The ughter from this evening felt like a distant memory.

  The feast had been loud, bright, overflowing with relief.

  Evelyn drunk and boasting. Seraphine quietly stealing sweets.

  A drunk Count Greymane weeping unceremoniously into a soldier's shoulder, drawing an irreverent snort from Cire.

  She was at the center of it all, smiling like she hadn't nearly died days before.

  Rocher had ughed too. He'd even meant it, for a few fleeting moments.

  But the castle was silent now. Heavy. Unforgiving.

  And Rocher still couldn't sleep.

  He'd tried. He always tried.

  The makeshift sleeping chamber Greymane had prepared for them was a single hall, divided only by a hanging curtain. The women slept on the far side, their cots faintly outlined by the embers of the dying fire.

  Rocher y on his own narrow cot, staring up at the rafters, eyes half-closed, listening to the soft rise and fall of their breaths through thin fabric.

  Cire's breathing was the lightest.

  He could pick hers out instantly. He hated that he'd learned it by heart.

  He shuttered his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

  But the tightness in his chest wouldn't fade. Every night was the same since he'd almost lost her.

  Too fragile.Too fearless.Too easy to lose.

  He rolled onto his back and exhaled, forcing stillness. He could pretend, at least, even if sleep never came.

  But her soft breaths carried through—steady, unguarded, impossible to ignore. They pressed against the ache in his chest until something gave way. His eyes slipped shut.

  And in that fragile quiet, exhaustion overtook him, dragging him straight into the nightmare he had spent years trying not to remember.

  He was small again. Seven. Maybe eight.

  The pace aviary stretched before him—sunlight pouring through golden bars, motes of dust glittering like tiny stars.

  His mother's ughter echoed faintly from another room.

  In his hands, warm and trembling, was the blue-throated finch.

  It was her favorite, and his.

  He remembered the moment exactly: it'd felt wrong to keep such a beautiful bird in a little gilded cage.

  It wasn't sick. Or frightened.

  Just... sad.

  Its iridescent wings folded tight, never spreading, never catching the sun.

  It was trapped.

  And Rocher had understood trapped.

  He had been hidden away in the pace his entire life—shielded from the court, shielded from his brother the Crown Prince, shielded from any irresponsible whispers about succession.

  A child with too many expectations was dangerous. Better he not be seen.

  He'd been made to understand, even nodded along.

  But still—he hated his room. He hated the locked doors. He hated the guards who insisted they were keeping him "safe."

  So when he saw the bird in its little cage, sitting perfectly still on its perfect perch, wings shimmering with iridescent blues and greens…

  He had wanted to see them open. Just once. To see them fly.

  "Just for a moment," young Rocher whispered, voice high and hopeful.

  He untched the cage door.

  The finch hopped once. Twice. Then fluttered out, light as breath.

  For a heartbeat, Rocher felt pure joy.

  There. Freedom.See? You're safe. You're beautiful. You're…

  But the dream always shifted here—the warm light colpsing into a cold, echoing silence.

  He'd followed it, ughing, mimicking its calls as it looped through sunlit beams.

  Then it slipped behind a pilr.

  And didn't come back.

  Panic overtook him.

  He searched everywhere—behind potted pnts,under benches,around golden perches.

  Nothing.

  Then he saw the feathers.

  Blue. Broken. A small shape crumpled on the marble floor.

  A pace hawk perched on a high beam above it, beak stained red.

  The finch's wings—the wings he'd wanted to see—were twisted, ruined, still.

  "No…" His child-voice cracked. "I just wanted you to be happy. I just wanted—"

  Behind him, his mother ran into the aviary, gasping. She fell to her knees beside the tiny body.

  He waited for her to shout, to scold him.

  She didn't. She only stroked the bird once and murmured, softly:

  "Rocher… some things are in cages because the world outside might harm them."

  And the guilt swallowed him whole.

  He jolted awake.

  Cold sweat slicked his skin. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to cw its way out.

  The room was dark, quiet. Too quiet—the kind of silence that left him alone with everything he wished he could forget.

  He dragged a hand across his face.

  He hadn't dreamed of that bird in years.

  Not since he'd sworn never to let something delicate slip through his hands again.

  Not since he'd learned to keep distance, to keep things light, to keep people entertained but not close.

  Better to leave the cage closed.

  Except now—Now there was Cire.

  Small. Bright.

  Brilliant in ways she didn't recognize.

  Fragile in ways she'd never admit.

  He sat up slowly, elbows on his knees.

  He had thought he could treat her like the others.

  Give her space. Anchor her from afar. Let her talents blossom while he kept an unobtrusive distance.

  But Cire had none of the protections they had.

  Lumiere had divine authority. Seraphine overwhelming power. Evelyn had violence-honed instincts and years of street sense.

  All Cire had was herself.

  No status, no power, no institutional shield.

  Not even basic self-preservation.

  When the undead soldier lunged, she'd pushed Seraphine aside without hesitation—as if her own life weighed nothing.

  She'd walked back to them bloody and limping, held together by a potion and sheer will.

  And when eyes lingered on her—hungry, entitled—she didn’t even seem to sense the threat.

  It chilled him.

  How casually she dismissed danger.How easily she trusted.How often her courage ran ahead of her instincts.

  He pressed fingers to his temple.

  He'd let the finch slip through his fingers because he hadn't understood the cage was protection, not prison.

  And he had let Cire walk into danger because he didn't understand her either.

  He mistook her quiet strength for invulnerability. Gave her distance when he should have given her vigince.

  Because he didn't see the hawks circling until she almost didn't come back.

  His throat tightened.

  Not again.

  He looked toward the thin curtain separating his partition from hers—the faint, steady rhythm of her breathing.

  She was alive. Safe. For now.

  She didn't need a distant anchor. She needed a shield.

  Someone who would see danger coming before she did—who recognized when she was being braver than she was careful.

  He stood, resolve hardening like steel.

  "Cire," he whispered into the dark, "I won't let you fall on my watch."

  Not this time.

  Not her.