The broth tonight was thick with liver and bitter greens. Fran forced down as much as she could under Elna’s watchful eye, each bite settling heavy but steadier than the thin soups of past days.

  When Elna began clearing the bowls, Fran pushed her hand against the mattress and said, quietly but firmly, “Help me up.”

  The older woman’s brows pinched. “Your Grace, you’ve already—”

  “Twice this morning. I know.” Fran swung her legs toward the edge of the bed, each motion pulling at the bandages until fire bloomed beneath her ribs. Her breath caught, but she kept moving. “It isn’t enough. If I lie here day and night, I’ll stiffen like an old board. And the stitches will tear worse when I finally try.”

  Elna hesitated only a moment before sighing, setting aside the bowls. “Very well. But to the window and back, no farther. And if you faint, I’ll have Master Andrieu tie you to the bedframe with his spare sutures.”

  “Gods spare me from your threats,” Fran muttered, but the familiar argument eased something in her chest.

  Getting upright was its own battle. Elna braced her with steady hands as Fran pushed herself to sit, sweat prickling her skin before she had even found her balance. Her legs trembled when they touched the floor, blood rushing down so quickly she saw black at the edges of her vision.

  “Breathe,” Elna murmured. “Slow. In and out. Good.”

  With one arm looped around Elna’s shoulders and the other clutching the bedframe, Fran pulled herself upright. The first step tore a hiss from her throat — not loud, but sharp enough that Elna’s grip tightened.

  “Window,” Fran muttered.

  They shuffled together, each step small, measured. Her bare feet found the cool flagstones, her body sagging more heavily against Elna with every pace. Pain burned at her side, sweat dampened her temples, but ahead the shutters gleamed with the last of the day’s light.

  At the window she let go with one hand and touched the stone sill. Night air seeped in, sharp and clean, carrying the distant tang of smoke and wet earth. Below, the city was slipping into darkness, lanterns blinking to life along the main road.

  For a moment, Fran simply breathed, chest trembling. “Not bad for a dying woman,” she rasped, offering a crooked smile.

  Elna snorted, but her touch was gentle. “If you were dying, you’d be easier to manage.”

  Fran’s vision blurred, exhaustion pressing down, hot and dizzy. She swayed.

  “Enough,” Elna said. “Back to bed before you fall.”

  The walk back was harder. Her legs shook, her breath came ragged, and when she reached the bed again she collapsed onto it as though she’d marched a league. Pain radiated outward from her wound, her chest heaving.

  Elna checked the wound, hands gentle but thorough, then dabbed Fran’s forehead with a cool cloth. “You’ll do,” she said, pride hidden in the gruffness. “You’ll do.”

  Fran’s smile was weak, but true. She let her eyes fall shut, her body sinking into the mattress. The ache in her side pulsed with each heartbeat, but beneath it, somewhere deep, was a flicker of satisfaction. She had crossed the room. Tomorrow, she’d do it again.

  “Tomorrow… twice again,” she whispered.

  “Stubborn woman,” Elna muttered, but her tone softened. “Tomorrow I’ll bring you a cane. You’ll walk easier—and look less like a child clinging to my skirts.”

  Fran gave a faint laugh. “Better a cane than pity.”

  Her hand moved unconsciously to the sapphire ring at her finger, thumb worrying its edge. Somewhere in the keep, Gale was waiting, and she hadn’t yet found the words for what she’d lost. The thought pressed heavier than any wound.

  Elna tucked the coverlet around Fran’s legs, pausing just long enough for her patient to notice the hint of tension in her hands.

  “He’ll be along soon,” Elna said quietly, smoothing the linen. “They’ve kept him down in the hall for council and supper. With Lord Daskar.”

  She said the name without inflection, but Fran caught the meaning all the same.

  Fran pressed her lips together, letting her eyes drift to the shuttered window. The ache in her side sharpened, mingling with something colder.

  “With Alven. Of course.”

  Elna’s mouth quirked, a rare, crooked smile. “Better you here than down there with that lot, I’d wager.”

  She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I doubt he’s enjoying himself.”

  “No,” Elna agreed. “But he’ll come.” She lingered a moment, then stood. “Rest, now.” Her voice was soft, but brooked no argument.

  Fran listened as the door clicked shut. For a breath, she was alone with her pain—and with the hope, raw and unspoken, that she would not be alone much longer.

  She lay waiting, each moment stretching out, until fatigue dragged her under. Sleep settled over her in slow, uneven waves. She floated somewhere between the ache in her side and the thick, warm dark behind her eyelids, her mind slipping from pain to memory and back again. Voices echoed faintly—Elna’s, the guards changing shifts, a distant bell—but none broke the surface for long.

  She dreamed of the keep’s windows open to the dusk, of footsteps on cold stone, and the low murmur of a voice—soft, familiar, edged with worry. For a moment, she thought it was memory, or just longing wearing a familiar face.

  Then she felt a draft as the door opened, a tremor in the floorboards as someone moved quietly into the room.

  Not Elna. The tread was slower, heavier, carrying fatigue rather than brisk purpose.

  She caught the faintest trace of parchment and old ink, and beneath it, the sharp, clean tang of the wards he carried like a second skin.

  The mattress dipped beside her, careful and slow. A hand brushed the hair from her forehead, gentle and unhurried. She forced her eyes open.

  Gale. Coat folded over one arm, hair a little loose from its tie, half a smile as tired as she felt.

  “Did I wake you?” His voice was low, close.

  Fran blinked, the world coming back into focus. “No. I was waiting for you,” she rasped, lips curling with the smallest, tired smile.

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  He huffed out a laugh, his thumb tracing her knuckles where their hands met. “That’s a shame. I had a whole speech prepared for your dreams.”

  She squeezed his fingers. “Save it. Stay.”

  Gale leaned in, pressing a careful kiss to her brow, his forehead lingering against her skin for a breath longer than needed.

  “You’re here,” she whispered, not as a question but as a lifeline.

  “Always,” he promised, voice barely above a whisper. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

  She snorted softly, shifting to make room for him at her side. “Don’t make promises in a sickroom. They have a habit of being broken.”

  “Not this one.”

  He smiled, settling in beside her, careful of her bandaged side. Boots discarded, coat draped over a chair—he let out a slow breath, making no move to leave.

  Fran studied his face in the half-light—eyes shadowed, lines at the corners, his hair longer and looser than she remembered, and a darker, unfamiliar roughness along his jaw.

  “Long hair and a beard,” she muttered, lips twitching. “You leave for a month and come back feral?”

  Gale grinned, rubbing at his jaw. “Blame Kentar. And your absence. Both are terrible for my habits.”

  For a moment, it almost felt like old times—just the two of them, teasing in the quiet. Then Fran’s gaze slid past him, shadows lengthening at the mention of the world beyond their room.

  “So. How many centuries did Alven’s speech last this time?”

  He gave a little groan. “Long enough that the stew went cold.”

  She gave him a sidelong look. “Did he call for unity, sacrifice, and—what was it—resourcefulness?”

  He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile lurking at the edges. “All of the above. He also managed to blame the state of the duchy on thin walls, bad grain, and the tragic lack of masons willing to freeze their balls off in Durnhal. The usual.”

  Fran made a noise halfway between a snort and a laugh, then winced and pressed a hand to her bandaged side. “Careful. I’m still too sore for your wit. Did any of the others say something worth remembering, or was it just the usual chorus of complaints?”

  Gale shook his head, gaze softening as he took in her pallor, her fatigue. “Mostly grumbling about the Golden Banner. Some concern for winter, more for their own purses. Lord Thorne targeted Daimon for the whole evening, bullying him into eating.”

  She raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Daimon? The one from your letter?”

  “Exactly him—he opened a portal and accompanied me here.”

  “You forced a poor apprentice to drag you halfway across the country—and then left him to the mercy of a Thorne? Remind me never to travel with you.”

  Gale made a face. “He survived. But you should see the look he gave me when Edric tried to lecture him on the virtues of meat. I think he’ll never forgive me—or Thorne.”

  Her smile flickered. “You should have told me he was with you. I would’ve warned him about Durnhal.”

  Gale shrugged. “I meant to. Things… didn’t go to plan in Kentar.” He hesitated, jaw tight. “We found the diamonds. Ressan’s dead. His papers—what’s left—are locked behind enough spells to keep me busy for a season. We’re left with more questions than answers.”

  Fran frowned, her voice a little sharper despite the fatigue. “You’re sure it was Ressan? No one else involved?”

  “Not that we know of. He was our only lead—and his secrets are buried under a dozen layers of spellwork.”

  She let out a thin breath. “And your brother?”

  Gale shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. “He wants nothing to do with it—with me,” his jaw clenched at the memory of their encounter. “But I’ll get to the bottom of this, I swear.”

  “Remember that you’re not alone in this,” she murmured. “And you made progress. Finding the diamonds proves those three were telling the truth—Kentar is the key.” She managed a faint, crooked smile. “We’ll untangle the rest, but not tonight. Tonight, let it go.”

  Silence stretched, broken only by the distant crackle of a hearth, the faint rattle of winter wind at the window. She felt his thumb brush the inside of her wrist, seeking her pulse.

  After a moment, Gale’s voice changed, the humor gone. “And here? You didn’t tell me earlier—about the feast. Or the balcony. Or Daskar.”

  Fran looked away, her eyes finding the dark outside the window. “There wasn’t much to say.”

  He waited.

  She exhaled, slow and shallow. “He cornered me. I told him no. He didn’t like it, and I made sure he understood. That’s all.”

  Gale’s jaw tightened. He didn’t press—just watched her, eyes full of a pain he wouldn’t name.

  “You should have told me,” he said. “It wasn’t pleasant to learn about it from other people.”

  Fran met his eyes, something like regret flickering there. She only managed, “I know.”

  Then her hand found his, her grip fierce despite the tremor. The words for Alven died on her tongue. They were a distraction from a far greater wound.

  “There is something else,” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “Something that makes Alven’s vanity feel like a trifle. I need to tell you. I just… I don’t know how.”

  He nodded, his thumb stilling against her wrist. The air between them went taut, heavy with whatever she was holding back. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush her. He simply waited, his entire being focused on her.

  “Tell me,” Gale whispered at last, his voice gentling. “Whatever it is. Tell me now.”

  She closed her eyes, gathering the small store of strength she had left, and let the truth tear its way out.

  “That night, when I was stabbed. I—” She swallowed. “I lost more than blood in that chapel, Gale. And I don’t know how to forgive myself.”

  His hand tightened around hers. “There’s nothing to forgive, Fran,” he began. “What happened—”

  “I was with child.”

  The words broke from her, sudden and entire. Fran tensed, bracing as if for a blow she half-expected.

  Gale went utterly still beside her. The silence that followed was sharp, fragile—a gulf neither dared cross for a long heartbeat.

  Fran stared down at her hands, unable to look at him. “I didn’t know. The signs were there—gods, my mum was a midwife, Gale, I should have understood earlier…” Her voice cracked. “Instead, I thought I was just tired. I kept pushing on. I was careless, reckless. And now—” Her throat closed, voice fraying. “Now it’s gone. Our child is gone. And I’ll never forgive myself for this.”

  Her words cut deeper than any wound he’d ever taken. Their child. A life he hadn’t known, hadn’t even dreamed could be theirs—gone before it ever began.

  Futures bloomed and died behind Gale’s eyes: small hands, laughter echoing through the palace halls, Fran’s smile unburdened. All of it lost in an instant.

  His hand found hers, gripping almost desperately. For a moment, he could only hold on—forehead pressing to her temple, as if touch alone might anchor them against the pain. His breath was shaky, and he realized only then that his eyes were burning.

  Still, no words came. Just the uneven sound of breathing in the hush.

  At last, his voice found him, raw and unsteady: “No. Don’t do that,” he managed. “Don’t take it all on yourself. If I’d been here—if I’d stayed—”

  He faltered, voice rough with loss. “We both lost. Both.”

  They held each other in the silence that followed, the pain no lighter, but shared. Her fingers clutched at his shirt; his breath was warm in her hair. For a moment, touch was all that anchored them both.

  When she finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head, voice fierce but unsteady. “Never to me. Never.”

  The silence between them deepened, but the sharpest edges had dulled. In the hush, Fran shifted—careful, aching—finding the curve of Gale’s side, her hand drawn to the steady rise and fall of his chest. He breathed in, the ache in his ribs settling as her head came to rest just above his heart.

  No more words. Nothing left to say that wouldn’t break them both apart. He smoothed her hair, his thumb circling at her temple, and she leaned into the comfort, until exhaustion claimed her.

  She slept, not easily, but without fear. His arm stayed around her, an anchor against the tide of dreams and memory.

  For a long while, Gale lay awake, listening to the uneven rhythm of her breath, tracing the morning’s first hope in the faint blue outside the shutters. The wound between them had not closed, but at least it was no longer hidden. When sleep finally took him, it was dreamless and deep.

  Dawn came too soon. Fran stirred against Gale’s side, woken by the shift of his weight as he reached for his coat and boots. Before he could rise, her hand found his sleeve—a small, desperate tether.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered, voice hoarse from sleep and everything unspoken.

  He turned, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his expression soft and exhausted. “I have to. Daimon’s waiting. But I’ll come back as soon as I can. You know that.”

  She nodded, her grip tightening for a heartbeat. “Don’t take so long this time.”

  A faint smile. He bent and pressed his forehead to hers, breathing in her scent as if to anchor himself. “I won’t. And you—try not to terrify the healers. Or the guards.”

  Fran almost laughed, but it caught in her throat. “No promises.”

  He pulled back, thumb tracing the line of her jaw, memorizing her face in the dim light. “Rest now, my love. I’ll write, if I can’t return soon. And you—send word. No more secrets.”

  She nodded again, her fingers sliding free as he stood.

  At the door, he looked back one last time. “I love you, Fran.”

  Her eyes met his, weary but unwavering. “I love you too.”

  He left on a breath and a promise, letting the door close quietly behind him.

  Fran lay still, her palm resting in the empty space he’d left behind, feeling the ache of absence, but not the weight of despair. Not this time.