinking softly.
"I—apologies."
Silence stretched.
She felt it before she understood it—the weight of attention, focused and deliberate.
"You were elsewhere," the voice said. Not accusing. Observing.
She swallowed.
"I was thinking of home."
Another pause.
"Do servants still have such places?"
She did not know how to answer that.
"Yes," she said at last. "Some of us do."
She dared to glance up, only briefly.
He stood a short distance away, posture rigid, expression unreadable. No crown rested upon his head. No symbol announced his station. And yet the space around him felt altered, as though the air itself deferred.
"Does it distract you?" he asked.
"No," she said. Then, more honestly, "Only for a moment."
His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in something closer to curiosity.
"A moment," he repeated. "How fortunate."
She felt suddenly exposed, as though her thoughts had been laid bare without consent.
"You may go," he said.
She bowed and retreated at once, her pulse loud in her ears.
Behind her, the king remained still.
And for reasons he did not yet name, the image of her standing there—mind far from the palace, heart anchored elsewhere—did not leave him.
For the first time in many years, the silence did not obey him.
***
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