Kingdom of Gaelica (closed for QuirkyQuill)

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan held her gaze, his jaw tightening as she recounted her training, each detail striking him with the force of a physical blow. He listened, and even though his expression remained calm, a torrent of thoughts raced beneath the surface. Her account filled in the grim picture he had only begun to glimpse, bringing to life the bleak reality of her upbringing under her uncle’s rule in the South Seas. The man he had known only through the horrors he inflicted on his own people now loomed larger and more grotesque in his mind, his cruelty revealed in the harrowing stories of his niece’s training.

“Yes, Meya,” he replied softly, letting her see that he hadn’t flinched, even if every word had twisted his gut. “I want to understand.”

It was no surprise now why she bore herself with such distance, so much steel. To survive in her uncle’s domain, she had been forced to harden herself in ways that went against every instinct of human compassion. Cathal’s army might have known the brutality of battle, but nothing like what she had described—this deliberate, methodical breaking of people, an institutionalized cruelty that left no one untouched.

Aidan forced himself to unclench his jaw, aware that his own anger would do nothing to ease her pain. If anything, she needed his calm presence, not his outrage. But he couldn’t ignore the lingering question that had been gnawing at him ever since she had mentioned the “challenges” specific to women. That her uncle would subject them to further horrors was an abhorrent revelation, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Meya herself had withstood such trials.

He glanced down, his fingers unconsciously tracing the hilt of his sword, then looked back at her, his gaze steady. “I don’t pretend to understand the depth of what you’ve endured,” he began, carefully choosing his words, “but I understand the strength it took for you to survive it. That... resilience can be just as much of a curse as it is a strength.”

Aidan paused, taking in the sight of her eyes, now hardened in a way that reminded him of the cold steel of a blade forged in relentless fire. He wondered how often she let herself feel anything at all; for someone trained to endure such constant torment, emotions must have been luxuries she couldn’t afford.

“I suppose you know this, but you’re not there anymore, Meya. You’re free from those... methods.” He tried to keep his voice even, though his mind pulsed with anger at the thought of Ronin and his monstrous practices. “Here, strength isn’t measured by how much you can bear. It’s measured by what you do with the power you have.”

He saw her brow furrow slightly, as though she were absorbing his words with caution, almost skepticism. She had been made to believe that resilience meant swallowing suffering whole and letting it calcify within her, hardening her like stone. But in Gaelica, things were different; his father had taught him that strength was about loyalty, purpose, and the ability to extend one’s hand in peace even when war seemed inevitable. This was the kind of strength he wanted her to see in herself.

Aidan took a breath, lowering his tone. “The Gaelican way doesn’t demand that you lose your humanity in order to be strong. You’re allowed to be both—strong and vulnerable. You don’t have to keep locking yourself away from... everything.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “From me.”

He wasn’t entirely sure where that last part had come from, or if it was wise to say it, but he left it there, a simple truth hanging in the air between them. A cold wind swept across the clearing, rustling the trees, and he could see her shift slightly, but her face betrayed no emotion. Maybe she’d heard him, maybe she hadn’t; either way, he knew she wasn’t someone who easily let her guard down.

Setting his own bowl aside, he looked at her thoughtfully, piecing together a way to make her see that she had value here beyond the fierce training her uncle had drilled into her. She had skills and knowledge that no one else in Gaelica could claim, and that made her an invaluable ally in ways that went beyond brute force or cunning. Yet he sensed she had never been truly acknowledged for who she was, only for what she could withstand.

“Whatever else your uncle tried to take from you, he didn’t take everything,” he said after a moment, keeping his tone even but insistent. “The fact that you’re sitting here—alive, sane, ready to do what you think is right—it tells me that no matter how deep he tried to bury your humanity, he couldn’t quite succeed. Maybe he made you into someone even he didn’t expect.”

 

[QuirkyQuill]

Meya picked up on the way his jaw clenched as she spoke, unsure if she was giving him too much. It took, she realized, a great deal of effort to discuss this without providing all of the details but still giving enough to paint a picture of their reality. When he confirmed that he wanted to hear more, she nodded, her fingers running across the ring on her thumb.

“But I understand the strength it took for you to survive it.”

She considered his words for a moment before speaking. “My royal blood has afforded me a certain level of protection against the worst of it. The king knows that he doesn't have to assess the loyalty of his family. We still train, we still have challenges to overcome, but those are more selective because we also have to serve the crown as nobility. It would not do to have the nobility scarred and injured.” She had been given certain choices along the way. The outcomes were the same, but she had been grateful on more than one occasion that she'd been empowered to select her path to that outcome.

“From me.”

The very air inside her stilled when he spoke those words, and Meya met his eyes, trying to decipher his meaning. He bore so much sincerity that she couldn't help but feel the tiniest give in the wall she’d erected around herself. He was dismantling her brick by brick, and Meya wasn't entirely certain she accepted that. It was a dangerous game to play.

“Maybe he made you into someone even he didn’t expect.”

Staring at the ground, she mulled over his words in silence before eventually standing. Walking over to where he sat, she joined him on the ground, closing the distance between them before meeting his eyes, her brow creased.

“What you have to understand is that to be chosen to serve the king is considered an honor. It's not a punishment. To be skilled enough and have proven yourself to be invited into the king’s inner circle is not a task undertaken lightly. I imagine that very same thing is true here.” Her voice softened when she spoke, no longer completely devoid of emotion.

“Nothing is taken. It is freely given. People are not forcibly promoted to higher ranks in the South Seas, though I have heard that to be a method in other kingdoms. He recognizes that the only way to protect his crown is to ensure he does not entrust the wrong people. When people are driven into those roles out of fear and not loyalty, they will undoubtedly betray their king with very little prodding.

He has learned that oftentimes mental warfare can have far reaching impacts, so he values that fortitude in those he holds closest. It is just part of our reality, and when something is considered true from birth, there is no reason to question if it is the right thing.” Her eyes studied him, picking up the muscles tense and relax along his jaw, as though he were trying to internally control his physical reaction. She was assessing him, trying to decide what else to share.

“What specifically do you want to know about how we're trained?” Meya posed the question back at him, knowing she had purposefully omitted details, but enough for him to get an idea. He said he wanted to know, but
how much was enough?

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan felt his heart sink a little as he looked back at her, steadying himself against the turmoil swirling within him. Her words resonated with a disturbing clarity, as if they belonged to an ancient doctrine so ingrained that its principles felt unshakable to those within its grasp. And that, he realized, was the most unsettling part of all. Meya spoke of her reality as though it were unchangeable—as though there was a grim beauty in the very suffering she had endured.

The way she described loyalty under her uncle’s rule sounded cold, ruthless, and yet, to her, it was evidently something akin to pride. A sense of honor. And despite himself, he felt a stirring of respect for the way she had internalized it all, made it bearable, even noble. But how much of that pride was truly hers, and how much was the indoctrination of her upbringing? The answer lingered somewhere in the shadows she seemed almost desperate to keep hidden.

He shifted, running a hand over his jaw, feeling the tension there as he considered her question. What did he want to know? She’d told him more than enough to give him pause. The worst part was that he knew if he truly wanted to reach her, to understand her, he’d have to ask about the one thing she seemed hesitant to share—the training specifically designed for women.

Aidan’s fingers curled into fists as he braced himself to speak, his voice lower, almost reverent in tone. “You mentioned... different challenges for women,” he began, his gaze steady but his heart betraying his calm, beating a little faster than he liked. He searched her eyes, seeing a flicker of something—perhaps hesitation, perhaps wariness. “You don’t have to share the details if it’s too much, but I need to understand.” His words softened. “I need to know what you endured, so I can understand the weight you carry.”

He paused, looking down for a moment to gather his thoughts, then met her gaze again, his eyes intent. “Because I don’t believe anyone should have to carry something like that alone. Not here, not anymore.”

As he waited for her answer, he realized he felt almost afraid of what she might reveal. Her tone, her words—they all hinted at something dark and terrible that went beyond the typical horrors of war. He’d heard tales of cruelty inflicted upon women during raids, stories passed down by hardened soldiers who’d seen the brutality of other kingdoms, but even those had always been spoken of in whispers, as atrocities. Yet here was a woman, a noble of the South Seas, speaking of it as if it were simply part of life, something to endure without question.

For a moment, he could almost see her through her uncle’s eyes—a pawn, a tool forged to serve. She was a weapon, yes, but one that had been forced to bear unspeakable burdens. It felt both tragic and grotesque that she spoke of these things as if they were ordinary, an expectation of loyalty. Aidan’s heart clenched, a surge of anger prickling at his skin as he thought of what her uncle must have forced her to endure, all in the name of service.

“What was expected of you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with a combination of dread and determination. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he knew he needed it. He had to understand what had shaped her, what had molded her into this fierce, guarded woman beside him. He needed to know if he was capable of breaking down the walls she had built so meticulously, piece by piece, until there was room for something other than pain and duty in her life.

Aidan knew that his own upbringing had been a world apart from hers, and while he had his share of scars, none of them were inflicted by his father or his kingdom. His father, Cathal, had always believed in the strength of character, the loyalty that came from mutual respect rather than fear. In Gaelica, they were taught that strength lay in compassion, in wisdom, in the ability to see beyond oneself and protect others. But the South Seas’ methods were a different breed of strength altogether—one that demanded sacrifices of a kind he could barely fathom.

He took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering as he waited for her to continue. His voice softened even further, as if he might coax the truth out of her with gentleness alone. “Please, Meya. Let me understand.”

There was a stretch of silence between them, and he used it to steel himself, the knot of dread tightening in his chest. He reminded himself that no matter how dark the answer, it was something she had endured and survived. And he wanted her to know, without a doubt, that he respected her resilience, even if he found the price of it abhorrent.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

Her stomach knotted up when he asked the question, but she reminded herself that she had committed to sharing information with him. Nodding slowly, she looked down at the ground, studying the brown blades of grass that had started to wilt under the changing seasons.

“Everyone has to undergo rigorous training. The number of people who are selected for promotion within the ranks undergo that intensive training in steps. When one passes a step, they move on to the next, with each step progressively more difficult. Once a person gets high enough or if they are vying for a position of confidence, like a spy, those steps are designed to weed out those who are weak.” She knew she was reiterating what she had said previously, if perhaps worded differently.

“When a woman completes those steps successfully, they…” she paused, trying to find the right way to explain what she was trying to say. She started again, but tried a different approach, her words coming out slowly as if she were thinking through each word. “My uncle will not send a woman out into the field who is untouched. To do so would be to send a vulnerable agent into enemy hands, should she be caught. His captains use the same method for women as they do for training everyone in individual combat. When the king’s spies, assassins, and other specialized soldiers are trained, we're dropped into different scenarios to see how we get ourselves out. That idea, again, being to emulate what could actually happen.

If we know that we will be sent deep into enemy territory and have to get in and out of, say, a castle unseen, we are given a mission to sneak into his castle without getting caught. If we are seen, the guards protecting the palace know they are to respond just as they would if it were a real threat. The only caveat is that they can't kill anyone, but that is the only line that is drawn. They can attack and without mercy. The same is true for the individual completing the mission. The last step for women is similar. The only difference is that the guards and officers are ordered to extract information from her using her body against her. Because, many times, when women are captured in war, the odds are high that the enemy will turn to that method first and foremost. Ours certainly do.”

Meya looked at him briefly for the first time since she'd started speaking. “You might be one of the few exceptions.” Shifting her posture slightly, she dropped her gaze again, this time to her hands as she turned the ring in circles.

“Five is the number a woman has to pass to be given a mission. She is placed into five different scenarios. Four of those are planned, and those who are also trying to earn a place in the upper echelon watch to better learn from each other’s mistakes. They can take place outside in different environments, inside the castle, inside the dungeon. She will be intentionally set up to fail at least once.” Her words caught in her throat as images poured into her mind. Clenching her jaw, she took a moment to push the memories down. “The fifth challenge is always unplanned. It will come at a time she's not expecting an attack. If she fails any of them, she gets one additional opportunity to succeed. The one intended for her to fail is adjusted so that she is no longer guaranteed to fail. Her success comes down to her own abilities. The only restriction is that they cannot kill her.”

“What was expected of you?”

That question lingered in her mind as she spoke, and she grappled with how to answer it. Part of her still felt guilty, seeing so many other women at the mercy of unbridled men who had been granted permission to do whatever they wished. It was nothing compared to what she had actually seen in the field.

“I was given a choice,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “My uncle’s resolution would not be deterred, but he presented a different path forward for me. A concession given my birthright. I was told that I could either follow suit if I wanted to move forward, or… or I could agree to working through it with Ronin, which also granted me privacy.” She suddenly felt sick. Meya didn't regret her decision. It has been an imperative one, but she felt with some certainty that this would be the thing to cause Aidan's opinion of her to change drastically. After all, she was royal by birth, even if her status wasn't required to be acknowledged here. Ladies were meant to remain chaste and proper until they were married off to the most advantageous family, even that much was true in her uncle's territory. Swallowing, she chewed the inside of her lip for a moment, refusing to look at him. He’d given her too much credit, which she’d tried to tell him. This was the moment she was certain he would realize that she was just as low as everyone else.

“Since I had known Ronin most of my life, and was also aware that my uncle was hoping for an eventual marriage between the two of us, it made sense. So, that's what I did. I endured much less than many others.” Her tone was numb, as though she were recalling the story of walking into a store and purchasing a hat.

“I know this sounds barbaric to you,” she said. “But, this approach has worked for him for decades. It has protected his crown and, up until your kingdom's success, helped sustain his empire. He isn't just a king of one land, he is the ruler of many, and with that comes an inconceivable amount of threats. This is how he retains his place in this world by ensuring that the people he calls upon to do the most sensitive work can stick to their resolve regardless of whatever they may face.”

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan’s mind reeled as her words sank in, each sentence unraveling a truth far worse than he had anticipated. Her voice was calm, detached, but he could feel the weight of her words pressing down on him, growing heavier with each chilling detail she shared. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as he fought the surge of anger and disbelief rising within him.

The training Meya had endured—the trials, the sacrifices—sounded like something out of the darkest corners of a nightmare. And all of it sanctioned, even orchestrated, by her own family. Her uncle had seen his own kin as pieces on a chessboard, manipulated and sacrificed as he saw fit, all to preserve his reign. Aidan's own heart twisted at the thought of his father subjecting anyone, let alone a member of his own family, to such cruelties. The mere idea of it was unthinkable, and yet here Meya sat, recounting her experience as though it were normal, just a fact of her life.

When she mentioned the “choice” she’d been given, the illusion of autonomy wrapped in a grim reality, Aidan’s stomach tightened. His mind seized on that one word—choice—echoing in his thoughts with a hollow, bitter edge. It was no choice at all, not truly. She had been handed a decision with only one outcome that would allow her to maintain her dignity, and even that path was a trap, one laid by her uncle’s design.

Aidan tried to keep his breathing steady, to control the anger burning through him. His voice was low, controlled, but it carried the edge of fury he couldn’t fully mask.

"Was Ronin truly someone you trusted? Or was he simply the lesser evil among the choices you were given?” The thought of Meya forced into such a situation, stripped of control, made his chest ache with a hollow rage. He wanted to understand, but with every answer she offered, he only found himself grappling with more questions. What was it like to have even your closest relationships tainted by duty and expectation?

He watched her as she looked away, her shoulders set, as if bracing for his judgment. Did she believe he thought less of her now? The very notion was absurd to him, but then again, her entire life had been a litany of self-denial and sacrifice, of being taught to regard herself only as a tool for her uncle’s empire.

Aidan swallowed, trying to find the right words, though he feared none would be enough. “Meya, you know that none of this changes how I see you. You were given no true choice, forced to navigate a labyrinth designed to break you.” He reached out, his hand hovering in the space between them before he withdrew it, realizing that she might not welcome such closeness now. Instead, he clenched his hands tightly together, as if containing his fury could somehow offer her strength.

“It’s the way your uncle saw you, not the way you actually are,” he said, voice rough with frustration. “This... cruelty he has built his empire on—it isn’t a reflection of your strength or your worth. It’s a testament to the kind of leader he is. And frankly, it’s a testament to how incredible you are that you’ve survived it all with any sense of yourself intact.”

He felt an ache for her, a desperate desire to show her that life didn’t have to be this way—that strength didn’t have to be forged through suffering alone. She deserved more than the shadow of her uncle’s twisted worldview, more than being molded into a weapon to protect a crown that had demanded so much of her already.

“I don’t know how to make you believe this, but I need you to know—you deserve more than this endless loyalty to a tyrant. There is so much strength in you that is all your own. Strength that has nothing to do with what your uncle forced you to endure.” He took a deep breath, his hands still clenched, every word weighted with the sincerity he wanted her to feel.

“This empire he’s built—it may hold power, but it’s fragile, Meya. His rule demands control over every facet of his kingdom, every choice of those around him. And that kind of power... it can only sustain itself by creating more suffering. His empire is like a dam straining to hold back a river, and one day, it will burst.”

Aidan’s gaze was steady, full of conviction, as he held her eyes. He needed her to see that he spoke not out of pity, but out of admiration. For a moment, he wondered if he’d gone too far, if she would see his words as an attack on the very life she had fought so hard to survive within. But he couldn’t keep silent, not when the truth burned so vividly before him. He wanted her to know there was another way—a life not ruled by fear and cruelty but by strength that came from compassion, loyalty built on trust.

“Your uncle’s strength is built on the backs of others, people forced to prove their loyalty at any cost. But true strength, Meya, the kind that lasts, is born of people choosing to follow someone they respect, someone they trust, not someone they fear. My father,” he continued, his voice quieter now, “my father, King Cathal, built Gaelica with a different kind of power. He believes that loyalty can’t be taken; it can only be given, freely, because the people believe in something greater than just a king’s survival.”

He shook his head slightly, realizing how different their worlds truly were, how far apart their beliefs and experiences had been shaped. “I can’t imagine the choices you’ve faced, Meya. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to trust anyone, after all you’ve been through.” He looked away briefly, gathering his thoughts, then met her gaze again. “But here, with me, you don’t have to fight anymore. You don’t have to hide who you are. Whatever you’ve endured, it doesn’t make you less. If anything, it makes you… remarkable.”

He wanted to reach her, to see that flicker of self-worth that he knew was buried beneath the layers of armor she’d built over the years. It pained him to see her wrestle with guilt and shame, as though she were somehow complicit in her own suffering.

Aidan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I can’t undo what’s been done to you, Meya. I know that. But I want you to know that here, with me, none of that defines you. You are not bound by your past or by the choices others forced you to make.”

He glanced up at the darkening sky, as if it might somehow hold the words he couldn’t find. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler, almost a whisper. “Whatever future you decide for yourself, I’ll support you. Whether that means stepping away from all of this or embracing something new entirely… it’s yours to choose. For the first time, it’s yours.”

The fire crackled between them, filling the silence with its warmth, but Aidan’s mind was already reeling with the implications of her story. He knew that this was only a beginning—a fragile beginning of trust, perhaps. He could only hope that in time, she would come to see that she was worthy of so much more than the twisted loyalty her uncle demanded. For now, he would wait, be there, and do whatever he could to make sure that she would never feel alone in that darkness again.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

"Was Ronin truly someone you trusted?”

Meya could feel the tension radiating off of him, their shoulders close enough they were almost touching. She considered his question for a moment before answering.

“I trust Ronin to be Ronin. With Ronin, I knew exactly what I was getting. My relationship with him has always been…complex. He is perhaps the most dangerous man operating under my uncle, second only to my uncle. He is monstrous, and I have seen him commit unimaginable acts. I also know that he would not let anything happen to me. There are days I loathe him with everything in my being, and yet other days where I was grateful that he was the one who had my back. The king knows that I am not as,” she paused, thinking of the right word before continuing, “stony as he would want me to be. But he also knows that Ronin does not always exercise caution when he gets it in his mind to do something terrible, which runs the risk of compromising a mission. We balance each other out, in that regard.”

Meya stretched her legs out in front of her briefly before pulling her knees up to her chest, loosely resting her arms on top of them. Despite the heavy topic, she looked relaxed.

“Was he the lesser of two evils? I don’t think those two things are mutually exclusive. I think they can both be true to some degree. If I had chosen the other way, I would have run a higher risk of dealing with men who found particular enjoyment out of having an advantage over a royal born woman, and I was less eager to find myself surrounded by a group of men who would want to use that against me. With Ronin, my birthright meant nothing. I was just me and there was a job to do. I could have chosen to do nothing and taken my place at court, but I essentially would have been waiting for the same thing to happen, either by Ronin or someone else. Because that’s what royal women do, remember? We wait around to be married off to a man we don’t know, so he can procreate and create heirs, with no decision making authority of our own. That is true for almost every kingdom out there. It really was no different in my mind, except this way, it was for a greater purpose.”

Though she remained forward facing as he spoke, she thought about his words, trying to decide whether to accept them. What he said sounded counterintuitive to everything she had ever been taught, except for those small parts that were reminiscent of conversations with her father. That was the thin thread that had pulled her back from taking the opportunity he’d given her to leave. That niggling idea that perhaps her father might have approved of a path that offered the hope of peace and goodness at the end of it.

“You don’t have to hide who you are.”

Did she even know who she actually was outside of duty? There was a time where Meya was a strong willed, adventurous, and impish child, running around The Keep getting into harmless trouble. She used to enjoy climbing into a tree with a book, sending her mother into a fit over ruined stockings. But did she have any concept of who she was as a person anymore?

“If anything, it makes you… remarkable.”

His words surprised her, and that surprise shone on her face as she turned to look at him for the first time. She realized she had taken on a sharper expression than she’d intended to, mistrust shrouding his good intention in her mind. It was then that she realized how tense he had actually become as they talked, and it left her feeling very uncertain of herself. It was an odd feeling to have somebody she barely knew, someone she was technically an enemy of by right of birth, being so defensive over her. It almost made her question if something was wrong with her for being so accepting of the life she’d lived.

“For the first time, it’s yours.”

The reminder of that decision made her chest tighten. Decisions that were so open-ended were a rarity. Yes, she’d made choices. She had decided the course her life would take, but that was done within the context of a noble box. Swallowing, her eyes followed the line of his jaw as he looked skyward, watching the tiny muscles tense and relax.

“I did choose.” Speaking gently, Meya felt something akin to conviction beginning to take shape inside of her. A rumbling caught her attention before she said anything further, and she turned her head, checking the skies behind them. Storm clouds were moving from the south, the dark gray an ominous sight pitched against the blue sky above them.

“I think that will undoubtedly catch up to us,” she said, turning to look back at him. “Do you want to try to ride through it, shelter against it out here, or check the map to see if there’s a village nearby that might have an inn?”

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan watched her intently as she spoke, taking in every word. The dimming sky and the gathering storm seemed to echo the turbulence in his own mind as he tried to process all she’d said about Ronin and the life she’d chosen—or, rather, had been forced to choose. He could hardly imagine what it must feel like to navigate relationships defined by such severe circumstances, where one’s sense of loyalty was so inextricably entwined with necessity, survival, and a constant, wary vigilance.

As she mentioned Ronin’s power, his ruthlessness, and the protection he had offered her, Aidan felt a pang of anger, mixed with a grudging understanding. There was no denying that Meya had survived in a world of shadows, a world that would swallow most people whole. She had been forced to rely on someone who was both her shield and her jailor, someone who posed as much threat to her as the rest of her uncle’s court. It was no wonder she seemed guarded, almost detached, in the face of everything she’d shared with him.

He took a steadying breath, his eyes flicking to the south as the storm rumbled in the distance. The dark clouds seemed to be rolling in faster than expected, thickening over the horizon. But Aidan felt a need to keep the conversation going, despite the approaching storm. He couldn’t let her slip back into that impenetrable shell; he needed her to see that he was listening, that he would not judge her based on the circumstances forced upon her.

Her final words about choice lingered with him, striking deeper than he expected. She believed she’d chosen her path—she’d embraced her role for a greater purpose. But it gnawed at Aidan, the sense that her "choice" had been orchestrated, her agency twisted into a predetermined path that hardly allowed her to truly live as she might have wanted.

“It’s true—you chose,” he said, looking directly at her. His voice was steady but held a quiet intensity. “But your choice was bound by duty, wasn’t it? Duty to a kingdom that’s demanded everything from you. Duty to an uncle who would see you broken, all for his own ambition. You chose to survive. But that isn’t the same as choosing for yourself.”

Meya’s gaze remained distant, but he sensed something shift in her. He hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of his words, but pressed on.

“There’s a difference between choosing because you have no other options and choosing because you genuinely want something for yourself,” he continued, his voice softening. “You’ve been loyal to a kingdom, to a family that has done nothing to deserve that loyalty. You’re remarkable because you’ve risen above it all. But Meya, you don’t owe them anything.” He looked away, his gaze drifting over the wild landscape around them as he struggled to articulate the strange sense of protectiveness and frustration stirring within him.

The wind picked up, sending a sudden chill through the air as he heard another rumble from the storm clouds overhead. Meya glanced up at him, her expression unreadable but tinged with something vulnerable. It struck him that her whole life had been an endless cycle of vigilance and duty, one that had stripped her of even the simple joys of an ordinary life. She might have longed for something as small as freedom, as insignificant as peace, but it was clear she’d convinced herself that such desires were a weakness, something her uncle’s world couldn’t tolerate.

As she mentioned the approaching storm, Aidan glanced over at the horizon. It was true; the storm was coming in fast, and the air had the charged stillness that preceded a downpour. He had a feeling the path back would be a rough one, but the idea of sheltering in a village inn had its appeal—anything to keep them grounded in a familiar space, away from the harsher realities of their pasts, even for just a night.

“Let’s see if we can find that inn,” he said, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “We can continue on in the morning, once the storm has passed.”

They mounted their horses, and Aidan led the way, his focus divided between the road ahead and the lingering thoughts Meya had stirred within him. As they rode, he felt compelled to break the silence.

“You mentioned something earlier,” he said over the sound of the hooves pounding against the ground. “That your father might have approved of… a path of peace, goodness.” He glanced back at her, curious. “What was he like, your father?”

Aidan’s tone was gentle, without expectation, leaving it open for her to share only what she wished. He imagined her father, whoever he had been, must have left some impression on her, some faint memory of kindness or warmth, even amid the brutal legacy her uncle had created.

They continued in silence as the first drops of rain began to fall, light at first but cold and relentless. The wind picked up, and Aidan felt the urge to hurry, casting his gaze over the landscape in search of shelter. He spotted a small village in the distance, nestled between low hills and sheltered by a grove of trees. It was little more than a cluster of cottages and a modest inn, but it would serve well enough for the night.

They reached the inn just as the rain began to pour in earnest. Dismounting, Aidan led their horses to the nearby stables and helped Meya with her bags before heading inside. The warmth of the fire crackling in the common room was a welcome contrast to the chill of the storm outside.

Aidan ordered a meal for both of them and found a table near the hearth, its flickering light casting a soft, golden glow across the room. As he took his seat, he felt the weight of their earlier conversation settle over them once more, unspoken but palpable.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

“But that isn’t the same as choosing for yourself.”

Meya looked at him, an expression of patient amusement settling into her sharp features as he continued to speak. She didn’t interrupt him, but something lighter seemed to dance in her eyes, and she nodded slowly when he finished chiding her.

“I meant,” she said gently, her body leaning towards him briefly as if to articulate her words, “that I chose to stay. Here.” Her eyes met his, that almost twinkle in her blue orbs trying to convey that he’d misunderstood meaning.

“I appreciate it, though.” She said, her posture straightening back to where she’d started. “The way you are protective over people. It’s…refreshing.”

The rumbling grew louder with the passing moments, and Meya followed his lead. Hoisting herself back up onto her horse, her eyes drifted upward, trying to gauge the speed at which the clouds were moving. She had no doubt they’d both weathered many storms in the elements, but it was nice to not have to.

“What was he like, your father?”

Her body tensed as it usually did when the topic of her father was brought up. So few people brought him up anymore in the South Seas, primarily because her uncle rarely had a positive reaction to somebody broaching the subject.

“He was…everything,” she said simply, her shoulders shrugging as she stared at the path ahead of them. “He was the kind of man who could walk into a room and have everybody’s attention without even trying. Nobody could beat him with a sword, but his aim with a bow and arrow was terrible.” A small smile prickled at the corners of her lips at her last statement.

“His laugh was infectious. It was so loud and deep, and when something really made him laugh, I felt it vibrating inside me.” Her head tilted to the side as she absentmindedly reached over and patted her horse along his neck. “I remember when he was home and he would sit in his chair in front of the fire, I would run and jump in his lap, and when he hugged me it felt like nothing bad could ever happen. Like his arms wrapped me into him so tightly nothing could find me.” He’d seemed infallible to her, and the type of man who should live forever. The idea that anybody could have taken him down still confused her to this day and seemed unreal.

They picked up their pace as the rain caught up, and Meya was grateful when they arrived at the little village inn. The cozy warmth of the wooden interior served as a comfortable refuge from the cold rain. While they hadn’t gone hungry on the road, a real meal was welcome and filled her in a way that bread and dried meats just couldn’t. The innkeeper was a kind faced older woman, who busied herself attending to the people inside. When she stopped by their table to check on them, she set down a fresh loaf of bread.

“We are having a celebration down here tonight. You both are welcome to come down, if you’d like. Nothing fancy, but there’ll be music, food, and people.”

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan watched her speak about her father, captivated by the vivid details she revealed. Her words painted an image of a man whose presence had been nothing short of magnetic. It was easy for Aidan to picture it—a powerful man with a booming laugh and an impenetrable embrace, a man whose very presence seemed to wrap those he loved in a fortress of protection. And though Meya’s expression remained composed, her words carried an ache beneath the surface, a grief that had clearly never left her.

When the innkeeper approached, her invitation added a note of warmth that seemed to shift the air around them. Aidan glanced at Meya as the woman walked off, her invitation lingering. He could see the hint of hesitation in Meya’s expression as her gaze trailed the woman, and it mirrored his own. The idea of celebrating with strangers was foreign after the past days spent on the road, but there was something undeniably tempting about the thought.

After a moment of silence, Aidan spoke, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

“Well, what do you say? We’ve been living off rations and marching on with hardly a moment to breathe. Might be worth loosening up for a night.”

Meya’s response was nonverbal—a slight nod, the faintest shift in her expression that suggested agreement. It was enough for him. He had the feeling that beneath her composed exterior, she was curious, maybe even eager, for a taste of something resembling normalcy.

The sound of clinking mugs and the faint notes of a flute drifted into the common room as the celebration slowly came to life. Aidan let his gaze wander, observing the villagers as they filled the space with laughter and music. The men and women who arrived were dressed simply, with practical tunics and well-worn boots, but their faces glowed with the light of camaraderie. He watched as one young man lifted a child onto his shoulders, the boy’s laughter filling the air like a melody.

As the festivities grew, Aidan caught the innkeeper’s eye as she passed by their table again. She grinned, pausing briefly to place a small jug of spiced wine between him and Meya. The scent was rich and inviting, and Aidan poured a generous amount into their cups, raising his own in a silent toast before taking a sip. The wine was potent, the warmth of the spices hitting his tongue and settling in his chest, spreading an unexpected feeling of ease.

"To good company," he murmured, mostly to himself but loud enough for Meya to hear.

A few songs later, the music picked up tempo, transforming from the slow, somber ballads of the night’s beginning to lively tunes with rhythmic claps. Aidan watched as couples began to dance, the laughter growing louder as feet shuffled across the wooden floor in a mixture of grace and missteps. His gaze drifted to Meya, catching the way her eyes followed the dancers.

He took another sip of wine, hesitating for a brief moment before he set his cup down and pushed his chair back, standing up.

“Would you join me, then?” he asked, extending a hand toward her.

Meya’s eyes widened slightly, but there was a hint of intrigue there, too, as if she was trying to decide whether to indulge his invitation or politely decline. After a beat, she placed her hand in his. Her touch was delicate, her hand surprisingly small in his, and he felt an unexpected jolt at the contact. As he led her onto the floor, he couldn’t help but notice how the villagers glanced at them with interest. They might have been strangers, but their quiet intrigue had the same warmth as everything else in this village.

Aidan took a steadying breath, setting his hand at her waist as they began to dance. It wasn’t as formal as the court dances he’d grown up with, but he quickly found the rhythm, moving in time to the beat as he guided her with surprising ease. Meya’s face remained composed, her expression almost amused, but Aidan could see the trace of a smile pulling at her lips, subtle but undeniably there.

“Tell me something,” he said softly, leaning in as they swayed. “What would your father have thought if he saw you here? Dancing in some little inn with a stranger from Gaelica?”

There was a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or maybe a touch of mischief—in her eyes. Her gaze met his, and in that moment, the weariness, the weight of their pasts, seemed to melt away. Aidan felt his own smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, something genuine and unguarded that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

The music picked up, and Aidan spun her once, catching her by the waist as she twirled back toward him. For a moment, they were close, her breath brushing his cheek, and he felt his own heartbeat quicken. The warmth of her presence, the intensity of her gaze—it was as if he’d been pulled into a different world, one that existed solely within the boundaries of this dance.

As the song came to an end, they slowed, their movements coming to a gentle halt. Aidan released her hand, but a part of him was reluctant to let go. His gaze lingered on her, caught in the silent connection that had somehow formed between them, fragile yet undeniable.

Clearing his throat, he stepped back, giving her a respectful nod before returning to the table. The inn had grown livelier, with people dancing in groups, clapping and laughing, their voices filling the room with a joyous hum. Aidan poured himself another cup of wine, glancing over at Meya as she rejoined him.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

“Might be worth loosening up for a night.”

Meya ran through a mental list of all the reasons it was a bad idea. Back at the palace, the guards knew who she was. They knew she was, by all accounts, an enemy of the crown. She worried about someone realizing that her voice had the common lilt of someone from the South Seas, and lacked confidence that if her identity came out that she wouldn't be met with hostility. Given that she had no real way of defending herself, it was difficult to willingly put herself in that position. Aidan looked so at peace with the idea, though. She thought back to some of their earlier conversations and how she had been the one to point out the importance of him taking time to do things that weren't reliant on duty. Because he wasn't wearing anything that identified him as royalty at the present, he seemed fairly anonymous to his people. She couldn't find it within her to deny him the chance to just be a man in the crowd.

Nodding, Meya settled in, observing the villagers as they came in, the friendliness and camaraderie between them something she hadn't seen in so long. Before she realized it, her muscles had relaxed and she felt at ease. As he filled their drinks, she lifted her mug in response to his. If any chill had lingered inside her, this would have driven it out. An almost smile appeared on her lips as she watched the villagers dance without abandon, their lightness something of a marvel to her.

“Would you join me, then?”

His invitation took her off guard, and she looked between the dance area and him. Her inclination was to decline, but then she reminded herself that she'd stayed down here for him. To give him time to exercise that same freedom as his people, and so she tentatively placed her hand in his, the warmth of it wrapping around her.

When his hand found its place on her waist, something inside her tightened, not in the way her muscles stiffened when she was in an uncomfortable situation, but something that made her pulse quicken. It was a strange feeling to be this close to a man in this capacity. She had danced at court, but those dances required significantly more space between men and women. The only other times she had been this close was while fighting, either in training or in the field. Meya had never felt particularly dainty as a woman, but there was something about the way Aidan just seemed to envelope her senses that left her uncertain.

“Dancing in some little inn with a stranger from Gaelica?”

She thought about it for a moment before a genuine smile spread on her lips that carried all the way to her eyes.

“He would tell me not to step on anyone's feet lest I cause a scandal,” she said, a genuine laugh escaping her as she spoke. “I was an atrocious dancer as a child.”

When he spun her all of a sudden, she made a sound resembling a surprised squeak as he pulled her back into him, a smile appearing on her face as she laughed at herself. “I have never made that sound before. I do not know what that was.”

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, but the rest of him was so close, Meya felt her breath catch in her chest. It felt almost intoxicating, which left her questioning just how strong this village's wine was because that was the only reasonable explanation for the headiness she was feeling.

Then it was over, and she dipped her head in a quick curtsy as he stepped back. She felt his absence keenly, leaving her a little empty and even more confused.

She began to weave her way back to where their table was, but stopped when a little girl pulled on her sleeve. Crouching down, Meya’s face lit up with a smile.

“Hello,” she said, her demeanor opening up in a way it hadn't up to this point.

“I'm giving away flowers,” the little girl spoke as she held out a basket full of different colored blooms. “They were going to die soon because of the weather, so we went ahead and cut them.”

“They're beautiful.” Meya complimented her, her blue eyes lighting up. The little girl tapped her finger on her lips like she was deep in thought. Reaching down, she picked up a pale pink flower and held it up to Meya as though she were scrutinizing a painting. Shaking her head, the girl’s nose wrinkled as she considered her choices. Meya continued to squat with the utmost patience until the girl finally pulled out a yellow flower.

“This one. It's yellow, like your hair.” Handing it to Meya, she nodded emphatically.

“It's perfect. Will you stick it in my hair for me?” Meya's smile widened as the girl nodded vigorously before setting her basket down. She didn't move until the girl had managed to secure the flower.

“There!”

“Thank you so much. What's your name?”

“Agnes.”

“Well, thank you, Agnes. I love it.” Offering the girl a wink, Meya watched as she grabbed her basket and skipped off to hand out more flowers.

The smile remained on her face as she walked back up to Aidan, laughing lightly.

“That's so sweet.” Settling back down next to him, she looked at him for a moment, taking in his casual stance. “I think this is the most relaxed I have seen you. Is this what the crown prince is like when he isn't being the crown prince?” She was careful to kee
p her voice low so nobody else would overhear.

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan smiled, a soft, genuine expression that he hadn’t allowed himself in what felt like a long time. Meya’s question had surprised him, but he couldn’t deny there was truth in her observation. He hadn’t been this relaxed in ages; he barely recognized the ease he felt in his own skin here, as if he’d taken off a heavy coat he’d worn for too many winters.

Taking a slow sip of his drink, he leaned back, choosing his words carefully. “When I was young, I didn’t realize what ‘being a prince’ actually meant,” he began, his voice low, intimate. “I thought it was just titles, grand feasts, riding out with my father at the front of parades. But being a prince,” he paused, his tone hardening slightly, “is being a weapon and a shield. It’s moving according to his vision—his plan for what Gaelica must be.”

He looked down, swirling the wine in his cup as he spoke. “My father rules with power and respect. I’ve always admired him for it, truly. But he sees respect as something that must be enforced, and power as something that must be taken. There’s no room for anything else.” He sighed, setting his cup down and running a hand through his hair. “For him, I am simply the next ruler, his successor, and my life is to be shaped by his ideals. His will.”

Aidan’s gaze drifted to the dancing villagers again, a quiet longing in his eyes. “Being here, watching these people…” He gestured toward the small crowd, his expression softening. “They aren’t living by any decree. They’re not here because they have to be, but because they want to be. Laughing, dancing, making small talk with strangers—it’s simple, yet there’s something so…” He trailed off, searching for the right word. “Pure about it.”

He stole a glance at Meya, noting the warmth in her eyes as she listened, her expression attentive. Her presence here felt like a balm, a steady anchor, and it emboldened him to continue.

“You asked if this is what I’m like when I’m not the crown prince.” He tilted his head, a slight smile returning to his lips. “I suppose this is the version of myself I’ve always wanted to be. No armor, no royal crest. Just a man with his own thoughts, his own will, his own choices.”

He shifted in his chair, leaning closer, his voice lowering further. “When I’m in Gaelica, every move I make, every word I say, is a reflection of my father. I am bound to his will, expected to continue his legacy exactly as he sees fit. And that legacy… it’s a relentless pursuit of dominance. It’s ensuring that our kingdom is the strongest, the most respected, the most feared.” Aidan’s jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened with the weight of his thoughts. “But is that truly what I want?”

For a moment, he looked down, lost in thought. The weight of his responsibilities, his father’s expectations, and his own desires warred within him. “What if… what if Gaelica could be ruled differently?” he murmured, more to himself than to her, though he knew she was listening. “What if power didn’t mean crushing others, and respect didn’t have to come from fear?”

There was a silence between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence that held a strange sort of understanding, an acknowledgment that perhaps she, too, knew the weight of expectations and the cost of duty.

Aidan shifted his gaze to the fire crackling in the hearth, watching the flames dance and flicker. “Cathal is not a cruel man, nor is he unjust. But he believes that every king must be feared to be truly respected. He doesn’t understand that strength and empathy can exist together.” His voice softened, almost wistful. “But I do. I’ve seen it tonight—in these people, in their celebration, in their laughter. They don’t need to fear each other to live in harmony.”

Another round of music started up, and the crowd grew louder, their voices filling the room with a joy that was almost tangible. Aidan smiled faintly as he observed them, the warmth of the moment seeping into him. He thought of his father, of the stern looks and intense conversations, of Cathal’s insistence that Gaelica’s rule remain unchallenged.

“I wonder,” he continued, glancing at Meya again, “if my father ever truly sees me as anything beyond his successor. Beyond the crown prince who will take his place one day. Or if he’s ever considered that I might have dreams of my own.”

He could feel her gaze on him, the quiet empathy there somehow comforting. “And yet, no matter how I might feel, no matter the desires I hold, I know what’s expected of me. To rule Gaelica with an iron hand, to ensure no one dares question our strength.”

He sat back, his expression growing contemplative. “There are nights when I lie awake, wondering what it would be like if I could shape my own path. To lead Gaelica with a different kind of strength—a strength rooted in compassion and wisdom, not fear. To create a kingdom where power isn’t measured by dominance but by unity.”

He glanced down, the heaviness of that reality settling over him once more. “Sometimes I wonder if I have the strength to defy him. To stand up and say that I see a different future for Gaelica. But such thoughts… they’re dangerous. They could unravel everything he’s built, everything he believes in. And it’s hard to imagine what he’d do if he ever knew I harbored such ideas.”

Aidan fell silent, lost in his thoughts. He felt a strange vulnerability, as if he’d opened a part of himself he usually kept hidden. And yet, it felt oddly liberating to say these things aloud, even if they’d likely go no further than this quiet inn, this quiet conversation.

He looked back at Meya, offering her a small, almost apologetic smile. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. Perhaps I just needed someone to hear it—someone who isn’t bound to the kingdom, who won’t look at me with the same expectations.” He chuckled softly, a bit of self-deprecation in his tone. “Who knew that a night in some remote village, with spiced wine and strangers, would be the place where I found the courage to admit all of this?”

Aidan’s expression softened, a quiet resolve taking hold within him. “But maybe that’s why this journey is necessary. Maybe I needed to step outside Gaelica’s walls, to see a world beyond the throne and the weight of expectations. To see that there’s more to life than duty and titles.” He paused, meeting Meya’s gaze once more, something earnest and hopeful in his eyes. “And perhaps, one day, I’ll find a way to be the ruler Gaelica deserves—the ruler I know I could be.”

As he finished speaking, the inn’s warmth seemed to wrap around him like a comforting embrace. For the first time in a long while, Aidan felt a sense of peace, a hope that maybe, just maybe, he could shape his own destiny. And as he looked into the firelight, he couldn’t help but wonder if the future he dreamed of might one day become a reality.

Aidan’s lips curved into a gentle smile. His mind drifted to the memory of their earlier dance, to the sound of her laugh as he’d spun her, the warmth of her hand in his. He hadn’t expected that brief closeness to linger in his thoughts, yet it had. Perhaps it was the wine, or the way she looked at him, but he felt a strange sense of freedom—a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself in years.

“I find myself wondering,” he said softly, his voice barely above a murmur, “if you’d honor me with another dance.” His gaze held hers, a subtle invitation in his eyes. He reached out his hand, waiting, yet this time with a gentler insistence, as if he was asking for more than just a dance.

The lively tune in the room had slowed, the fiddles and lutes blending into a softer, almost haunting melody. The villagers around them continued to sway in pairs, their movements slower, the air thick with the warmth of the fire and the heady scent of wine and spices. Aidan rose, extending his hand a little further.

“There’s no crown here,” he said, his voice soft and sincere, his eyes intent on hers. “No titles. Just… two people sharing a moment.” He paused, his fingers brushing against hers as she took his hand. “If you’ll allow it.”

As they moved to the center of the room, Aidan placed one hand on her waist, drawing her close enough that he could feel her breath, warm against his collarbone. Her hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers feather-light, yet steady. This time, there was no crowd, no courtly distance between them. Just a quiet, almost hesitant closeness, as if they were both daring to let their walls down, if only for this one dance.

The music around them faded into a gentle rhythm, and he found himself swaying with her, his hand at her waist pressing slightly, drawing her a fraction closer. He hadn’t danced like this with anyone, hadn’t felt the need for such closeness, but with Meya, it felt different—something he couldn’t quite explain, as if his soul were responding to something in hers.

Aidan’s voice was low as he spoke, just a whisper above the music. “I’m not quite sure what this feeling is,” he admitted, his words honest, the vulnerability clear in his tone. “But I know that being here with you, like this… I feel as though I could be anything.” He gave her a faint smile, one that held a touch of awe. “And perhaps that’s foolish of me, but it’s the truth.”

His gaze softened as he looked at her, letting himself take in every detail of her face. “Tell me, Meya,” he murmured, a hint of warmth in his voice, “do you think there’s a place in this world for men like me—for men who dream of ruling with both strength and kindness?”

The question lingered between them, heavy and unspoken, as they continued to sway. The rest of the inn faded into a soft blur of colors and warmth, their dance pulling them into a world where titles and duties no longer held sway, where they could exist simply as they were—two people, bound by dreams that felt fragile yet powerful.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

His smile took her by surprise, and she found her eyes trailing from his curved lips up to the crinkle of his eyes, her heart expanding at the sight. When he leaned in, she did the same in an effort to keep their conversation between the two of them. The inn was abuzz with the sounds of music, cheering, and conversation, but one never knew when unwanted ears were listening. When his voice took on a sharper tone, her brow creased slightly at the shift in tone. Meya had been trying to figure out Aidan’s relationship with his father. It was obvious he respected him, but there was complexity built into the dynamic between them.

“They’re not here because they have to be, but because they want to be...Pure about it.”

Meya lifted an eyebrow as she took a small sip of her drink.

“The wine might also have something to do with it,” she said, and winked at him. “I hear you, though. Watching them earlier…I know they have felt the struggles of war because everybody has, but they can still find happiness and companionship despite that. It’s easy to lose sight of that when one has to be so consumed with the actual business of running a kingdom.”

As he continued speaking, Meya listened quietly, trying to reconcile this information with what he had previously told her.

“What if power didn’t mean crushing others, and respect didn’t have to come from fear?”

“Hm.” The small sound escaped her as she leaned back for a moment, those sharp eyes of hers meeting his. “You have spent the better part of a week trying to convince me that Gaelica wasn’t the same as the South Seas, yet you are describing them in a way that sounds quite similar.”

“But he believes that every king must be feared to be truly respected.”

She nodded at that, her fingers tracing the emblem in the side of her mug. “He’s not inherently wrong about that, you know. A king who does not strike fear into his enemies places a target upon the head of his kingdom. That is different than a king being feared by his people, and I can tell you that this,” she said, gesturing to the people before them, “is not the atmosphere of a people who are afraid of their king.”

“...if my father ever truly sees me as anything beyond his successor.”

Contemplating his position, Meya took another drink of the spiced wine, the earthy flavors dancing on her tongue. When she spoke, she leaned back in towards him, her head tilting slightly. “Ask him.”

She knew that sounded much simpler than it actually was, but Aidan had also spoken with such conviction about how different Gaelica was from The Keep. Swallowing, she looked down for a moment before returning to him. “My father used to tell me that my mother and I were the things that reminded him of the importance of what he was doing. That when he came home, it helped him not to lose sight of what was most important to him. You say your father isn’t cruel or unjust. Perhaps he has just had to focus on the harsh realities of fighting for freedom for so long that he hasn’t been granted the privilege of remembering the why.”

“And perhaps, one day, I’ll find a way to be the ruler Gaelica deserves—the ruler I know I could be.”

A small, empathetic smile crossed her face at his words. “I think you are already well on that path. More than you might realize. Independence is still new here.”

With that, she leaned back in her seat once more, their conversation at a lull. She found herself watching the villagers, occasionally smiling lightly at their antics. At one point she locked eyes with a man sitting across the room, and his eyes narrowed at her with so much hatred, she felt her stomach tighten and her body went on alert. He didn’t look away, and neither did she as she tried to gauge the reasoning behind his harsh stare. He had the dark hair and green eyes that were more common in Gaelica than the blonde hair predominant in the South Seas. She had no doubt he recognized that she was not from Gaelica, but how much of a threat he was, she could not yet decipher. Luckily for her, an inebriated woman promptly planted herself in his lap, laughing and distracting him.

“I find myself wondering, if you’d honor me with another dance.”

When he first spoke, her attention shifted back to him, and the stony expression melted into something softer. She didn’t want to give him cause to be on alert. His request was not one she’d expected, and as he held his hand out to her, that unfamiliar fluttering in her stomach reappeared. Reaching out, still tentative as she had earlier, she followed him back out to the dance floor. As her hand found its way to his shoulder, she was reminded of how small she felt beside him. Rather than feeling vulnerable at that notion, it felt comfortable. Safe. And safety wasn’t something she had felt since she was a child.

When he spoke, his mouth was so close she could practically feel the vibration of his voice, and her eyes closed for a moment as every nerve reacted, silently agreeing with him that she had no idea these feelings were either. He held her so close to him that it was impossible for her to ignore the feel of him.

“...for men who dream of ruling with both strength and kindness?”

She pondered the question, trying to imagine such a world. It was difficult when so much of her life had been surrounded by the exact opposite. Her father believed there was room for those things, and though he still fought on behalf of his brother, Meya had to believe that if he found value in those things, they had to count for something. Lifting her head slightly so she could look up at him, she was reminded of just how close they really were when her lips nearly accidentally brushed his jaw line.

“I think if that type of world can exist,” she said, her voice hushed, “you will be the one to create it.” It was a genuine statement, reflected in the meaningful look on her face as her eyes found themselves trailing down his features once again. She felt the steady rhythm of her heartbeat increase, and hoped that he couldn’t feel it. For a moment, she felt lost and disassociated with the crowded inn as she lingered on him. When the song ended, the spell broke, and she looked around as the villages clapped for the musicians. Clearing her throat, she stepped backwards, clapping. Giving him a small smile, her chest felt unusually tight.

“It has been a long day. Perhaps it would be wise for us to get some sleep before we are back on the road.”

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan nodded at Meya’s words, her quiet, earnest encouragement lingering in his thoughts as he led them away from the bustling room. Their closeness on the dance floor had unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite articulate; it was as if, for those few moments, the weight of his title and responsibilities had lifted, leaving only a man and a woman caught in a delicate, unspoken understanding. The warmth of her gaze and the soft cadence of her voice had soothed him, yet now, back among the inn’s patrons, the world seemed sharper and more vivid, the sounds and scents of the inn drawing him out of that intimate space.

They made their way to the bar where the innkeeper was exchanging jugs and goblets with the revelers, his face red and beaming as he juggled several conversations at once. As Aidan approached, the innkeeper’s eyes lit up, and he set down the mugs he was polishing.

"Ah, m’lord, hope you’ve enjoyed the night!” he said, his voice booming over the room’s noise. “A fine evening for a pair of weary travelers. How can I be of service?"

Aidan nodded in response, leaning slightly closer to the counter. “We’re looking to retire for the night. Could we trouble you for two baths and a room? And something private, if possible,” he added, glancing around at the busy inn.

The innkeeper’s eyes twinkled with a knowing look, and he gave a short, cheerful bow. “Aye, of course, m’lord. We’ll have the baths drawn in a jiffy and your room made up proper.” He looked down at his ledger, flipping pages with a finger. “I’ve one last room that should suit ye both. It’s large, though,” he noted with a slight smirk, “with only the one bed. Fine for company, I’d say.”

Aidan raised a brow at the innkeeper’s expression but offered a polite nod. “That will do. Thank you.”

The innkeeper bustled off, and Aidan turned back to Meya, noticing the subtle tension in her posture. The intimacy of a shared room—one bed, no less—was not what he’d intended, but there was no other choice tonight. He managed a faint, reassuring smile.

“Looks like it’ll be cozy,” he said quietly, tilting his head as they waited. “But I’ll be a gentleman, I promise you that.”

Aidan had often shared rooms with his soldiers while campaigning, and the thought of sleeping near someone he respected wasn’t foreign to him, but this… this felt different. He told himself that a bed was simply a bed, that they were two adults who could manage a night’s sleep. Yet a quiet voice at the back of his mind wondered if rest would come as easily as he tried to convince himself.

The innkeeper returned to gesture them down a narrow hallway toward a private bath chamber. Steam wafted from a pair of wooden tubs, their surfaces brimming with hot water, and candles cast a soft, golden glow around the room. The lingering scent of herbs and fresh lavender mingled with the steam, filling the space with a soothing warmth.

Aidan turned to Meya, a touch of formality returning to his tone. “I’ll take the one closest to the door, give you some privacy.” He took in her expression, recognizing a flash of the same wariness he felt himself. “And once you’re done, I’ll wait for you by the door to the room.” He gave her a brief nod, stepping behind a small screen by his tub as he loosened his collar and shrugged off his outer tunic.

As he sank into the warm water, Aidan allowed himself a rare moment of indulgence, letting the tension of the day ease from his shoulders. His thoughts, however, remained fixed on Meya. Even now, as they prepared to retire, the memory of their dance lingered. He could still feel the light press of her hand on his shoulder, the warmth of her gaze as she looked up at him. Her words from earlier drifted back to him, soft but certain: “You will be the one to create it.”

That unwavering confidence struck him deeply. It was rare for someone to see him not just as a prince or heir, but as a man with his own ideals, his own hopes. Meya’s words had stirred a quiet determination within him, a reminder of the man he aspired to be, not just the ruler his father expected.

After some time, he finished his bath, dried off, and dressed himself in a simple long tunic before making his way to their room. The innkeeper hadn’t exaggerated about the size of the room; it was spacious for an inn, furnished with a single, large bed at its center, draped in thick, woolen blankets. A narrow table stood against the far wall, a candle flickering atop it, casting soft light across the bed’s surface.

Aidan took a deep breath, willing himself to relax. He would sleep on the floor, if necessary, he thought, though he doubted Meya would insist on such formality. As he moved around the room, settling his belongings, he heard a soft knock on the door, and Meya stepped in, her hair slightly damp from her own bath.

She glanced around the room, her expression unreadable, though Aidan could sense the same unspoken tension that he felt. He cleared his throat, trying to ease the moment’s awkwardness.

“Here we are,” he said, offering her a slight, almost sheepish smile. “It’s… well, it’s a bed.” He gave a light shrug. “But I can sleep on the floor, if it would make you more comfortable.”

He noticed the faint flicker of her eyes as she glanced at the bed and then back at him, the tension between them thickening in the room’s quiet. Aidan moved to the small table, busying himself with the candle as he waited for her response, sensing her uncertainty and feeling it mirrored within himself.

After a moment, he spoke, his voice low and sincere. “Whatever you prefer, Meya. I know this arrangement wasn’t exactly… anticipated.” He met her gaze, his eyes steady. “But we’ll make do. I’ll respect whatever makes you comfortable.”

Her presence so close, the lingering warmth of her recent bath, and the gentle rustle of her movements stirred something within him, a reminder of the closeness they’d shared earlier in the evening. Yet here, in the intimacy of the room, with only a single bed between them, that closeness took on a different weight. Aidan felt his resolve waver slightly, but he steadied himself, reminding himself that honor and respect came first.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

One room. One bed. It wasn't what Meya had been expecting, but she had certainly found herself in less desirable sleeping arrangements. His words forced an amused smile on her face.

“You have had ample opportunities to behave in an ungentlemanly manner. I'm not concerned about your intentions.” She had fallen asleep just as close to him out in the elements as a bed would provide.

Bathing in a shared space, however, was certainly a new undertaking for her, and that felt somehow more intimate than sharing a sleeping space. A bed still required clothes. A bath demanded the absence of clothes. When they stepped inside the space, her muscles had tensed slightly, but she felt a little better when she saw that the baths afforded some privacy between them.

“I’ll take the one closest to the door, give you some privacy.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice tinged with the uncertainty her face carried. She went to her side of the room and set her bag down behind the barrier that separated him. The sounds of him undressing reached her ears, and the thought that he was naked steps away from her made parts of her grow warm. Meya shook her head at herself, confused with her reaction. She had seen more naked men than she had ever cared to. It had taken very little time for her to realize that having a lady among their ranks deterred very few soldiers from exposing themselves. They didn't think twice about dropping their pants to relieve themselves and had no sense of privacy when taking a woman for their own pleasure when sleeping quarters were tight.

The fact that it was him made it feel different, and Meya found herself without explanation as to why.

She found a sleeping gown that Hildy had packed, and pulled the white garment out. Meya never would have worn this out on the road, but she was grateful the woman had managed to pack one. Reaching up, Meya untied the little strap of leather that held her braid together and made quick work of undoing the simple plait.

Undressing, she stepped cautiously in the tub, and settled herself down. Closing her eyes, she relished the hot water against her skin, the scents relaxing her. She nearly fell asleep, but became more alert when she heard Aidan stand from his bath and exit. Inhaling deeply, she held her breath and slid under the water, bringing her fingers up to help the water through her thick hair. Pushing herself up, she took a deep breath and got to work bathing and washing her hair. She hadn't realized just how dirty she'd gotten until she washed the grime and dust of days on the road from her body.

When she finally stood and dried off, she slid on her nightgown, thankful for the long sleeves that kept some of the chill from her damp skin. Brushing through her hair took longer than she'd anticipated, but eventually she found her way to the room. She had contemplated braiding her hair, but decided against it. It felt strange, though, as she walked to their room and stepped inside. Women were never seen with their hair all the way down in the South Seas, except by their husbands. It made her feel exposed in a way that being in front of him in a chemise didn't.

The room was as the innkeeper had described, and she found a space to set her bag. It was instinct for her to assess a room for safety concerns, and she found herself doing it without even realizing it. One door, locks on the back in addition to a key entry. Four windows.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she walked over to one of the windows and peered out. There were no easy accessible ledges that ran by them. The rain was still coming down with lightning occasionally lighting up the village.

She heard him, though she didn't immediately respond as she thought through the possibilities. Turning to him, she walked over to the bed and looked at it.

“Sleeping on the floor isn't necessary,” she finally replied. “We slept in closer space to one another three nights ago on the ground. It is possible to just sleep under different blankets.” Her voice was diplomatic when she spoke, her valiant effort to ignore the heady feeling that sparked her senses when she thought about sharing a bed together. It was the same valiant effort that kept her from focusing too long on the sight of his legs under his tunic. They had never been so informally attired around one another.

She got to work rearranging the blankets on the bed, effectively creating two separate sleeping spaces. When the candle was extinguished, they were cast into darkness,and Meya tried to usher in sleep. It was difficult because of how aware she was of the way the bed shifted under his weight. She did eventually drift off to sleep about the time she heard the storm kick back up, the rumbling thunder almost like a lullaby to her ears.

*

No,” Ronan's voice barked out as a command as he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. Meya tried to wrench herself free, the horror she felt evidenced in her eyes. He pulled her against him tightly, his right hand holding her wrists together as his other hand covered her mouth.

“Shhhhh,” he said, the sound right in her ear as he softened his tone. Meya's attempts to break free from him were in vein, but she could hear the family screaming in the burning cottage, and she had to try. “They have to fear us, Meya.”

The nightmare that had prevented nights of sleep repeated itself. Meya was curled up on her side, and a small whimper sounded from her sleeping form. She had turned restless, and her brows creased in her sleep causing her previously peaceful face to contort into something distressed. Another whimper as she tried to fight off Ronin in her sleep, until finally she woke just enough to break free. When she did wake up, she shot up tons sitting position, gasping for air as she tried to figure out where she was. Her entire body felt weak and she was shaking from reliving that moment.

You're safe. It was a dream. Breathe.

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan stirred at the faint sounds of Meya’s distress, his eyes opening slowly in the darkness. For a moment, he was disoriented, his mind still hovering between sleep and wakefulness, but he quickly became aware of the tense energy radiating from her side of the bed. He heard her quiet, strangled whimpers, the shifting of her body against the sheets, and then the sudden jolt as she shot up, gasping for air.

It was instinct alone that moved him. Sitting up, Aidan reached out, his hand landing softly on her shoulder.

“Meya,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, attempting to anchor her in the present. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Her breathing was ragged, and she seemed unable to focus, her eyes darting around the dark room as if expecting shadows to leap out at her. Aidan could see the tension in her posture, the slight tremble in her hands as she gripped the edge of the blanket.

“It was just a dream,” he continued softly, keeping his hand on her shoulder. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breaths beneath his touch, a rhythm that spoke of fear and memories that had reached out and ensnared her in her sleep. A part of him wanted to withdraw, to give her the space to recover, but he stayed. Something told him she needed this—a grounding presence, someone to bring her back from whatever dark place her mind had taken her.

Gradually, her breathing began to slow. Aidan let his hand drift down from her shoulder, resting it at her forearm, a silent gesture of reassurance.

“You’re here, in Gaelica,” he said, his tone softer still. “There’s no one here to hurt you.”

She nodded after a moment, though he could tell she was still trying to shake the last traces of the nightmare. Aidan didn’t press, didn’t ask her to explain. It was clear from the pain etched on her face that whatever haunted her was no trivial memory. Instead, he waited patiently, keeping his gaze gentle as he gave her time to come back to herself.

Aidan lay still, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing next to him as it slowly evened out, though traces of tension lingered in her posture. Her nightmare seemed to have retreated, but she lay awake, the remnants of fear still evident in the way she curled in on herself. He could tell sleep hadn’t yet reclaimed her, and he found himself fighting an urge to reach out again, wanting to bring her some comfort, some semblance of peace.

“Meya,” he said softly, his voice just a whisper in the quiet darkness. She turned her head slightly, enough for him to see the outline of her face in the dim light. “If it helps… I could stay close.”

He paused, feeling a flicker of hesitation. “I could hold you, if that would bring you any comfort.”

There was a brief silence, and Aidan almost thought she might refuse, that she’d close herself off, turn away. But then, with a slow exhale, she gave the smallest nod, a subtle, silent acceptance.

He shifted closer, reaching out with a tentative arm and drawing her into the circle of his warmth. Gently, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, letting her nestle against his chest. Aidan’s heart beat a little faster, aware of her presence in a way he hadn’t anticipated, but he focused on keeping his embrace steady, letting his warmth offer what words couldn’t.

“There’s nothing here to fear,” he murmured softly, his breath brushing against her hair. “Just rest, Meya. I’ll be right here.”

In the quiet that followed, he felt her body gradually relax, her head resting against his chest, her breathing slowing as she gave in to the security of his hold. He kept his arm around her, a silent promise that he wouldn’t let her face the darkness alone.

As she drifted back to sleep, he closed his eyes too, the soft rise and fall of her breath against him soothing something in him he hadn’t known needed soothing. And in that moment, with her safely in his arms, he felt a strange sense of peace—a reminder of what it felt like to hold someone close, to give and receive trust, even in the simplest ways.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

Meya was so disoriented at first that she'd forgotten she wasn't alone until she heard Aidan’s voice, and her body jumped slightly. Swallowing, she felt her senses begin to recognize the world around her again. His hand brought a warmth and steadiness to her that she was unaccustomed to, but found that the contact helped ground her quicker than when fighting through it on her own.

“I'm sorry I woke you,” her voice came out a little shaky, but her heart rate had begun to slow. Inhaling through her nose, she forced her adrenaline to settle down as she worked to slow her heart.

Reaching up, she ran her fingers through her hair, pushing her messy waves out of her face. Turning her head, she looked at him, his features barely visible in the darkness, the lightning from outside occasionally filling the room with light.

His gentleness continued to surprise her, even when he had been roused unexpectedly from sleep. The soft vibration of his voice felt like a warm blanket wrapping around her. She was still trying to rid herself of the smell of smoke and the stifling pressure of Ronin's large hand pressing on her mouth.

“I could hold you, if that would bring you any comfort.”

Would that help? The idea of it never would have occurred to her, but that initial inclination to mistrust an offer that involved physical touch made her hesitate. The memory of the way his hands felt when they danced flitted through her, reminding her of the comfort their weight had filled her with. Rationality also reminded her that he had shown her the utmost respect, despite chances to do otherwise.

Moving slowly, she allowed him to pull her towards him, the bed shifting as her weight joined his. Laying back down on her side, her body melded against his, and she felt a tautness in her stomach that caught her off guard. She'd never experienced that feeling before, and wasn't sure what to make of it.

Drowsiness was settling back in as she brought a hand up to rest in front of her face on his chest. She felt the reverberation of his voice when he spoke again, the left side of her mouth lifting into a partial smile at his efforts to reassure him. The perplexing part of it was that Meya believed him.

“I know,” she whispered, her eyes closing. Never had she experienced this type of closeness to another person, and she felt her body relaxing against his. The steady cadence of his heartbeat accompanying the rain tattooing against the windows lulled her into a deep sleep.

At some point during the night, Meya shifted position, her face snuggling into the crook of his neck, a sigh of contentment escaping her sleeping form. Her arm held onto him a little tighter as it crossed his chest as she moved in closer. The room grew cooler as the night progressed, but she felt nothing but warmth between the heat radiating from Aidan and the blankets tucked in around them.

When she stirred a little before dawn, her mind was too blurry from sleep and her body too content to move. Inhaling deeply, the scent of him filled her, the faint aroma of lavender still present from the night before. Her eyes slowly opened part way, her head moving back ever so slightly so she could look at Aidan. She still felt half asleep, almost like she was floating in a dream. Her hair was sprawled over his arm, and she found her chest rising and falling in time with his. Though the room remained cast in shadow, it had lightened just enough so she could make out his features. Without thinking, she lifted her hand that had come to rest on his shoulder and gently ran a finger over the scar on his cheek. She wondered, not for the first time, what had led to that moment where someone had been able to get that close to him.

 

[Mr_Positive]

The faint touch on his scar sent a pulse through Aidan, stirring him awake, and he blinked in the dim pre-dawn light, barely moving. Her fingers brushed the jagged line tracing his cheek, featherlight, almost reverent. His senses awoke, one by one, to the warmth of her body nestled close to his, her quiet breaths against his skin, the tendrils of her hair spreading across his arm. The unfamiliar intimacy held him still, making his heartbeat slow and intense, each beat strangely louder in the silence of the room.

Aidan’s fingers flexed lightly around her, instinctively resisting the urge to move, to break the fragile peace between them. In this shared quiet, he felt an odd, soft ache, a longing he hadn’t felt in years, if ever. Memories flashed behind his eyes as she traced the scar—memories of battles and fires, of nights spent mending injuries and repairing armor, far from anyone’s soft touch.

Her fingers lingered, and Aidan found his voice, low and gentle. “That one,” he said, barely louder than a whisper, “wasn’t from a fair fight.”

The words surprised even him, surfacing unbidden from a part of himself he had always locked tightly away. This scar had been with him long enough that he rarely thought of it, yet here, with her gaze and touch on him, it felt raw again, almost new.

As if in answer to her silent question, he took a slow breath, letting himself settle deeper into the memory he’d kept buried.

“It was an ambush,” he murmured, glancing away for a moment as if seeing it again. “Years ago, before we’d reclaimed Gaelica. I’d taken a few soldiers into the highlands, following a report of a raid.” He paused, the memory coming clearer. “But we didn’t find bandits. They found us.” A faint smile touched his lips, as if he could laugh at it now. “Not my finest moment. I thought I could trust my instincts, that I’d seen enough of war by then.”

He felt Meya’s gaze on him, but she remained still, her hand resting against his chest now, warm and steady. He drew comfort from her silence, sensing she would let him speak at his own pace.

“The man who did it…he was quiet, clever, and faster than I gave him credit for.” Aidan’s hand absently brushed her shoulder, the gesture instinctive, as though anchoring himself. “He managed to slip past me—found the one moment I wasn’t looking, when I was focused on saving someone else.” His jaw tightened. “I don’t even remember the pain. Just… the blood, and a cold like I hadn’t known before.”

In the dimness, Aidan realized he’d spoken more freely than he had in years, more than he’d ever admitted even to his closest men. He was surprised at the ease with which the words had come, at the absence of his usual walls. Her closeness had softened something in him, had stripped away the layers he kept so carefully built up.

“And here I am,” he said softly, letting his hand move to the soft waves of her hair, feeling the silken texture between his fingers. “A reminder that sometimes we survive more than we think we can.”

He glanced down, meeting her eyes. She looked at him with that same quiet empathy that had surprised him from the start, the understanding that came from having faced her own shadows.

“It healed. As most things do,” he added gently, trying to reassure her, though part of him knew he was also reminding himself. “But there are wounds that go deeper, ones we can’t see.” He paused, aware of how vulnerable the admission felt. “You’ve seen those wounds, too.”

The silence between them grew, filled with an unspoken understanding, and Aidan allowed himself to simply be in her presence, to let his guard down in a way he hadn’t before. Her fingers, now resting on his chest, seemed to offer more comfort than he thought he deserved. For a moment, he wondered if his father would recognize him here, speaking in the dark with someone who had glimpsed beyond the armor he wore around himself. King Cathal’s expectations, his strict vision of power and legacy, seemed distant now, in this quiet room where the world beyond was softened by the warmth between them.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

Meya hadn't intended to wake him, but it came as no surprise when she felt the change in his breathing at her slightest touch. Why she had even touched him in the first place still eluded her. The feeling of his hold on her tightening should have put her on edge, but instead, it made her feel as though she were sinking further into the arms of contentment, a feeling of which she was wholly unaccustomed.

His quiet voice filled the space around them as he began to speak, and her hand gently lowered from his cheek, settling back onto his chest. When his hand brushed her shoulder, a small shiver ran down her spine at the unexpected show of affection.

“Just… the blood, and a cold like I hadn’t known before.”

She nodded subtly, understanding that feeling all too well.

“Like ice suddenly ran through your veins, and your stomach had dropped from your body,” she added quietly, her voice scratchy in that early morning husk. The way his fingers caressed her hair as he spoke made the world around them feel as though it had stopped completely, the feeling causing her eyelids to lower slightly. It reminded her of when her mother would stroke her hair at night when she laid her down to bed, a beacon of safety she had felt in those early years. Having a man’s hand in her hair was something altogether different, and she wasn’t entirely certain her still drowsy mind could piece together the effect it was having on her.

“You’ve seen those wounds, too.”

It wasn’t a question, but a gentle statement. She didn’t look away from him, but she did not respond immediately. There were too many wounds. Things she had learned to bury, some easier than others. Meya carried her scars just as he did, though hers weren’t so easily visible. When she did finally speak, her voice was still quiet, almost faint, and he might have had a hard time hearing her if they hadn’t been so close.

“The nightmares have usually stopped by now. I’ve had them before, but never the same one for this long. Memories. Eventually it will fade, but it makes sleep difficult while they last.” Nothing within her had stirred last night after she’d woken him. Her eyes took on a probing look as they wandered over his face, her curiosity visible even in the dim lighting. “You made it go away, and I’m not sure I understand how.”

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan lay still, absorbing her words, each one resonating with something deep inside him. The vulnerability in her voice, the lingering shadows in her gaze as she looked at him, stirred something profound. The way she studied him, her eyes both questioning and trusting, made him aware of how much she wanted to understand this feeling, this trust that had somehow sprung between them. He didn’t want to shatter the moment, but he also knew that addressing the unspoken bond they’d begun to share would be the only way to help her make sense of it.

He shifted slightly, resting his hand over hers on his chest, feeling her warmth against him. Her confession about the nightmares had been so quiet, yet so poignant, that he felt an almost overwhelming urge to protect her from every dark thing that haunted her. But he also knew that someone like Meya—strong, resilient, and fiercely independent—needed something more than his protection. She needed his respect, his understanding.

“You’re used to people looking at you with expectation,” he said softly, his gaze holding hers as he spoke. “With judgement, even. You’ve probably been surrounded by those who’d push you or challenge you, and maybe some who would try to control you through fear.”

He paused, letting her absorb his words, his fingers gently brushing the back of her hand. “But trust… that’s different, isn’t it? It’s not built on what I demand from you, or what I expect you to be. I trust you because of who you already are, and you can trust me because I won’t try to make you into someone else.”

He could see her listening, absorbing, and he continued, his voice a steady, reassuring murmur in the quiet room. “I think you feel that, Meya. And that’s why you can rest here. It’s not because I’d never harm you—that’s true, but it’s more than that. It’s because I respect you.” He spoke with a firmness that left no room for doubt, as if he were making a vow.

Aidan’s thumb traced idle circles over her knuckles, a gesture of quiet reassurance, as he went on. “We both carry shadows, memories that follow us even when we’d give anything to be rid of them. But those memories don’t define us, no matter how much they might try. They’re just a part of the past we’ve survived.”

He held her gaze for a moment, letting his words settle between them. “Maybe that’s why you feel… safe here.” The word felt too small, but he couldn’t quite find another that would capture it. “Because you know that no part of you needs to be hidden here. You’re not being judged, and you’re not in danger of being hurt.”

Her eyes searched his face, and Aidan hoped she could see the sincerity in his expression, that she understood how fully he meant each word.

A faint smile softened his face as he added, “It’s strange, though, isn’t it? To feel that kind of peace when you’re used to guarding yourself. It’s like trying to walk on new ground, unsure if it will hold you.”

Aidan let the silence linger for a moment, giving her space to consider his words. He realized that he wanted her to feel this trust, to understand that what they shared was built on something solid and real, not on fleeting attraction or convenience. It was rooted in respect and an understanding of the wounds they each carried, a mutual acknowledgment that needed no words.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

Blue eyes drifted from his face to the spot his hand came to rest on top of hers. She waited for her chest to tighten, her muscles to tense, her lungs to squeeze in on themselves as the weight of his hand trapped hers against him. Not trapped. The two words registered almost as quickly as the realization that his hand was on hers. His fingers had settled over hers so gently, bringing with it a comfort to which she was unaccustomed. Her eyes remained on their hands, and she felt almost as though she were studying some new entity that had never been seen before. His words filled the silence, and she listened to him, her own thoughts piecing together what he was saying with the life she had lived.

Had she acquiesced to her uncle out of fear? It didn’t feel that way. He ruled with an iron fist, and he took delight in causing fear, but he’d never directly taken action to frighten her into submission. Then again, he’d never had to. Meya had just simply done what was expected of someone under his rule. Family loyalty that was so deeply ingrained in her that she never would have stopped to question his orders. Ronin she feared. She also trusted him in an inconceivable way. Perhaps it was because she understood him, and knew what to expect with him. And what he was capable of. She was feared. That thought struck her in a different light than it had before. Her thoughts drifted back to Aidan’s story about the scar. Quiet. Clever. Fast. That had been her. That was her. Meya could be deadly, and she did it with a quiet efficiency that took people by surprise. Without pomp. She never acted out of sport, though. She didn’t take pleasure from her actions, she just completed her mission. Ronin thrived on destruction. He relished the harm he caused. Like a predator, he wanted to play with his prey, leaving no doubt as to who was responsible.

A small shiver ran up her arms when his fingers began moving against her skin, the sensation keeping her grounded in the moment and the stillness in which they laid.

“It’s because I respect you.”

At those words, her eyes shifted from their hands back to his face, meeting his gaze as he looked down at her. The intention behind his words read clearly on his face, even in the dim light.

Safe.

Another word she realized that she had a complicated history with. At The Keep, she was heavily guarded everywhere she went. That hadn’t ever really made her feel as though she could lower her guard. Not like this. He was right, though. She did feel safe right now. This small little inn situated in a tiny village that was nothing more than a speck on a map had connected with something inside her. Safety wasn’t just a physical thing. It was something more nuanced, a concept more profound than one word could capture. Her eyes dipped back down to his hand, still moving over the top of hers, and she slowly turned hers over, availing her palm to the feel of his fingers feathering over her skin.

“What if,” she paused for a moment, taking a moment to pull her thoughts into a cohesive thread, “I don’t actually deserve to feel that kind of peace? I have taken that feeling away from other people by my actions. It seems almost unjust that I be granted something that I have destroyed for others.”

Meya felt weary. Not tired. Not deprived of sleep. Her very soul just felt sapped at this moment. As if she hadn’t realized how tightly packed down her emotions and thoughts had been, buried in a chasm so deep she’d forgotten they were even there. The adventurous little girl she had once been, always running around the castle, getting into mischief, laughing at the smallest things, had disappeared. It was as though that spark that had made Meya who she was had been snuffed out long ago. And it did so without actually killing her. How was it possible for life to murder one’s soul but still keep one’s heart beating? Lungs breathing? It seemed as though the two should be connected.

The steady rise and fall of Aidan’s chest brought her thoughts back to the man who now lay beside her. A man who, despite what he had endured himself during war, still wanted to believe the very best of people. Of her. A creature so undeserving it was incomprehensible to her how he could even look her in the eye, let alone find it in himself to pull her close. The way he held her so decisively, but free from possession, was a revelation. Certainly she had felt this way as a child in the arms of her parents, but that was so long ago Meya couldn’t recall what that actually felt like. It couldn’t have felt like this, though. This was different. Something new and wholly unexpected.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and it was almost like she could see Aidan reaching inside her with the smallest of kindling and reigniting the wick of a bent, damaged candle inside. The flame was small, fragile, and in danger of blowing out at the slightest breeze, but the tiny glow was there, the flame wanting to grow stronger and brighter. Opening her eyes, emotion played out on her face as she moved in a little closer to him, as if being closer to his heat would feed hers.

Meya tilted her head ever so slightly to look back up at him, the storm of her thoughts winding its way through her features.

“I-” She paused, her voice soft, but thick, “I don’t want to hurt people.”

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan felt her words reverberate through him, as though each one carried the weight of years, an ache built slowly over time. The admission was so quiet, so vulnerable, that it seemed to slip past the walls she had kept so high, settling between them like a confession that had fought its way to the surface. Her gaze, shadowed yet open, spoke of a weariness he understood in the depths of his own soul.

Drawing her a bit closer, he brought his free hand up, lightly tracing his fingers along her arm in a gentle, soothing rhythm. Her weariness, her sense of undeservedness, all of it was so starkly familiar to him that he ached for her, realizing how deeply she had buried her pain, forced it into silence, let it fester rather than fade.

“Meya,” he murmured, his voice as soft as the fading rain outside. “I don’t think any soul could find it in them to take away pain from another and be completely unmarked by it.” He paused, looking into her eyes, knowing that what he would say next could either reach her or fall short, depending on how willing she was to believe it. “There’s a difference between surviving by necessity and causing harm for pleasure. I’ve seen men who kill for sport, who thrive on the fear of others.” He shook his head, his gaze fixed on her. “That’s not who you are.”

Gently, he reached up to touch her cheek, letting his hand rest there, his thumb brushing softly against her skin. The subtle rise and fall of his chest matched the steadiness he was trying to lend her, offering his presence as a constant, unshakeable foundation for her thoughts to rest upon. “You’re someone who’s had to live within the expectations of others, under the rule of men who would twist your gifts for their own ends. You were forced into roles that did not belong to you, Meya. Roles that never gave you a choice.”

Her face softened, though he could see a lingering storm in her eyes, as though she were grasping at this possibility he offered but didn’t fully trust herself to hold it. He felt his hand tighten slightly on hers, an unconscious gesture of reassurance.

“Whatever your past holds,” he went on, his voice calm but resolute, “it does not have to define who you are now. You have the power to decide what your life will be from here. You don’t owe anyone your guilt.” He sighed softly, tilting his head to search her gaze. “And you certainly don’t need to hurt anyone ever again if that’s not who you want to be.”

The silence stretched for a moment, and he let it, allowing her to absorb each word. Aidan’s mind slipped briefly to his own past, to battles he had fought, to faces he’d forgotten as much out of necessity as regret. The weight of his choices was something he had come to terms with over time, though not easily. And he knew the same patience, the same resolve, would be needed here. He could be there for her, yes, but it would take time for her to believe that she could truly live without fear or guilt clinging to her heels.

Slowly, he allowed his hand to move down, resting against the curve of her shoulder, letting his thumb sweep gently along her collarbone. “You deserve peace, Meya. Not because of anything you have or haven’t done, but because you are human. You carry pain, regret, fear—all of the things we’re told to suppress and hide. But they don’t make you less worthy of peace. If anything, they make you more worthy of it.”

His words felt heavy even to him, layered with his own truth, his own need for her to understand the depth of his conviction. A warmth unfurled within him as he looked at her, an unexpected tenderness rising with the simplicity of her presence. He felt as though he had been waiting a lifetime to share a moment like this, one where nothing was expected but understanding, a trust so profound it could never be forced.

He tilted his head, his eyes tracing the lines of her face in the soft morning light. “You’re so much more than the person others have tried to make you,” he whispered, his voice catching slightly. “The fact that you even worry about what you’ve done, about those you may have hurt... that speaks to a heart capable of change, of compassion. That is worth holding onto, Meya.”

He smiled gently, and after a pause, he murmured, “Sometimes, you just need someone to remind you of the parts of yourself you’ve forgotten.”

The look in her eyes had softened further, though he could still see the remnants of doubt flickering there. He knew that, deep down, she was struggling to reconcile her past with this newfound gentleness she hadn’t allowed herself to believe she deserved. And yet, as he held her there in that quiet space, he felt a stirring within him, an unspoken promise taking root.

He let his hand trail down, resting it over hers once more, anchoring her in the present. “If you let me,” he said softly, “I’d like to be that reminder for you. I want you to see yourself the way I see you, not as some weapon forged by another’s hand, but as someone who can choose her own path, her own life.”

Her breathing had slowed, matching the calm of his, and he sensed that she was finding a measure of comfort in his words, her body relaxing into his embrace. He could see the hints of a warmth beginning to bloom behind her guarded gaze, a softness she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for years, perhaps longer.

“Just promise me one thing,” he added gently, his voice low and earnest. “Promise me you’ll give yourself the chance to discover what peace feels like, even if it’s just a little bit at a time. You don’t have to prove anything to me or to anyone else, least of all to yourself.” He smiled, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. “Simply allow yourself to exist as you are, with all your scars, with all your strength and doubt and hope. That’s all I’d ask.”

 

[QuirkyQuill]

His touch was lulling her into a trance-like state, her head beginning to swim with the feel of his fingers on her arm. For a moment, she wondered what it would feel like if the sleeves of her chemise weren’t covering her skin. Even through the fabric she could feel his warmth, his words adding to the tranquility. When his hand lifted to her face, she felt nothing but steady trust that his gentleness thus far would continue. The tenderness of it sent shivers up her arms, and she found her head instinctively leaning into him. Her eyes closed momentarily as his thumb brushed her skin, but reopened as she contemplated his words.

His faith in her character was astounding. The only reason the two of them had even been brought together in any capacity was because she had been arrested for crimes against his kingdom. Charges she had rightfully earned. Yet, the way his eyes held hers, and the conviction that surrounded his assurances of who he believed her to be made her want to believe him. She understood in that moment the power this man really held for his people. It wasn’t just his willingness to fight for them, to defend them, or the heart he had for wanting his people to experience peace.

Her thoughts blurred for a moment, distracted by his hand once more, this time leaving a comforting weight on her shoulder as his thumb sent an unfamiliar sensation through her. Despite how languid her body felt, her pulse quickened ever so slightly at the way he was touching her, and she couldn’t imagine that it would escape his notice with how close he was to her heartbeat.

“You have a gift, Your Highness,” she spoke, her voice a whisper. “You have a way with words that makes people want to believe what you say. A gift for lighting something inside people and helping them see a world of possibility. That is a gift worth treasuring in a leader.”

“Promise me you’ll give yourself the chance to discover what peace feels like, even if it’s just a little bit at a time.”

The smile on his face caused her own lips to reciprocate, her smile small and faint, but there nonetheless. As his fingers brushed her hair back, she reached up before he had completely removed himself and laid her hand against his. She didn’t speak for a long moment, her eyes searching his, moving over his every feature as if she were reading him.

“I think,” she said, hesitantly, “that might be possible with you.”

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan’s heart leapt at her words, her quiet, hesitant statement wrapping around him like a promise. He could hardly believe how quickly they had moved from mistrust and guarded exchanges to this closeness, this vulnerability. For the first time in a long while, he felt he was beginning to understand the power of compassion beyond duty, the weight of trust when given freely and wholly.

The morning light seeped in through the narrow window, casting soft rays across the room and marking the dawn of a day he had hoped for since he’d first glimpsed a way forward for Meya—a path back to Gaelica, to redemption, not as an enemy, but as a part of his people’s future.

With the faintest reluctance, Aidan withdrew his hand, letting it rest at his side as he sat up slowly. He sensed that the spell woven between them in those dark, quiet hours was beginning to thin with the first rays of dawn, but he wasn’t ready to let it fade completely. He wanted this feeling of hope to carry with them, even as they faced the castle walls, the expectations and accusations that awaited Meya, the judgment of his father, King Cathal.

Aidan glanced over his shoulder at her, still lying there, her hair tousled, her expression thoughtful. “We should prepare for the journey,” he said softly, the weight of what lay ahead pulling his mind from the gentle cocoon they had shared.

He rose from the bed and made his way across the room, splashing water from the basin onto his face. He watched the rivulets drip away, his mind racing with thoughts he hadn’t dared voice to her yet. He would take her to the castle and present her not as a prisoner, not as a captured foe to be dealt with, but as someone worthy of trust, someone who had chosen a path beyond the past. A path that, if nurtured, could become a bond between their two worlds.

As he dried his face, he looked over at her. She was sitting up now, her gaze steady and quietly determined. He took a breath, feeling the words he wanted to say to his father forming in his mind, but his throat tightened with the uncertainty of how they would be received. King Cathal was a just man, yes, but he was also a man who bore a fierce loyalty to Gaelica and a longstanding suspicion toward those outside its borders. Convincing him would not be easy.

“Meya,” he began, glancing at her in the soft morning light, “when we arrive, there will be questions… from many people, but especially from my father. He’s a man of strength and purpose, a man of few words but much wisdom. He’s had to make difficult choices for the good of Gaelica, and he carries the weight of each one.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “But I believe he’ll see in you what I see—that you aren’t a threat, not to me and not to our people.”

He moved to stand beside her, reaching out a hand. She took it, her fingers cold against his but steady. As he pulled her to her feet, he kept his gaze locked with hers. “When we stand before him, I want him to see you as I do: someone who has made difficult choices, someone with a past she did not entirely choose, but someone who can offer more to this kingdom than fear and distrust.”

She lowered her gaze, and he squeezed her hand lightly. “I know the road ahead will be hard, but you’ve already come so far,” he murmured. “You’ve changed how I see the world, how I see the very heart of Gaelica’s enemies… and I want to show him, to show them all, that we don’t have to see one another as enemies anymore.”

He turned and released her hand, moving toward his pack, gathering the last of his things. As he fastened the buckles, he let his mind drift to the life she might have at the castle, if Cathal were to accept her, if the people could come to trust her. It was possible, he told himself. He knew the risks, the lingering whispers of rebellion that could follow them both if he openly defended her, but he would bear them, all of them, if it meant giving her this chance.

Once they were both ready, he led her down the narrow stairs of the inn and into the brightening morning air. The innkeeper had readied their horses, and the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke hung in the air, bringing him back to countless early mornings spent training in the countryside, preparing for battles he had never wanted to fight. Now, as he looked at Meya, he knew he was fighting for something greater, something far more precious than land or loyalty. He was fighting for the hope of a future unmarked by fear.

As they mounted their horses, Aidan turned to her, unable to keep a gentle smile from playing across his lips. “Let’s not keep my father waiting,” he said with a faint gleam of mischief, a rare lightness in his voice. He nudged his horse forward, the path ahead winding through rolling hills that would soon give way to the high stone walls of Gaelica’s capital.

The ride was quiet, yet peaceful, the scenery shifting around them as the sun rose higher, casting long shadows that stretched across the landscape. Aidan stole a few glances her way, noting how the sunlight caught the stray strands of her hair, how her eyes scanned the land around her with a mix of wonder and apprehension. She had never seen Gaelica this way, he realized—not as a soldier on a mission but as someone free to see the kingdom for what it truly was: a land as complex and conflicted as the people who called it home.

As they neared the city gates, Aidan felt the pulse of excitement mingling with his nerves. He would show her to his father, not merely as a choice he had made but as a vision he held for Gaelica’s future. They had clashed over many decisions in recent years, he and Cathal, and though Aidan had earned his father’s respect in war, he knew his peace-loving ideals often seemed soft and misguided to the seasoned king. But Aidan would not back down. He would present Meya as she truly was—capable of change, willing to fight for something greater than herself.

When the gates came into view, Aidan slowed his horse and drew up alongside her. “Are you ready?” he asked, his tone gentle, but his gaze steady. She gave him a brief nod, her shoulders held high despite the hint of uncertainty in her eyes.

As they rode through the gates, Aidan’s mind flashed to the throne room, to his father’s stern face, the council’s watchful eyes. He wanted them to see her resolve, to understand that she was not defined by the blade she once wielded for Gaelica’s enemies but by the loyalty and purpose she had discovered since then.

Guiding her through the winding streets toward the palace, he leaned slightly closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Remember,” he said, “this is your home now, if you wish it. No one can take that from you unless you let them.” He straightened, his face set with a quiet determination. He would defend her right to a future here, not just to his father but to all of Gaelica, for he knew that if peace was to come, it would come through acts like this, through the courage to see past what they had been told and into the hearts of those they had once feared.

As they approached the grand doors of the castle, Aidan dismounted, glancing up at the high stone walls before turning to her. “My father will see the truth in you,” he said firmly. “He’ll see the courage it took for you to stand here, and he’ll understand that this kingdom could use more of it.”

With a last look of reassurance, he stepped forward, the guards pulling the doors open before them. He held out his arm, guiding her inside, toward a future he hoped would bring not just peace to Gaelica, but peace to her weary soul.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

Meya felt his absence the moment he sat up, and where there had been warmth and security, there was now the early morning chill, raising little bumps along her arm. Her initial thought was she had said the wrong thing. Stifling a yawn, she stretched once before sitting up. It was the first morning since they had left that she’d woken up without stiff muscles, and while she knew they were both capable of sleeping in uncomfortable positions for prolonged amounts of time, she was grateful the storm had driven them inside. Reaching up, she ran her fingers through her hair, trying her best to comb the tangles out of it.

The sound of her name on his lips drew her attention to him, uncertainty registering on her face at what might come next. He’d said nothing since she’d spoken, and she felt as though she were standing on unsteady ground. As he approached, her stomach grew tight, but relaxed when he held his hand out to her. The calloused roughness was gentle as he wrapped his hand around hers, and she stood facing him, taking in what he had to say.

“...that we don’t have to see one another as enemies anymore.”

“Your father has every reason to mistrust me, Your Highness.” She spoke calmly, as though she expected it. At least, at first. “And there are still many enemies that serve the South Seas flag, so I cannot imagine that even if he is willing to accept me, anyone should lower their guard against those enemies.”

Now fully awake and free from whatever spell laying in bed with him had put her under, Meya was efficient in preparing for the remainder of their journey. Pulling her back into the simple, single braid she favored, she was grateful to find another pair of pants and a tunic. She’d half expected Hildy to try to roll up an evening dress and hide it among the other travel clothes.

Within the hour, they had mounted and were both riding with purpose back towards the heart of the kingdom. The closer they rode, the more anxious Meya felt, uncertain what path this new choice would open her up to. She hadn’t heard any news on Ronin and the other soldiers since Aidan had informed her of his father’s agreement to return them. It had been a couple weeks by now. Had they reached the borders yet? The Keep was another fortnite from the border to Gaelica. In a matter of weeks, her uncle would choose what action to take in regard to her. Meya knew that. Staying here wouldn’t be a simple choice on her behalf. As far as the South Seas was concerned at this time, she was here as a prisoner. Someone who had negotiated to return her uncle’s greatest weapon back to him. While she had some time, that time would quickly draw to a close.

“No one can take that from you unless you let them.”

Meya’s blue eyes shifted to him when he spoke those words, almost as if he had read her thoughts. His optimism was a thing to behold, she realized. There was no expectation on her part that his father would see her in the same light, and he truly had no reason to. If she were the king, she wouldn’t trust her. For that matter, Meya wasn’t entirely certain she trusted herself. Right now the choice felt easy. Well, as easy as it could feel. There was no immediate threat staring her in the face, and when the inevitable eventually came, Meya didn’t have faith that she wouldn’t revert back to the life in which she’d been born.

Arriving back at the castle, her eyes trailed up the height of the stone towers, feeling suddenly quite small, but knowing she could not allow that to show through. Dismounting, she straightened her back, her chin tilted up just a hair, attempting to convey more courage than she felt. When Aidan offered his arm, she hesitated for a moment before taking it. He led her through the halls, and she could feel the eyes of the guards on the two of them. As she surreptitiously glanced at them, she found a myriad of facial expressions, ranging from indifference to curiosity to pure loathing. A reminder that they likely knew who she was and from where she came. Did they think less of Adrian because he was choosing to associate with her?

She didn’t have long to ponder the thought before they arrived at two imposing wooden doors. Her body tensed up again, that same rigid resolve she’d held herself with in the beginning with Aidan returning. The features on her face became inscrutable as the doors of the council room opened. This was Aidan’s territory, and she waited until he moved forward to follow suit.

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan walked ahead with purpose, his boots echoing across the polished stone floor of the council chamber. The air inside was heavy with expectation. The large, vaulted ceilings of the room made every movement feel magnified, every breath a whisper of significance. At the far end of the chamber sat King Cathal, his father, on the high-backed throne of Gaelica. Aidan could see the familiar lines of strength and weariness etched into his father’s face, a lifetime of rule and sacrifice condensed into that resolute expression.

Cathal’s gaze was already on them. It was not a glare of hostility, but a look of tempered patience. Aidan knew that look—it was the same one his father wore when dealing with precarious matters, moments where a single misstep could unravel weeks or even years of careful planning. Today, that gaze was fixed squarely on Meya.

Aidan’s steps slowed as he reached the base of the dais. He heard the murmurs of the councilors seated in their semicircle around the throne, their voices barely audible yet brimming with unspoken judgment. He felt Meya pause behind him, sensing her resolve, her tension. Without turning, he allowed his voice to fill the room.

“Father.” He inclined his head in a gesture of respect, his voice steady but firm. “I’ve returned as promised, and I bring with me someone who deserves to be heard.”

Cathal regarded his son, his piercing eyes shifting briefly to Meya before returning to Aidan. “You’ve always been one to bring me challenges, Aidan,” the king said, his deep voice carrying authority but tinged with the faintest trace of amusement. “This one, I suspect, is no different.”

Aidan allowed himself a faint smile, though it faded as quickly as it came. “Perhaps. But it is a challenge that carries the weight of our kingdom’s future.”

One of the councilors, a thin, sharp-eyed man named Brannon, leaned forward in his seat. “Your Highness, if I may,” he interjected, his tone cautious yet pointed. “Is this not the woman who was captured leading a raid against our supply lines just months ago? A woman of the South Seas, sworn enemy to Gaelica?”

The murmur of the councilors grew louder at Brannon’s words. Aidan squared his shoulders, his expression hardening. “She was,” he admitted, letting the words settle before continuing. “But she is also the woman who has chosen to reject that life, who has proven through her actions that she seeks a different path—one that could serve Gaelica, not harm it.”

Cathal leaned back slightly in his throne, his fingers steepled as he studied Aidan. “And you trust her?” he asked, his voice calm but probing.

Aidan turned to fully face his father. “I do,” he said without hesitation. “Not blindly, and not without reason. I’ve seen the choices she’s made, the risks she’s taken. She is not the same woman who fought against us. She has shown courage, integrity, and a willingness to stand for something greater than herself.”

The king’s gaze shifted to Meya for a long moment, then back to his son. “Courage and integrity are admirable,” he said, his tone neutral. “But trust is a fragile thing, Aidan, especially when it comes to matters of loyalty and survival. What makes you so certain that her change of heart is genuine?”

Aidan took a step closer to the throne, his voice lowering but gaining intensity. “Because I’ve seen her humanity, Father. I’ve seen her struggle with the weight of her past, the pain of choices made in desperation. She could have escaped or betrayed me countless times, but she didn’t. She chose to stay, to help, to prove that she could be more than the enemy we once thought her to be.”

Another councilor, a stout woman named Elira, frowned as she addressed Aidan. “And what guarantee do we have that she will not betray us in the future? Words are easily spoken, but loyalty is harder to secure.”

Aidan’s jaw tightened, but he remained composed. “There are no guarantees,” he admitted. “But the same could be said of anyone who stands in this room. Loyalty is earned, not forced, and Meya has already begun to earn mine. I ask that we give her the chance to earn yours as well.”

Cathal’s expression remained unreadable as he absorbed his son’s words. The room fell silent, the councilors waiting for the king’s response. Finally, Cathal rose from his throne, descending the steps with measured steps until he stood before Aidan.

“You speak with conviction, my son,” Cathal said, his voice low but firm. “You always have. It’s one of your greatest strengths—and perhaps your greatest flaw.” His gaze flicked briefly to Meya again before returning to Aidan. “You see the potential in people, even when others do not. But potential is not always enough to protect a kingdom.”

Aidan met his father’s gaze head-on, his voice unwavering. “No, it’s not. But it’s a start. And if we refuse to see that potential, we risk losing something far greater than our fear of betrayal. We risk losing the chance for peace.”

Cathal studied his son for a long moment, his expression softening ever so slightly. “You believe this woman can help Gaelica, that she can become more than what she was.”

“I do,” Aidan said firmly. “And I’m willing to stake my own honor, my own life, on that belief.”

The murmurs in the chamber grew louder at his declaration, but Cathal raised a hand, silencing them. He turned to Meya, his gaze appraising but not unkind. “If you truly wish to serve this kingdom, you will find your chance to prove it. But know this—Gaelica does not suffer traitors lightly. If you falter, if you betray the trust my son has placed in you, the consequences will be swift and absolute.”

Aidan felt a surge of relief tempered by the weight of responsibility. His father’s words were not an outright acceptance, but they were enough. A beginning.

Cathal turned back to Aidan, his expression softening just enough for his son to notice. “You’ve always had a way of finding light in the darkest places, Aidan,” he said quietly. “Let us hope that light guides us now.”