The palace had changed.

  Not loudly, not visibly — not in the way a city erupts with banners after victory. But in quieter, heavier ways.

  The guards were sharper now, and fewer. They spoke in low tones, walked in pairs, didn’t linger by doorways or slip coins between fingers.

  Servants moved with a new rhythm — still quick, still quiet, but with watchful eyes. The gossip hadn’t vanished, but it had shifted; no longer about dresses or duels, but about names whispered during the arrests, or who might replace the council seats still left conspicuously empty.

  The whole building felt… cleaner. Not in scent or marble polish, but in purpose.

  Something had cracked open — and though dust still lingered in the cracks, it was a better thing than the rot that had settled before.

  And yet, above all this new stillness, the west tower had remained as it always was: slightly crooked, slightly forgotten, and, for this evening, entirely hers.

  Fran lit no extra candles. The fading light from the tall arched windows was enough. It painted the table in soft, angled gold, catching the sheen of two mismatched goblets — one silver, one iron — and the glint of a wine bottle opened, but not yet poured.

  She was alone. Not lonely. There was a difference.

  Her study was two floors below, and full of paperwork — letters from Velarith about the judge to be sent, lists of potential jurors, names for council replacements. She had read them all. Considered them all. And then she had come here instead.

  Let them wait.

  Let the trials begin next week, as planned. Let the names be debated a day longer.

  She placed a plate just so, adjusted the knife’s angle, then frowned and moved it again.

  A short note rested beside the setting opposite hers. It had been delivered earlier that afternoon by Silja, who’d returned from the tower’s stairwell with a sly look and no comment. Fran had kept her tone neutral, but her fingers had curled slightly after she passed the parchment over. The note had read:

  “If you’re not otherwise engaged in saving the duchy, I’d like your company for dinner. Tower. Tonight.”

  He hadn’t replied. But she had laid two plates anyway.

  She stepped back now, brushing her hands together as if she’d finished something important — though the table was still sparse. The food would come soon enough: roasted pheasant, pickled carrots, a wedge of hard Kentari cheese she had personally selected. Nothing extravagant. No servants tonight. Just what she could carry and what Silja had helped her prepare.

  A breeze filtered through the narrow window, stirring the flame of the single lantern. Fran crossed to close the shutters — and paused instead, her hand resting on the old stone.

  From here, you could just make out the Thirel beyond the rooftops, glinting faintly. And, past it, the eastern hills where the trials would be held.

  Vos. Vannor. Avessa.

  All three would face judgment by jury. Not by her decree, but by law — real law. That was the point. That was the weight.

  And yet, she had chosen to step aside from it for tonight. Not because she didn’t care.

  But because she did.

  She turned away before her thoughts could pull her further. Adjusted the wine bottle again. Smoothed her skirt. Then sat.

  And waited.

  Gale moved along the top of the southern ramparts, cloak tugging lightly behind him. The wards had held; the collapsed tunnel was still sealed, the nearby wall untouched. The city beyond was quiet now — even the docks.

  He had walked here often these last few nights. Not for work. Not exactly. Just… to be moving. Watching.

  Avessa’s final words lingered more than they should have. So did her arrogance. Her fear.

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  He had delivered her himself, floated and bound in silence. Hadn’t said a word when the guards took her.

  And Fran — no, Frances, her real name still strange in his mind — had barely looked at him after. They had worked together, spoken briefly, but there was always something else to do, someone else to command.

  She had handed him the note without words, through Silja. He hadn’t answered. But he had it.

  He opened it again now, on the rampart’s edge, even though he knew every word.

  He smiled faintly, then folded it once more and tucked it into his sleeve.

  Then turned toward the tower.

  Fran was standing now, pouring wine with slow precision. The bottle gave a small glug, and she winced — ridiculous, really, for someone who had just overseen half a dozen arrests and an underground explosion.

  But then, the sound of footsteps.

  She didn’t turn. Just finished pouring.

  “You came,” she said.

  A pause, close behind.

  “Was I supposed to bring wine?”

  This time, she smiled. Quiet, unguarded, tired.

  “You’re late.”

  “No,” he said, stepping beside her. “You’re early.”

  She handed him the glass without ceremony. “It’s from Candlekeep.”

  “Of course it is.”

  He looked around at the table, the flickering lantern, the modest setting.

  “This is… clandestine,” he observed. “No servants. No heralds. Not even a poisoned duck.”

  “I thought you might prefer something more discreet.”

  He raised a brow. “Discreet. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

  Fran sighed and sank into her chair. “Just drink.”

  He did.

  And smiled.

  They sat down together, almost in sync — which neither of them acknowledged, of course.

  Fran picked up her fork, then glanced across the table. “One rule.”

  Gale, who had already started unfolding his napkin with unnecessary ceremony, paused. “Only one? You’re becoming dangerously lenient.”

  She shot him a look. “No council. No trials. No nobles. No plots.”

  He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me. That’s all I bring to a dinner table.”

  “Well, try bringing your appetite for once.”

  He smirked. “I’ve had that for a while now.”

  She paused with her goblet halfway to her lips, gaze narrowing. “Don’t start.”

  “Noted.”

  They began to eat. For a while, the room was filled only with the soft sounds of cutlery and the occasional pop from the lantern’s wick. The food was simple, but good — far better than anything served during formal court meals. Gale took one bite of the pheasant and gave her a suspicious look.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “This is seasoned,” he said, slowly. “With actual flavor. And subtlety. Did you cook this?”

  “I supervised.”

  “Ah. So Silja cooked it.”

  “She supervised under my supervision.”

  He snorted. “Which explains why the carrots aren’t burned.”

  “I am going to throw you off this tower.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I succeeded,” she muttered, and sipped her wine.

  He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking across the room, then settling on her again. “You know, I was trying to think earlier of the last time we sat across from each other like this. No crisis. No scheming. No disguises.”

  “And no guests watching.”

  “Exactly.” A pause. “And you still haven’t poisoned the wine.”

  “That you know of.”

  He raised the glass. “I suppose I’ll die happy.”

  They ate in stretches of quiet punctuated by flickers of dry wit — like all their best conversations, wrapped in layers of sarcasm and restraint.

  “So,” Gale said at one point, stabbing a bit of lentil mash, “this is what we’ve become.”

  Fran looked up. “What?”

  “People who dine by candlelight and avoid politics on purpose.”

  She gave a slight smile. “Shocking, I know.”

  “We’re practically civil.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “You know, I tried to imagine this. Once. Weeks ago.”

  “This?”

  He nodded. “Just… talking. No schemes. No titles. No weapons hidden under our sleeves.”

  She arched a brow. “You imagined dinner?”

  “I imagined you,” he said, tone suddenly quiet. “Smiling. Like that.”

  Fran stilled.

  Her fork dropped gently to the plate, the sound no louder than her breath. She studied him — not with suspicion or calculation, but as if she were trying to solve something far older than any court intrigue.

  “You never kissed me,” she said. Not accusing, just observant.

  He swallowed. “You never let me.”

  She smiled again, softer this time. “Would you have?”

  “In Orveil?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He held her gaze. “Gods, yes.”

  Her breath caught — just enough to give her away.

  The room was silent except for the flutter of the lantern flame. Outside, the wind stirred faintly through the upper windows. Inside, everything had stopped. No court. No duchy. Just her and him, and everything they had not said.

  Slowly, deliberately, she stood.

  Gale did too, his chair scraping softly behind him. He didn’t speak. Just waited — no charm now, no spells, no banter.

  When she reached him, she said, barely audible: “Then what are you waiting for?”

  He kissed her like it was inevitable. Because it was.

  It was not delicate. Not some polite court kiss. It was late and breathless and full of everything they hadn’t said — heat and hunger, yes, but also the simple, shocking comfort of home.

  Gale’s hands found her waist. Hers pulled him closer by the collar. His breath hitched when she bit his lower lip. She laughed against his mouth when he responded by lifting her, blindly, onto the edge of the table.

  The silver goblet tipped, wine spilling over half-forgotten papers. Neither of them noticed.

  They did not stop.

  Not when the lantern flickered.

  Not when her hair came undone.

  Not until much later — when the wine was gone, and the food was cold, and they had finally run out of reasons to pretend they were still pretending.