The carriage stopped in front of Baron Thorn's house long after the streets had fallen silent.
The driver stepped down to open the door for the passenger inside.
The royal crest caught the lantern light in his hand.
"Who would come at this hour?" "A carriage from the palace… What is going on?"
Thorn was already outside. He had just finished securing the workshop door beside the house. He paused and looked up at the sky, thinking.
If my flower were here, she would have fallen in love with the sky tonight… It's clear. The stars are shining.
Then he heard the wheels before they reached the gate.
The carriage door opened.
A small foot appeared. The edge of a dark blue dress.
Who is that—
His thoughts froze.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
A ringing filled his ears.
Then Sylis stepped down.
She seemed just as surprised to find him standing there.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The night felt quieter than it should have been.
"You shouldn't be here at this hour, Sylis."
His voice was controlled.
Too controlled.
She blinked. "Thorn…"
"Weren't you supposed to return in the morning? The celebration lasts until dawn."
His tone sharpened with every word.
"Thorn, I—"
"So then," he cut in, his voice burning like fire as he stepped closer, "what are you doing here. Now."
Each word rose slightly higher than the last.
He wasn't shouting.
But the air around him was charged.
She swallowed. "I was sent—"
He didn't let her finish.
"Sent."
The word left his mouth differently.
Something shifted in his expression.
The fire extinguished.
What replaced it was worse.
Cold.
A lethal, glacial cold.
"Tell me, my wife," he continued, his voice smooth as winter steel, "who was generous enough to send you home in a royal carriage?"
The driver lowered his gaze.
"It seems many people are concerned about my wife."
The question tightened around Sylis like a closing fist.
"It was—"
"Whoever it was," Thorn interrupted calmly, "it is my duty as your husband to thank him properly."
The softness of the sentence never reached his eyes.
"Such generosity should not go unappreciated."
He stepped back.
He did not wait.
He did not ask.
He did not listen.
Or perhaps—
he simply did not want to.
He turned and walked past her.
"Thorn—"
She hurried a step after him.
"Thorn, listen—"
But he didn't stop.
Whether he couldn't—
or wouldn't.
The door shut behind him.
Sylis remained standing beneath the faint lantern light as the carriage wheels faded into the night.
She did not understand.
Not fully.
The driver bowed and left.
Sylis turned and entered the house, not daring to follow Thorn despite how much she wanted to.
Inside, the house felt colder than the air outside.
She walked slowly through the corridor, her fingers brushing the wall as if steadying herself.
"Where would he go at this hour…" she murmured.
Silence answered.
She stopped.
"The workshop."
A small breath escaped her.
Relief.
Because she knew where he would be.
And worry.
Because he would not sleep like this.
Because she did not understand what had truly ignited his anger.
Not yet.
---
The workshop door shut harder than it should have.
Thorn stood in the darkness for a moment.
Then he lit the single lantern hanging above his worktable.
The light was dim.
Enough to see.
Not enough to soften anything.
He removed his gloves slowly.
Very slowly.
A royal carriage.
At night.
He had known.
From the moment he saw the crest, he had known.
He braced both hands against the wooden table.
Breathed once.
Twice.
"You shouldn't have sent her," he muttered under his breath.
He wasn't speaking to Sylis.
Not truly.
But to someone else.
His jaw tightened.
Every glance from the celebration returned to him.
Every look he had ignored.
Every word he had chosen not to hear.
He had believed distance was protection.
He had believed ambiguity was safety.
He had been wrong.
His hand curled into a fist.
"I won't allow this."
The words were quiet.
A vow directed at no one.
And at everyone.
He closed his eyes briefly.
And for one fleeting second—
he was afraid.
Not of a rival.
Not of scandal.
But of something far greater.
Power.
---
Inside the house
Sylis lay beside their son.
The child slept peacefully, one small hand clutching the fabric of her sleeve.
She watched his breathing.
Steady.
Unaware.
But her thoughts would not settle.
It was the first time she had seen Thorn angry because of her.
The first time his anger had burst toward her.
Not irritated.
Not protective.
Angry.
"I don't understand…" she whispered.
He had never raised his voice at her.
Not once.
Not when she burned dinner during their first winter.
Not when she insisted on walking too far while heavy with child.
Not when fear made her stubborn.
Her fingers brushed through the child's hair.
Why tonight?
Why this?
She closed her eyes—
And memory answered.
---
Years ago
She stood beneath the rain.
Soaked.
Angry.
"You can't decide everything for me, Thorn."
He removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders without argument.
"You'll get sick."
"That's not the point."
"It is exactly the point."
She tried to push him away.
But he held it tighter.
Not violently.
Just enough to say: I won't let you hurt yourself—even by your own hands.
Another memory—
Her hand trembled over the curve of her belly.
"What if I'm not ready?"
He knelt before her.
Rested his forehead gently against her stomach.
"You're not alone in this."
His voice had been soft then.
Certain.
"I chose you before the world ever did."
She laughed through tears.
"Arrogant."
"Maybe."
He looked at her.
Not as a title.
Not as possession.
But as something precious.
Always careful.
Always steady.
---
Sylis returned to the present and opened her eyes.
The room was dark.
But warm.
"He's never looked at me the way he did tonight…"
Not with doubt.
Not with distance.
She turned slightly, pulling the child closer.
Maybe he was only tired.
Maybe she was imagining things.
Maybe.
But somewhere inside this house—
a man was still awake.
And somewhere beyond it—
a king had begun to take interest.
Sylis closed her eyes.
Unaware that love, when placed between power and pride,
rarely remains untouched.