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Kingdom of Gaelica (closed for QuirkyQuill)

Aidan drew a sharp breath, feeling the weight of Meya’s gaze. The intensity of her question, the rawness in her voice, struck him like a blade. He knew that no half-truths or evasions would suffice now. She deserved the truth - all of it.

“A few days,” Aidan said at last, his voice low but steady. He met her eyes, refusing to shy away from her anger or her hurt. “I’ve only known for a few days, Meya. Since I met my father and Magnus in the rose garden.”

The admission hung in the air like a heavy cloud, and Aidan could see the flicker of emotions shifting across her face - disbelief, betrayal, confusion. He stepped closer, careful to keep his movements deliberate, giving her space if she chose to retreat.

“I wanted to tell you,” he continued, his tone edged with frustration - though not at her, but at himself, at the circumstances. “God, I wanted to tell you the moment I learned. But my father swore me to secrecy. He said we needed to wait, to approach this carefully. To ensure your safety, and his. Magnus agreed.”

Aidan paused, his jaw tightening. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he tried to temper the rising frustration with his father’s decisions. “But then you fled the capital,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “You ran, Meya, and I - ” He stopped himself, closing his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts before opening them again, the steel in his gaze softening.

“I realized then that waiting wasn’t an option. You deserved the truth. And the only way to convince you to stay, to stop running, was to bring you to him. To your father.”

He swallowed hard, searching her face for any sign of understanding. “I wanted to tell you the moment I knew. But I... I thought I was protecting you. I see now that I should have trusted you more.”

Aidan stepped closer again, his voice softening, but it carried an unyielding honesty. “I swear to you, Meya, there was no betrayal in my heart. Everything I did, I did to keep you safe. But if you can’t forgive me for keeping this from you, I’ll accept that. Just know that you’ll always have the truth from me now. No matter the cost.”

His hand twitched at his side, aching to reach for her, but he restrained himself. This choice - whether to let him in or push him away - was hers alone.​
 
Meya's brows furrowed for a moment, a thought tugging at the corner of her mind. The rose garden. She had met him outside when he had come from the Rose garden. Closing her eyes for a moment, she let out a slow breath, her shoulders lowering and her fists loosening slightly. Opening her eyes, she walked over to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace and sank into one, suddenly looking as though she had been sapped of all energy. Reaching up, she brought both hands up to her face, still pale and drawn, and buried her face for a moment, rubbing her eyes in a very unladylike fashion.

She finally looked up at him, his tall stature seemingly even taller from her vantage point. Against the high back chair and the wan look of her, Meya looked uncommonly fragile.

“That was yesterday.” Her voice came out strained when she spoke. “You were in the Rose garden yesterday, Aidan.”

Meya dropped the formality of his title, two words she had clung to minutes before in an effort to reestablish an emotional disconnect from him. The last day had felt like an eternity, and she felt her own confusion about everything that had spilled in around them both.

“I wasn't running from you.” The world around her felt heavy, and she, on the cusp of drowning beneath the weight of it. Life had been simpler in the South Seas. Yes, it was difficult and dangerous, but with her heart buried beneath a mountain of rubble intentionally stacked to keep the light out, it was easier not to feel. Right now, she preferred numbness to the pain coursing through her. Emptiness she could navigate as assuredly as a seafaring captain on a clear night. This? This was going to break her.

“I want to hate him.” I thought I was going to have to hate you. Her thoughts remained silent as she stared at the fire in front of her, that emptiness still glassing her red rimmed eyes.
 
Aidan stood still, his hands at his sides, his jaw tense as Meya’s words cut through the thick silence between them. The way she said his name - not “Your Highness” or any other formality - was like a thread pulling him closer to her even as the weight of the moment threatened to keep him rooted where he stood.

Her admission that she hadn’t been running from him struck something deep in his chest. He drew a slow breath, steadying himself. Aidan wasn’t sure if he should respond, if anything he said could ease the storm raging inside her. But the ache in her voice, the fragility of her form against the high-backed chair, demanded more from him than silence.

“You don’t have to,” he said softly, his voice breaking the quiet with a gentleness that felt foreign in the tense air. “Hate him, I mean.”

He stepped forward slowly, his boots scuffing against the worn rug beneath them. He didn’t sit, not yet. Instead, he stood a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, towering but unassuming, like a soldier waiting for permission to speak.

“I know you feel like you should,” Aidan continued. “Maybe you think it’s easier that way - to hold on to anger because it’s simpler than... this.” He gestured faintly to the space between them, as if it embodied the crushing complexity of their situation.

“But hate doesn’t make it easier, Meya. It only makes it heavier.” He looked at her, at the way she stared into the fire as if it held answers neither of them could find.

The words came slower now. “When I was a boy, I thought I hated my father for being distant, for choosing duty over his family. But it wasn’t hate. It was... hurt. Disappointment. And carrying that hurt - letting it fester as hate - only kept me from seeing the man he really was. Flawed, yes, but not beyond redemption.”

Aidan hesitated, his voice softening further. “I can’t tell you how to feel about your father. I wouldn’t even try. But I know this: he’s waited years for the chance to meet you. And no matter what you decide, that won’t change.”

He let his hands drop to his sides and allowed himself to meet her gaze fully, even though she didn’t turn her face from the fire. “I brought you to him because I believed it was your choice to make, not mine, not his. Whatever you decide, I’ll stand by it. And by you.”

Aidan’s words hung in the air like a lifeline, but he made no move to touch her, to draw her out of the fortress of emotions she had built around herself. He would wait. It was all he could do.​
 
Meya felt a fresh wave of emotion drag her underwater, her lungs constricting painfully as she tried to remain calm. The scene with her father had pushed her beyond the bounds of her control in a manner that was unprecedented. Even when she and her mother had been given the news that he would not return, her uncle and mother had both broken to pieces, each in their own way. Meya had been the one to remain stoic through the ordeal, only allowing herself to release what she felt was an acceptable amount of grief, and even then, only in private.

“But hate doesn’t make it easier, Meya. It only makes it heavier.”

The world was heavy. It felt heavier to her than she could bear at the moment. Hot, fresh tears pricked her eyes once again, and she was astounded that there were any still left in her. Making a concerted effort to prevent them from falling, her jaw clenched.

“This isn't the same.” Her voice was nearly swallowed up by the space in the room around them. Leaning back, she pulled her knees up to her chest, her arms wrapping around them. Her mother used to chastise her when she sat like this, and Meya could acknowledge that it was not a posture befitting a lady. It was a habit she'd formed when she felt like she needed to protect herself. “This isn't distance. He pretended to be dead. That decision altered the entire course of our lives. It killed my mother. It…”

Trailing off, Meya felt her throat squeeze against her words. Falling into silence, she began counting the individual flames that lapped at the firewood. Focusing on the mundane for that brief moment helped her regain control over her voice. “It killed me, but left my heart beating.”

Her gaze finally lifted from the fire to where he stood, her glassy eyes lost as they met his steady green orbs. Those green eyes reached deep inside her, his warmth and steadfastness a beacon to her drowning soul. That tiny little candle inside her that had been snuffed out the night before after blazing wildly sparked slightly as she lost herself in the truthfulness and loyalty staring down at her.

“I-” Swallowing thickly, she tried to start again, the words fighting against every natural instinct in her body. “I need you. I don't know how. I just…need you right now. This is too much.”
 
Aidan’s breath hitched, her words cutting through him like an arrow. “I need you.” The raw vulnerability in her voice shattered any resolve he’d had to keep his distance, to let her process this on her own. She wasn’t just asking—she was pleading, even if she didn’t realize it, and Aidan could no more deny her this than he could stop his own heart from beating.

Slowly, he closed the remaining distance between them. The firelight cast warm flickers across her face, catching the streaks of tears she had fought so valiantly to hide. For a moment, he stood above her, watching as she folded in on herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees like armor against a world that had hurt her too deeply.

Without a word, he knelt down beside the chair, reaching out with a deliberate gentleness that belied the turmoil raging inside him. His hands brushed against hers first, loosening her rigid grip around her knees. Then he eased her forward, drawing her out of that defensive curl and into his arms.

As soon as she was against him, Aidan wrapped her up tightly, one arm cradling her shoulders while the other settled protectively around her waist. He could feel the tension in her body, the trembling she tried so hard to suppress. She was fighting to hold herself together, but he wouldn’t let her fight alone.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, meant only for her. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore. I’m here, Meya. I’ve got you.”

He felt her press into his chest, and he adjusted slightly, pulling her closer, shielding her from the weight of the world that seemed determined to crush her. His hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers tangling gently in her hair as he whispered, “Let it out. I’m not going anywhere.”

The sound of her breathing, uneven and strained, filled the quiet space between them. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to say anything else to make it better. Words couldn’t undo what had been done. They couldn’t erase the betrayal she felt, the years of pain and loss. But his presence could give her a safe place to feel it all.

Aidan closed his eyes, resting his chin lightly atop her head. The scent of her hair—faintly floral, like wildflowers after a storm—washed over him. He tightened his hold, his arms a promise as much as a comfort.

When she began to relax, even just a little, her weight settling more fully against him, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His heart ached for her, for all the pain she’d endured, but there was something else too—something fierce and unyielding that took root deep within him.

Whatever happened next, whatever choices she made about her father or her future, Aidan silently vowed to be her anchor. She didn’t have to face this alone, not anymore. Not as long as he drew breath.​
 
Those words had been the most terrifying to ever pass through her lips, and Meya’s anxiety was pushing through her at an alarming pace. The blood pounding through her ears drowned out any other sound in the room, and even though her eyes remained fixed on Aidan approaching her, she wasn't really seeing him. When he moved down to her level, her eyes dropped to her legs as she tried to silently remind herself to breathe. The moment his hands touched hers, the world around her settled. She lifted her eyes back to him, her body offering no resistance as he pulled her from herself.

He moved with that same patient tenderness he always did, and as her back left the chair, her eyes closed as she folded into him. Inhaling the scent of him, she felt the tightness in her chest unfurl slightly. The world still felt heavy, her father's aged face standing in the shadows of the cottage dancing behind her closed eyelids as she really contemplated what the far reaching consequences of that knowledge meant.

As Aidan's arms secured her against his chest, his words moving straight into the middle of her very being, Meya felt the dam crack. The tears fell against his tunic, her fingers balling into the fabric, as she released the hurt and exhaustion. When she’d sobbed in front of her father, it had been fueled by anger, betrayal, hurt. Aidan’s steady heartbeat soothed her, his fingers in her hair reminding her of his gentleness, and the tears she now shed were of abject gratitude for him.

She wasn't hysterical as she'd been in the cottage. That was unlikely to happen again, and as Meya found herself feeling more grounded, she was taken aback by the memory of how she'd behaved. Years had taught her to never act from emotion, and she had done just that.

Her eyes remained closed as she refocused her thoughts to the rise and fall of his broad chest beneath her, counting the rhythm as her breathing gradually fell into unison with his. Aidan had so quickly infiltrated her defenses with his authentic goodness and kindness, and Meya knew she was in very real danger of never recovering. He had nestled himself into her heart and soul, two parts of her very essence she'd long thought lost, and she was losing the will to fight against it. She had lost the will to fight it the moment his lips had touched hers last night, and the first stroke of his hands against the most intimate of spaces had sealed the realization that she could never return to her previous life. With the knowledge of her father, and how he’d played a pivotal role in overthrowing her uncle's hold on Gaelica, Meya knew she was even more of a threat to this kingdom.

Turning her head to the side, she inhaled a shaky breath, the cool air contrasting with the warmth of Aidan's chest. Her muscles felt languid and heavy, and she released her hold on him, sliding her arms around him. She had no idea how long he’d held her like this, both of them on the stone ground.

“I am so tired,” she said, her voice cracking. Every part of her was tired, and when she spoke those four words, it was evident that she was speaking beyond the physical.

*

“Who betrayed her?” Tyrell’s voice was seething, his hardened face punctuated by flaring blue eyes.

“A baker whose service had been levied,” Ronin's voice carried the disgust he still felt at the circumstances surrounding their capture and subsequent release.

“Where is this baker now?” Tyrell turned sharply, his eyes on the tall man who stood staring out at the window.

“I dealt with him accordingly once we were across the border.” Ronin shifted his gaze back to the king, the mercilessness evident in his dark features.

“Did you see her again once they took her away?”

“I did not. Our escort to the border was too great to attempt to escape and retrieve her at the time. All I know is that she negotiated our release by agreeing to remain a prisoner.”

Tyrell considered this, not for the first time. Ronin had returned a couple days prior, and they had gone over the details countless times.

“Would she betray us?” When he asked the question, Tyrell appeared to be talking to himself more than Ronin. Ronin, at ease with the king in a way very few people were, shook his head and walked towards the older man.

“Meya is too intent on living up to her father. She would never jeopardize his ideals or his memory. If anything, she might feed them useless information to establish good will, but she would never be a traitor to your crown.”

“But you think she's gone too soft?” Tyrell looked up at Ronin, his eyes scrutinizing.

“Yes.” Ronin answered with crisp conviction. “She is good at what she does. As a spy, she's incomparable. You will likely never have another who equals her. But, she has too much empathy. It inhibits her ability to do what's necessary to strike fear into the hearts of your people. It was that weakness that got us both captured in the first place.”

Tyrell mulled Ronin's words over. He was at a crossroads. The consequences for allowing oneself to be taken by the enemy were each individual’s to bear on their own. That had always been true of his forces. If one was captured, it was their responsibility to find their freedom, or die trying. Meya was different, though.

“My brother never wanted her to go to battle. He tried to make me vow to never send her. While I couldn't promise him that because I knew she would object, I did promise that I would do my best to keep her from harm.” Tyrell grew silent as he considered his options. Finally, he looked at Ronin with resolution in his eyes. “You have one month to retrieve her, if it can be done without risk to you. I loved my brother, but you are of more value to me, and I will not risk your place here because of her decisions. A royal in the hands of the enemy cannot be ignored. Bring her back, and I will consent to your marriage and she can fulfill her duty to the crown as a noble lady should. At that point, she becomes yours to control. If you cannot safely remove her, then do what is necessary to ensure she cannot betray us.”
 
Aidan held her closer as the weight of her words settled between them. Her exhaustion, both physical and emotional, resonated deeply with him. He felt her body sag against his, her strength momentarily giving out. She had spent too long carrying burdens that no one should bear alone, and now, for the first time, she allowed herself to lean on him fully.

He shifted, gently lifting her from the cold stone floor. Meya didn’t resist as he gathered her into his arms, her head resting against his chest. Aidan cradled her as if she were something fragile and precious, though he knew the iron will that lay beneath her weariness. His steps were careful as he carried her through his private chambers, the soft crackle of the distant fire and the rhythmic echo of his boots the only sounds.

Entering the bed chamber, Aidan pushed the door closed behind them with his foot, his arms never leaving her. The room was warm and dim, lit by the glow of another fireplace. The bed was neatly made, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Crossing the room, Aidan lowered her onto the plush mattress with the same care he would handle glass.

“Meya,” he said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, tired but trusting. “Rest now. You need it.” He didn’t wait for a response, knowing she might fight the notion of surrendering to sleep. Instead, he slid onto the bed beside her, propping himself up for a moment to adjust the blankets around her before settling down fully.

As he lay on his side, Aidan wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her back against him. His other hand rested lightly on her arm, his touch both protective and comforting. She fit perfectly against him, her smaller frame nestled into his, and he could feel her breath begin to steady as the tension in her body melted away.

“I’m here,” he murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a declaration but a vow, spoken as much to himself as to her. He closed his eyes, allowing the steady rhythm of her breathing and the warmth of her presence to lull him into a light, watchful sleep.
​

Aidan awoke just before dawn, the faint light of morning filtering through the heavy curtains. Meya was still asleep in his arms, her breathing deep and even. He watched her for a moment, the peaceful expression on her face a stark contrast to the storm she had weathered the night before.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he eased himself out of the bed. He pulled the blankets up to her shoulders and lingered for a moment, brushing a light kiss against her hair. Then, he straightened and left the room quietly, signaling to the guards outside his door to remain silent.

Down the hall, Aidan found one of the castle’s head servants. “Prepare breakfast,” he instructed, keeping his voice low but firm. “Something light but nourishing, and enough for two. Bring it to my chambers when it’s ready.”

The servant nodded, bowing before disappearing down the corridor. Aidan returned to his room, pausing to glance back at Meya. She remained as he had left her, still wrapped in the comfort of sleep. For now, she was safe, and that was all that mattered.

What he couldn’t know was that beyond the walls of his kingdom, plans were already in motion—plans that threatened to upend everything he had fought to build with her.​
 
Meya’s body slowly unraveled in Aidan's arms, her jaw muscles eventually releasing the tension. As she focused on the rise and fall of his chest beneath her, she felt the muscles in her shoulders loosen. She remained still, the world around her beginning to fade as she started to drift off to sleep. Her senses reawakened when Aidan moved, her hands tightening slightly against his tunic as he stood. Opening her eyes, she looked up, her gaze lingering on the bottom of his jaw as he moved with purpose.

Slowly, her eyelids drifted closed, a testament to her trust in the man who held her so effortlessly. As he laid her down and remained beside her, she curled her body into his. The fact that she was still in her traveling clothes did nothing to prevent her from sinking into a dreamless sleep.

When her eyes opened next, Meya felt rested in a way she wasn't certain she ever had. For a moment, she lay still, her eyes on the rumpled bedding beside her where she knew Aidan had been. It took a few minutes before yesterday's events unfolded in her mind, and the reality of the situation struck her.

He’s alive.

Her father was alive, and had been all these years. He had turned against his own brother and helped Gaelica win their independence. What did that mean for her? Even when she'd agreed to stay in Gaelica and provide insight into her uncle's tactics, she'd been certain to share things that wouldn't label her a traitor. The information she’d divulged was information any decent spy would have been able to acquire, but probably would not have focused their efforts on uncovering.

What her father would have shared to turn the tide of war would have been of much higher use.

Footsteps caught her attention and she heard Aidan's familiar gait against the stone. Rolling over in bed, she took in his strong frame silhouetted against the fireplace. Aidan was another enigma to her. He had managed to not only see behind her armor, but penetrate it in a way Meya knew was dangerous. He hadn't just become a man she knew and felt strongly about. He had become part of her foundation for the woman she wanted to be, and Meya knew that foundation was weak and cracked. He lit up her energy in a way nobody else had, and the idea of what would happen if that foundation was ripped out of her life filled her with more terror than the end of a blade.

Sitting up in bed, she reached up and pulled the leather strap holding what remained of her braid free. Using her fingers, she untangled her blonde mass before standing up. Walking to the fireplace, she wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze on the lapping flames.

“I do not know who I have been loyal to all these years: my uncle or my father.” Her voice was etched in that first morning husk, but her tone was stronger than it had been the night before. “Either way, it all feels like a lie. I think I need to find out what I actually believe in, independent of either of them.”
 
Aidan paused in the doorway, his expression softening at the sight of her standing by the fire. Her words hung in the air, heavy and uncertain, and he felt a pang of sympathy for the turmoil she was facing. He hadn’t spoken a word yet, but the way her shoulders were pulled in and her arms wrapped around herself told him that she was struggling with the weight of everything—her father’s betrayal, the loyalty to a cause that had defined her for so long, and now, the complex feelings she had for him.

He wasn’t sure what she needed from him at that moment. He could offer words, but he knew well enough that words rarely solved what Meya was grappling with. She needed space to process, and yet he couldn’t help but feel a deep desire to close the distance between them, to offer comfort in a way only he could. But he had learned, over time, that comforting Meya wasn’t about providing easy solutions. It was about being there, present, without pushing. He wasn’t sure if he could provide the clarity she sought, but he could stand beside her as she figured it out.

“Sometimes,” he began, his voice low but steady, “it’s not about the people we’ve been loyal to. It’s about who we are when we stand alone. The choices we make in the absence of influence from anyone else.” He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving her, his voice reflecting the care he felt for her. “You don’t have to know everything right now, Meya. It’s okay to not have all the answers. All that matters is what you believe in—now, here, with the man who has nothing but his heart to offer you.”

His gaze softened as he neared her, wanting to reach out but giving her the space she seemed to need.

“I can’t pretend to know what it’s like, to be torn between loyalties and betrayal. But I do know this—whatever path you choose, whatever truth you come to, I will stand by you.” His voice was unwavering, as if giving her this promise was the only certainty he could offer in a world that had seemed anything but.

Meya didn't turn to face him directly, but he could see the tension in her posture, the way she held herself as though waiting for something, or someone, to tell her what to do next.

“I think,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her, “that the weight you carry isn't yours to bear alone. If you need time, you have it. If you need to be angry, be angry. Whatever you need, Meya, I’m here.”

He moved closer, standing just a few feet behind her now, the heat from the fire warming the space between them. He wasn’t sure what else to say. Words seemed insufficient to convey the depth of what he felt, the urgency of his desire to help her. But he knew he had to let her work through this on her own terms. Still, that didn’t stop him from stepping forward, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Whenever you’re ready, I’m here,” Aidan whispered.

His presence, his touch, was a quiet promise to stand by her, no matter how much her heart and mind struggled to find their way in the wake of the storm that had unraveled her. He couldn’t offer her an escape from the weight of her past, but he would give her the one thing she needed most in this moment: the space to heal, and the assurance that, regardless of where her journey took her, she wouldn’t be walking it alone.

He stood there for a moment longer, allowing her the room to breathe, to think. There were no words left to say—not yet.​
 
“You don’t have to know everything right now, Meya. It’s okay to not have all the answers.”

“I feel as though I know nothing any longer.” A sardonic smile crossed her face, though he couldn't see it from behind her. Meya found that the more she learned in this world, the less certain she felt about it. Part there yearned for the younger her. She may have been less knowledgeable, but she had certainly felt like she stood on firmer ground.

When the warm pressure of his hand rested on her shoulder, Meya closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she stepped backwards just enough to lean into him. His broad chest against her back and the fire in front of her worked together to make her feel cocooned.

“Thank you,” she replied softly. Reaching up, she laid her hand on top of his, turning her head so he could see the gratitude in her eyes.

A knock sounded at the door, and she turned as a servant rolled in a cart of food. He worked quietly to set up the table, leaving a note on the table with Aiden's name on it.

As the smell of breakfast curled its way across the air, Meya’s stomach rumbled loudly enough she couldn't ignore it. The previous day had been so chaotic that it hadn't occurred to her until this moment that she hadn't eaten. Squeezing Aidan's hand, she released him and made her way to the table, hoping that a full stomach after a long sleep would help her begin to untangle the situation.

The note, written in Cathal’s hand, was one sentence:

Meet me in my study after breakfast.
 
Aidan sat across from Meya at the small table in his chambers, the light of the morning sun filtering through the heavy drapes. The aroma of fresh bread, smoked meats, and steaming tea filled the room, but Aidan's mind was only half on the meal before him. He watched Meya as she ate, her movements unhurried but deliberate, as if she were piecing herself back together with every bite. It was a quiet moment between them, a respite from the chaos that seemed to cling to their lives.

He set his fork down, his appetite dulled by the note resting on the corner of the table. He knew his father well enough to know this was no casual summons. Cathal's study was where strategies were devised, alliances forged, and demands made. Whatever awaited him there would undoubtedly be important—and likely not to his liking.

But for now, Aidan pushed that thought aside. He leaned forward, his voice soft but firm. “Meya, I need you to remember something.” His hand reached across the table, resting palm-up in invitation. She hesitated for a moment before placing her hand in his. “No matter what happens—no matter what decisions I have to make—I will always be here for you.”

She didn’t reply immediately, but the faint flicker of something soft and unguarded in her eyes told him she understood. That was enough. When they finished their meal, Aidan stood and walked to her side, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised, his voice low and steady. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he leaned in again, this time brushing a tender kiss against her lips. “Always.”

He left her there, the warmth of her presence still lingering in his chest as he made his way through the stone corridors of the castle. The note had been brief, but its weight felt heavy in his pocket. The journey to Cathal’s study felt longer than usual, the servants and guards he passed nodding respectfully but keeping their distance. When Aidan entered the study, his father was already seated behind the massive oak desk, a place that always seemed to magnify his authority. Cathal’s sharp, calculating eyes lifted from the parchment in his hands, fixing on Aidan with the intensity of a hawk.

“Sit,” Cathal commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite him. Aidan obeyed, the tension in the room palpable.

For a moment, Cathal said nothing, simply studying his son as if weighing him against some unseen measure. Finally, he spoke, his tone even but carrying the unmistakable edge of disapproval. “I’ve heard things, Aidan. About Meya.”

Aidan tensed but didn’t flinch. “What about her?”

Cathal leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. “The servants talk. They say she’s spent the last two nights in your chambers.” His eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a steely quality. “Is it true?”

Aidan met his father’s gaze unflinchingly. “She was exhausted and needed a safe place to rest. That’s all.”

Cathal’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable. “You’re the heir to the throne, Aidan. Your actions—and your associations—are scrutinized by everyone in this castle and beyond. If you allow yourself to become entangled with a woman like her, you risk not only your reputation but the stability of this kingdom.”

“I’m well aware of my responsibilities, Father,” Aidan replied, his voice firm but controlled. “But Meya is not some ‘entanglement.’ She’s a person I care deeply about, and I won’t abandon her just to avoid gossip.”

Cathal’s gaze hardened. “You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment. That ends now.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering as he delivered his next words with calculated precision. “I’ve arranged a meeting for you. Tomorrow, you will dine with Lady Eira, the daughter of Lord Cormac from my war council. She’s intelligent, poised, and from a family whose loyalty to this crown is unquestionable. She is a match befitting the heir to Gaelica.”

Aidan’s jaw tightened, his stomach sinking. “You arranged this without speaking to me first?”

“You leave me little choice,” Cathal said sharply. “You’re the crown prince, Aidan. Your duty is to the kingdom, not to a woman who brings nothing to the table but complications and whispers of scandal.”

Aidan stood abruptly, his fists clenched at his sides. “Meya is worth more than any political alliance, and you know it. She’s risked her life for this kingdom, for me. I won’t dismiss her like she’s some... some pawn in your game.”

Cathal rose to his feet as well, his presence towering despite his age. “You forget yourself, boy. You think you can afford to make decisions based on love and loyalty? This throne is bigger than you, bigger than me. Your duty is to ensure its survival, and that means making sacrifices.”

Aidan’s chest heaved with restrained anger, but he forced himself to stay calm. “And what about my happiness, Father? Am I to sacrifice that as well?”

Cathal’s expression softened, if only slightly. “You think I don’t know what it means to sacrifice happiness for duty? I’ve done it every day of my life. You’ll do the same, because that’s what’s required of you.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the tension between them crackling like a storm about to break. Finally, Aidan stepped back, his voice quieter but no less resolute. “I’ll meet with her. But don’t mistake my compliance for agreement. My heart is not a piece on your chessboard.”

Without waiting for a response, Aidan turned and left the study, his mind a whirlwind of conflict. Duty or love—one would demand the sacrifice of the other, and Aidan wasn’t sure which he was willing to lose.​
The days that followed were both a solace and a torment for Aidan. Each moment spent with Meya was a reprieve from the weight of his duties, but the secret he carried felt like a stone in his chest. He had done his best to hide it, masking his unease behind soft smiles and steady words. Yet, even as they shared quiet hours walking through the castle gardens or sitting by the fire in his chambers, Aidan couldn’t shake the knowledge of what lay ahead.

He hadn't told her.

At first, he justified the silence to himself—he didn’t want to ruin their time together, didn’t want to see the hurt in her eyes when she learned the truth. But as the eve of the meeting with Lady Eira approached, his excuses began to feel more like cowardice. He was a prince, a warrior, a man who had faced down enemies on the battlefield. Why, then, did the thought of speaking to Meya about this leave him feeling like a boy too small for his father’s armor?

The sun had long since set, and the castle was quiet save for the occasional muffled sounds of servants moving through the halls. Aidan sat alone in his chambers, staring into the flickering flames of the hearth. His mind was a tumult of emotions—guilt, anger, fear, and something deeper, something more fragile. He had promised Meya that he would always be there for her, but how could he keep that promise when his father’s expectations loomed so large over his life?

The knock on the door was soft but unmistakable. Aidan’s heart sank. She had come, as she often did in the evenings, and for a fleeting moment, he considered sending her away. But no—he couldn’t avoid this any longer.

“Come in,” he called, his voice quieter than he intended.

When Meya entered, her presence was as steadying as it was heartbreaking. She moved with a quiet grace, her expression softer than it had been in weeks. It struck Aidan then just how much he had come to depend on her—not just for companionship, but for the clarity she seemed to bring to his world.

He rose from his seat, gesturing for her to sit, but he didn’t join her immediately. Instead, he walked to the window, staring out into the darkness. The city below was alight with torches, the faint hum of life drifting up from the streets. He took a deep breath, his hands gripping the stone windowsill.

“I need to tell you something,” he said at last, his voice low but steady. He turned to face her, and the look in her eyes nearly undid him. Trust. That’s what he saw there—trust and something deeper, something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“There’s been... an arrangement,” he began, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “My father has arranged a meeting for me with Lady Eira. She’s the daughter of one of his war council members.”

He saw the flicker of confusion in her eyes, the slight tension in her posture, but he forced himself to continue. “He intends for it to be more than just a meeting. It’s his way of securing an alliance—a marriage that would strengthen the crown.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Aidan could feel the weight of her gaze, could see the questions in her eyes that she hadn’t yet voiced. He stepped closer, his expression imploring.

“I didn’t want this,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain of his emotions. “You have to know that. I fought him on it, but...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You know what kind of man my father is. Once his mind is set, it’s like trying to stop the tide.”

He reached for her hand, desperate for her to understand. “Meya, this doesn’t change anything. Not for me. You are what matters to me. I... I don’t know what will come of this meeting, but I need you to know where my heart lies. It’s with you.”

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. For the first time in years, Aidan felt truly exposed. Whatever happened next, whatever she said or didn’t say, would determine the course of his life as much as any battle ever had.​
 
The following days were uniquely quiet for Meya. She hadn't ever had a time where she could just be, and the South Seas spy wasn't entirely certain if she liked the feeling or not. On the one hand, she hadn't realized just how worn down and exhausted she was from years of living in a hyper vigilant state. The rest she'd had in Gaelica reached her on every level, but while it seemed to revive her in some areas, it made her feel more exhausted in others. She had never gone this long without training and her body was starting to feel tight from the lack of exercise. How her cousin managed to live like this, preening on a throne, all the time was beyond her.

Time with Aiden was a balm to her solitude. She'd grown comfortable with their time together, sharing stories with him of her childhood spent in The Keep. Reliving the time she and a stable boy had accidentally spooked an entire encampment of horses, and the time she and her cousins had brought a chandelier crashing down in the middle of a ball had reminded her of a life she’d forgotten. Young Meya had been impish and full of life, somehow earning a soft spot under uncle's unyielding hardness and her father's amused patience.

Magnus. Meya had walked to the edge of the trees that surrounded the cottage several times over the last few days. She had remained unseen, staring at the front door as if trying to make a decision. So far, the only decision she’d be capable of making was to maintain her distance. She wasn't ready to face him yet.

When Hildy entered her bed chamber that night, there was a tension in the woman's jaw and dissatisfaction in her steely eyes.

“Hildy? Is everything well with you?” Standing up, Meya walked over to the partition she dressed behind as the other woman gathered a chemise. Hildy did not speak until she'd begun unlacing Meya’s day dress.

“I have been instructed to relocate you to a different room tomorrow morning. Across the castle.” The woman's voice was clipped when she spoke, conveying her disapproval with the decision.

“Oh.” Meya responded with one word, confused as to why Aidan had not said anything when she had seen him earlier in the day. Looking back, she realized he had been a little quieter than normal. Mulling over the information while Hildy helped her escape the bonds of her dress, she remained silent while she finished dressing.

When she knocked on Aidan's door, she had every intention of asking him about the change. Had her safety been compromised? Or was he simply ready to have some space from her? The question died on her lips the moment her blue eyes landed on him. His stress and discomfort was evident the moment he stood. His posture was more tense than usual and when she sat on the edge of the chair, only to be met by him walking away, an uncomfortable feeling settled in her stomach.

Something had happened, of that she could be certain. When he finally turned and spoke, she met his eyes with patience and neutrality, despite the gnawing feeling in her stomach.

“It’s his way of securing an alliance—a marriage that would strengthen the crown.”

Ice filled her veins as she processed his words, but she nodded slowly. The pieces were fitting together quickly because it made political and strategic sense. If there were things Meya understood without fail in this world it was decisions being made because of politics and strategy. She'd watched hundreds of choices made because of strategy, alliances and marriages, and she had stood by with indifference. Right now, she felt sick to her stomach, but she couldn't show that.

“You know what kind of man my father is. Once his mind is set, it’s like trying to stop the tide.”

She did know what sacrifices had to be made for the good of a crown. This time, she was the one being sacrificed for the sake of Gaelica. For the second time. The thought cut into her like a knife driven into her back. This was the second time she had been deemed expendable for the sake of a kingdom to which she did not belong. Her gaze fell to his hand as he took hers, and she couldn't feel the warmth and comfort of the action that she normally felt. Her mind was trying to process the situation, which seemed to be struggling because of the aching feeling that had clawed through her heart. In seconds, she had visions of Aidan walking through the gardens with some unknown woman's arm tucked in his. The two of them sitting in the chairs by the fire in his chambers. Aiden's hands guiding this woman down onto his bed the way he’d done with her nights before. The idea of it made her feel nauseated, even though rationally she knew he wasn't hers to keep. He never had been.

Ronin’s voice echoed in her memory.

“You're too soft, Meya. You can't trust anyone.”

Swallowing, she kept her eyes on their hands. Doing what she knew how to do, Meya neatly tucked her emotions back in the space she had kept them hidden for so many years. When she did eventually speak, her voice had taken on that calm, detached tone she'd mastered all those years ago.

“Your heart may lay wherever you want it to, Aidan. It's your actions that decide who you choose to be.” There was no accusation in her voice, only calm steadiness. She gently pulled her hand back from his, needing the physical distance in order to keep her feelings obediently hidden. She looked up at him, her neutral mask back in place after a lengthy absence.

“I understand.” In spite of the lack of emotion in her voice, Meya's eyes conveyed that she was speaking the truth. “I do. I also now know why I am being moved across the castle tomorrow. You cannot court your future princess with a random woman residing in the bed chamber that is intended for your future bride.” Her chest began to tighten, and Meya knew she could no longer sit here and maintain her facade.

“I should leave you to your plans.” She stood, her eyes downcast before she forced herself to look at him. Hurting Aidan wasn't something she wanted to do in pursuit of controlling her own reaction to this situation. After all, she'd known that her place here could never be permanent. She didn't belong here. The problem now was that she didn't belong anywhere. “I hope she's the perfect fit for your father.”
 
Aidan remained seated long after the door closed behind her, staring blankly at the space where Meya had stood moments before. The sound of her words echoed in his mind, each one a precise cut that seemed to hollow him out further. He had anticipated her anger, even her pain, but not this—her calm detachment, her retreat behind the carefully constructed walls she had lowered only for him.

He had seen her struggle to trust, to let herself be vulnerable, and now he feared he had undone all of that progress. Aidan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, running a hand down his face as the fire crackled in the silence.
“Your heart may lay wherever you want it to, Aidan. It's your actions that decide who you choose to be.”

Those words had struck him harder than any blade ever could. She hadn’t accused him of betrayal, hadn’t shouted or pleaded for him to defy his father. Instead, she had handed him the weight of his own choices, leaving him to grapple with the man he had promised her he would be.

He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly. Every fiber of his being screamed against the course that had been laid out for him. He didn’t want Lady Eira, didn’t care about alliances forged through marriage. What he wanted—what he needed—was Meya. And yet, his duty as heir loomed over him like a shadow, a constant reminder that his desires had always been secondary to the needs of the crown.

Rising abruptly, Aidan paced the length of the room, his boots thudding against the stone floor. He replayed the conversation in his mind, the way she had pulled her hand back, the way she had looked at him with a mixture of understanding and resignation. He had hurt her. There was no denying that. And yet, the worst part was knowing that she was right—his actions would decide who he chose to be.

He stopped at the window, gripping the stone sill as he gazed out at the darkened castle grounds. The night was quiet, the world beyond the glass serene in a way that mocked the turmoil within him. Somewhere out there, Meya was likely retreating to the solitude she had mastered so well, and Aidan hated himself for driving her back to it.

The weight of his father’s expectations pressed down on him, but for the first time, Aidan felt something else pushing back against it—a defiance he had buried for too long. His father’s plans had dictated so much of his life, shaping him into a prince who was fit to rule, but at what cost?

He couldn’t imagine a life without Meya. The thought of her leaving, of her being absent from his days and nights, was unbearable. But what could he do? Defy Cathal outright? Cast aside the expectations that had been drilled into him since birth? Aidan’s jaw tightened as he made his way to the fire. The flames danced, their light flickering across the room as if urging him to make a decision. His father’s plans would bring Lady Eira to the castle tomorrow, and the meeting would set the course of his future.
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The grand hall was alive with activity, servants bustling quietly to ensure every detail of the midday meal was flawless. The long table had been set with ornate silverware and fresh flowers, their fragrance mingling with the smell of roasted meats and baked bread. Aidan sat at the head of the table, his posture straight but rigid, his face an impassive mask. He wore the formal attire his father had insisted upon—a dark green doublet embroidered with golden thread, a nod to Gaelica’s colors—but it felt stifling, much like the day itself.

Across from him sat Lady Eira. She was beautiful by conventional standards, with fiery auburn hair that cascaded down her back in perfect curls, emerald eyes that sparkled with intelligence, and a gown of deep crimson that accentuated her figure. Her every movement was deliberate, her smile calculated to charm.

Yet, as she leaned forward, her tone dripping with enthusiasm, Aidan could think only of Meya—of her quiet strength, her sharp wit, the way her presence filled the spaces in his life he hadn’t realized were empty.

“Prince Aidan,” Lady Eira purred, her voice honeyed as she spoke his name with practiced familiarity. “I cannot tell you how honored I am to be here today. When your father mentioned the opportunity to meet you, I confess I hardly slept from the excitement.”

Aidan forced a polite smile, nodding as he picked at the food on his plate. “The honor is mine, Lady Eira. My father has spoken highly of your family’s loyalty to the crown.”

She waved a delicate hand, brushing the compliment aside as if it were unnecessary. “Oh, loyalty is simply the foundation of what we strive for. It’s why I’ve always admired you so deeply.” She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on him. “Your victories on the battlefield, your leadership—it’s clear you are a man of both strength and vision. Gaelica is fortunate to have you.”

He inclined his head slightly, maintaining his composed demeanor, though her words grated against his thoughts. She was saying everything she thought a prince would want to hear, everything his father would have approved of. But it all felt hollow.

“I do what is expected of me,” he said simply, his tone neutral.

“Oh, but you do so much more than that,” she insisted, leaning in closer. “You inspire people, Prince Aidan. That is a rare gift. I can only imagine the great things we could achieve together, side by side.”

Her implication was clear, and Aidan stiffened, his appetite vanishing entirely. He reached for his goblet, taking a sip of wine to stall for time. His thoughts drifted to Meya—how she had sat with him by the fire, her laughter genuine, her stories unfiltered and free of pretension. She had never tried to impress him, and that was what had drawn him to her in the first place.

Lady Eira’s voice pulled him back to the present. “I must confess, I’ve always dreamed of a partnership like this. To support someone as remarkable as you, to share in the burdens and triumphs of ruling—what more could one ask for?”

Her gaze locked onto his, and Aidan felt the weight of her expectation pressing down on him. He set his goblet down with care, his expression unreadable.

“Lady Eira,” he began, his voice steady but lacking warmth, “I appreciate your kind words. Truly. But ruling is a heavy burden, one that requires more than admiration or ambition. It demands understanding, trust, and... honesty.”

Something flickered in her eyes—disappointment, perhaps, though she masked it quickly with a soft laugh. “Of course, Your Highness. And I assure you, I am prepared for all that and more. My loyalty and devotion are unwavering.”

Aidan nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. He could picture Meya now, perhaps wandering the castle gardens, her thoughts her own. He wondered if she was angry with him, if she regretted lowering her defenses to let him in.

Lady Eira mistook his silence for consideration and pressed on. “I know this meeting is but the beginning, but I am hopeful. We could build something extraordinary, Prince Aidan. Together, we could bring Gaelica into an era of unmatched strength and prosperity.”

Aidan’s jaw tightened, though he kept his tone measured. “The crown’s strength comes from the people, Lady Eira. Not from alliances forged at a table.”

Her smile faltered for just a moment before she recovered, leaning back in her chair. “You are wise, Your Highness. I see why your people admire you so.”

Aidan gave a curt nod, signaling the end of the conversation. “I’m afraid I must attend to other matters shortly. It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Lady Eira.”

Her disappointment was subtle but evident. “Of course, Your Highness. I look forward to our next meeting.”

As she rose to leave, Aidan remained seated, staring down at the table once she was gone. The room felt oppressively quiet in her absence, the scent of the meal clinging to the air.

He exhaled slowly, his thoughts returning to Meya once more. Lady Eira might be everything his father wanted in a match, but she could never be what he needed.​
 
Sleep was nothing but a distant dream to the young woman as the sun began to set. She knew better than to even attempt to sleep. The days were growing shorter as they were colder, and as she watched darkness settle over the kingdom, Meya felt numbness overtake her. She was grateful for it. Numbness she could survive with. That overwhelming loss she'd felt the moment the door between them had closed had made it difficult to breathe, and Meya felt Aidan's absence so acutely she didn't even know how to begin to make it stop.

The minutes ticked by, and she moved from the balcony doors to the fireplace. Her restless spirit felt caged, and for the first time in her life, she didn't know what it needed. By the time morning approached, she had decided on her next step. Whether it was the right one or not she could not be certain, but it would lead her somewhere.

When the morning grew later, she made her way from the bedchambers, taking one last look. These rooms had begun to feel comfortable, though she supposed that had more to do with the man who inhabited the space beside her. She understood his need to have her elsewhere, though, as she assumed that decision had come from Aidan. Turning, she closed the door behind her for what she assumed to be the last time.

Hildy had been quieter that morning, offering no argument when Meya had decided on pants for the day. She didn't want to feel confined by a dress. When she stepped outside, she noted the frost that had collected, and she found herself wondering what winter was like for Gaelica. The South Seas could get cold, but because The Keep was so close to the coast, it rarely snowed and remained fairly temperate. Pulling the cloak around her, she lifted the hood over her simple blonde braid.

The walk to her father's cottage was more determined than her previous treks. This morning there would be no hiding in the shadows or lingering behind the trees. When the front door came into view, she walked right up to it and knocked. It took a few moments, but the door opened, and her father stood there. Neither of them said anything to one another, blue eyes meeting blue eyes with wariness.

Magnus moved back, motioning for her to enter. Meya stepped into the cottage, the warmth of the fireplace banishing the cold from the outdoors. When she looked at him, she couldn't tell if he was surprised at her return or if he’d been expecting her.

“May I get you a cup of tea?” His rich voice had that same deep bass to it that she remembered. It was one of the reasons he’d always seemed so large to her.

“Yes, please,” she responded, her own voice tight. Removing her cloak, she hung it on a hook near the door. As Magnus moved around the cottage, Meya looked around, taking in the living space for the first time. Despite the years of his absence, the cottage felt like him. Books were scattered around, and the other possessions all served a purpose. Her father had never been ostentatious, preferring simpler things in life. The cottage had the warmth she'd always associated with him. A bag lay on the floor, partially opened and half packed, which caught her attention. Magnus' footsteps coming closer to her made her turn, and she took the mug from him. Her fingers appreciated the warmth the drink provided.

“Are you leaving?” She asked, her head motioning towards the bag on the floor.

“For a bit.” He responded walking over to the small table and taking one of the two seats. Meya followed him, sitting down across from him. Her eyes studied him, and she noticed a bruise on his cheek that disappeared beneath his beard. She knew she should feel guilty, but hadn't quite reached a level of forgiveness that would allow it.

“Where?” She posed the one word question before taking a sip of the hot liquid. It traveled down her throat, the warmth spreading in her stomach.

“To check on some of the border towns. With winter approaching and their supplies depleted, they are at the greatest risk of freezing and starvation. I'm leading a small convoy with supplies to see them through. We’ve been doing it for weeks, and this should be the last trip for the time being.” Magnus watched her intently, his face as impassable as hers. The two lapsed into silence, the quiet awkward, but not hostile. Eventually, Magnus spoke up again.

“What made you come, Meya?” His tone softened when he asked, his gaze carrying a wary sort of curiosity.

“I-” She started, and then stopped. Did she really know? Tapping her thumbs on the rim of her cup, she looked at him. “I didn't know what else to do.”

The confession felt like a heavy rock settling into the pit of her stomach. Meya always had a plan, and was typically good at thinking on her feet. Right now, she felt completely lost.

“I do not belong here. I cannot go back to The Keep. I,” she swallowed, feeling her numbness give way to a tightness,”I don't belong anywhere.”

When she spoke those words, Magnus’ facial expression broke. He looked pained, and Meya wasn't sure if it was guilt she was seeing or understanding. Swallowing, he nodded as he leaned forward and reached out to take her hands in his. Meya tensed at the long forgotten contact of her father’s calloused hands, but she didn't pull back.

“Meya, you have a place here. With me.” His voice was gruff when he spoke, his fingers tightening around hers. “I know you might not be ready for that. You might not ever want that. But it's here. I am here. I know how you feel. Like you suddenly find yourself a stranger in this world.”

Meya listened to him, her eyes dropping to their hands. Despite her bitterness against him, the little girl buried deep inside her yearned for her father. Nodding slowly, she swallowed, unsure of what to think or feel. Magnus removed his hands from her, returning them to his own cup.

“I would have thought that Prince Aidan would keep you occupied.” He broached the topic tentatively. Meya’s jaw tensed at his statement.

“Prince Aidan is currently courting a political alliance.” Her voice remained even when she spoke, and she immediately took a sip of her tea without looking up.

“I see.” Her father knew just as she did what those courtships meant. Quietness overtook them, but it felt less tense than it had earlier. After several moments, Meya looked up suddenly.

“May I join you? On your convoy?” Meya desperately needed something to do.

*

Several hours later, Meya found herself atop a horse, riding next to her father. She'd returned to the castle and found Hildy, requesting her assistance to pack a bag. Hildy’s eyes had narrowed at the initial request, but seemed to soften when Meya informed her that she only planned to be away for a few days. Her father had told her the last town was only a day and a half ride in good weather, and they did not plan to linger.

Her initial instinct was to just leave. Aidan had enough burdens on him that she didn't want to add another. She knew it would hurt him, though, if she left without any word. He’d already ridden after her once. She didn't want him to feel like she was fleeing.

Looking around the new room to which she’d been assigned, Meya was grateful she wouldn't be sleeping here tonight. It would have been impossible. She'd written a letter to Aidan, requesting Hildy deliver it once the convoy had left. If he managed to catch her and ask her to stay, she wouldn't be able to tell him no. But she couldn't remain at the castle and watch the man who had captured her heart court another woman. It was too painful.

The convoy set out in a direction she had not yet gone, and with purpose in front of her, she was able to appreciate the beauty of their surroundings.
 
The letter arrived at midmorning, delivered by Hildy with her usual efficiency and a cryptic look in her eyes that Aidan did not have the time—or the energy—to interpret. He opened it in the privacy of his study, his brow furrowing as he read Meya’s brief words. She had gone for a few days, though she gave no explanation beyond needing time and space. She assured him she would return, but there was no warmth in her words, no trace of the teasing or wit he had come to expect from her.

The letter felt impersonal, and it gnawed at him. Where had she gone? Why had she not told him in person? These questions echoed in his mind long after he had set the letter aside, and though he tried to focus on the demands of the day, her absence lingered like a shadow at the edge of his thoughts.
​

The next few days passed in a blur of meetings and obligations. The weight of his princely duties pressed down on him with unrelenting force—councils of war, trade negotiations, discussions about the kingdom's winter provisions. And, of course, the meetings with Lady Eira.

Aidan bore it all with stoic determination, but every moment spent in Lady Eira's presence only served to deepen the ache in his chest. She was charming, poised, and undeniably beautiful, and his father, King Cathal, seemed more pleased with each passing interaction.

“Lady Eira has a sharp mind,” Cathal remarked during one of their private conversations. “And she speaks highly of you, Aidan. I sense a genuine admiration in her. This alliance could strengthen Gaelica immeasurably.”

Aidan inclined his head, his expression carefully neutral. “She is a credit to her family, Father. But admiration is not enough to build a partnership.”

Cathal narrowed his eyes, his tone taking on an edge of impatience. “And what would you have, boy? Love? Passion? Those things fade. What remains is loyalty, respect, and shared purpose. Lady Eira offers all of these. Do not let youthful idealism cloud your judgment.”

Aidan said nothing, his jaw tightening as he withheld the retort burning on his tongue. He knew his father’s perspective was rooted in decades of rule, in the cold realities of politics and power. But Aidan could not shake the feeling that his father’s vision of duty demanded a sacrifice he was unwilling to make.
​

The days dragged on, and Meya’s absence became an open wound. Aidan found himself staring at the frost-covered gardens outside his window, wondering if she had ventured in that direction before leaving. He thought of the way she had smiled at him during their late-night conversations, the way her presence had softened the edges of his world. Now, those moments felt like fleeting dreams, slipping further away with each passing day.

Lady Eira’s efforts to engage him did little to distract him. She spoke of court intrigues, of her admiration for Gaelica’s history and its people, of her hopes for the future. Aidan responded with politeness, but his answers were perfunctory, his mind elsewhere.

“You seem distracted, Your Highness,” Eira remarked one afternoon as they walked through the castle corridors. She had linked her arm through his, a gesture that felt both presumptuous and calculated. “I hope I have not been dull company.”

“Not at all, my lady,” Aidan replied, forcing a faint smile. “The affairs of state weigh heavily on my mind.”

She studied him for a moment, her emerald eyes sharp with curiosity. “You carry your burdens well, but even the strongest shoulders need support. I hope you will come to see me as someone you can rely on.”

He offered a noncommittal nod, his thoughts once again drifting to Meya. Where was she now? Was she safe? Had she left because of him—because of his father’s insistence on this courtship?

That evening, as he sat alone in his chambers, Aidan reread Meya’s letter for what felt like the hundredth time. The words offered no comfort, no answers. All they did was remind him of the hollow space she had left behind.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the flickering fire in the hearth. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, urging him to see reason, to embrace his duty. But as the flames danced and shadows played across the walls, all Aidan could see was her face—the defiance in her eyes, the way her lips quirked in amusement, the vulnerability she had let slip when she thought he wasn’t looking.

“Meya,” he murmured to the empty room, the name a quiet plea. He closed his eyes, his hand tightening around the letter. Wherever she was, he hoped she would return soon. Without her, the castle felt cold, the days unbearably long. And though he knew he could not ask her to stay, the thought of losing her entirely was more than he could bear.
​

Aidan stood at the edge of the forest, the cold air nipping at his face as he gazed at the modest stone cottage nestled in the clearing ahead. Smoke no longer rose from the chimney, and the faint trail of footprints in the frost leading away from the cottage only confirmed his growing suspicion. Magnus, the enigmatic man who had once held sway over Meya’s life as her father and who now lived as an outsider, was gone.

Aidan dismounted his horse, his boots crunching against the frozen ground as he approached the door. It was a simple structure, humble yet sturdy, a stark contrast to the ornate grandeur of the castle he called home. He raised his fist and knocked, the sound hollow and unanswered. When no one came, he pushed the door open cautiously, the creak echoing in the stillness.

Inside, the warmth of the fireplace had long since faded, leaving the space chilled and empty. Aidan took in the scene: books scattered across the table, a half-packed bag lying abandoned near the door. The room felt lived in but abandoned in haste, as though its occupant had left suddenly and without much thought for his return.

His eyes lingered on the bag. It told him what he needed to know, though he loathed to admit it. Magnus was gone—and Meya had gone with him.

Aidan exhaled sharply, frustration mingling with the tightness in his chest. He had been consumed with his duties, his father’s expectations, and the careful navigation of court politics, all while Meya had slipped further and further from his grasp. Now she was out there, somewhere, with a man whose presence was still a whispered secret in Gaelica—a man who had once been a symbol of the South Seas' dominion over their land.

He turned back to the door, his gaze fixed on the frost-covered clearing. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, and they painted a picture that made his path clear. If he wanted Meya in his life, if he wanted her to remain by his side without the specter of duty or obligation forcing them apart, he would have to secure more than her heart. He would need to secure an alliance with the South Seas, an arrangement that would not only satisfy his father but also ensure Meya’s place in Gaelica as more than a political liability.

But how? The South Seas were still a sore spot for many in Gaelica, their recent independence hard-won and fiercely defended. An alliance with their former rulers would be a delicate proposition, fraught with tension and mistrust. And yet, it was the only way forward—a way to bridge the gap between their worlds and bring Meya back to him in a way that no courtship with Lady Eira ever could.

Aidan clenched his jaw, mounting his horse with renewed determination. He had lost precious time, but it wasn’t too late. If Magnus and Meya had left to deliver aid to the border towns, they would not be far. Aidan would find them, speak to Magnus, and make him understand the sincerity of his intentions. He had to. The thought of Meya slipping further away, of her believing she had no place in his life, was unbearable.

As he guided his horse back toward the castle, the frost biting at his cheeks, Aidan’s thoughts churned. His father would need convincing. The court would need placating. The South Seas would need assurance that any alliance would be forged in good faith. It was an impossible challenge, but for Meya—for the future he envisioned with her—it was one he was willing to face.

With each step his horse took, the resolve in his heart hardened. He would find her. He would speak with Magnus. And he would do whatever it took to ensure that Meya never again felt like she didn’t belong.​
 
The ride down to the border town was uneventful, and the further they traveled from the castle, the looser Meya's chest became. Surrounded by trees and nature, the outdoors worked some of its magic on her, and despite the turmoil she still felt about Aidan, she could breathe. Leaving had been the right choice, for both of them. If she wasn't around, he could focus on the lady he needed to court. Her presence had been so unwelcomed the change in rooms had not been unexpected. There was less of a chance of her coming across their path if she was gone, and Meya wasn't certain she trusted herself to maintain her disengaged demeanor in the face of them. Arranged courtships had a tendency to move quickly, and she anticipated returning to an engagement announcement.

The idea of it made her ill.

They arrived at the town prior to dawn with most of the people still asleep. Once their contact had instructed them on where to unload the supplies, Meya fell into a steady rhythm of hauling crates. The physical exertion had her muscles burning in a way she thoroughly appreciated, and the tediousness of the task helped to clear her emotions. The sun had slowly risen over the sleepy town, and the chattering of the townsfolk had begun to trickle in as they emerged from their homes.

“Meya,” her father's voice interrupted the silence of the barn she was working in. She turned to look at him, but before he could say anything further, screams suddenly rang out, snapping both of their heads towards the opening. The two moved quickly and stepped out into the sunlight, looking both ways. That's when Meya saw the source of the commotion.

An attack was moving its way through the town, villagers running to hide or grab whatever weapons they could locate. The flag of the South Seas was flying from one of the horsemen. Meya and her father looked at each other, identical shades of blue darkening as they realized what was happening. They had no time to speak as the soldiers attacking quickly overtook their position. Meya drew the sword that hung from her waist, a necessity once the convoy had set off from the heart of the kingdom.

Metal met metal as a soldier on top of a horse brought his blade down over her head, and she quickly swung her sword up to deflect the blow. Her father had received a similar welcome, but neither of them could focus too long on the welfare of the other. Meya turned quickly on her feet, bringing the sharp blade around and catching the rider on the other side of her, the momentum toppling him. The sounds of fighting closed in around her, but she darted quickly as the soldier started to push himself off the ground. Without a second thought, she drove the weapon into his back, not giving him the chance to recover.

A quick glance to her father showed him to be just as nimble with a weapon as she remembered. Several soldiers wearing South Seas uniforms ran into the space where they stood, and she and her father pushed together, standing back to back. The rest of the convoy that had traveled from the castle had taken action immediately, and with the addition of the townspeople, they were pushing back effectively. At least in their little section of the town.

The smell of smoke twinged her nose, and her stomach immediately turned at the scent. Smoke rose over the rooftops and panic had risen from the people. Using her small stature to her advantage, she darted through the fighting crowd and made her way to the main road that ran through the middle of the town. Several men on horseback with torches were lighting every structure on fire as they rode down the line, forcing the people who had taken up hiding inside out into the open.

A shadow suddenly cast itself in front of her as a man appeared behind her, and Meya turned swiftly, bringing her blade up. Her reaction had been too slow, and she felt the bite of a sharp edge against the bicep of her sword arm. Had she not brought her blade up as she'd done, the sword would have found its new home in her chest. The man didn't hesitate to strike again, but Meya was better prepared to receive it. Side stepping quickly, she waited for the man’s momentum to carry him forward before bringing her weapon around and finding her target. When he fell, she looked down at him, her face cold and unfeeling.

As he gasped for a breath his pierced lung would not permit him to take, Meya's eyebrows furrowed. Stepping slowly, she approached him cautiously, her eyes wandering over the uniform. It wasn't right. It looked like the uniform of the South Seas from afar, but upon closer inspection, the details were incorrect. The stitching was off. With her foot, she turned the man over, the motion giving him one final exhalation of breath. Crouching down beside him, she inspected the man’s dark features. Standing up, her eyes moved around the chaos, taking in the posture of the attacking soldiers.

“Meya!” Magnus’ concerned voice broke through her thoughts and she turned quickly, her brow furrowed. His eyes moved to the bloodstain on her arm, his face flashing in alarm. She lifted a hand to wave his concern off.

“This is not the South Seas.” Her voice was certain when she spoke. His mouth opened to question her, but instead, he looked around instead, taking in the same sights she had just observed.

“You're right.” He finally conceded. “The uniforms are not faithful.”

“And neither is their sword handling.”

“They are operating under the flag.”

“Or pretending to.” She spoke sharply, turning her gaze to meet his. The smoke was thickening as the structures burned around them. What remained of the attacking regime was beginning to pull back, and they began to make their way towards the edge of the town.

“Who are they.” Magnus said it like a statement, not a question.

“I plan to find out.” Meya spoke and took two steps forward, but her father's hand pulled her back.

“Meya, you cannot just go running after them.”

“Yes, I can. We have to find out who is behind this.”

“But,” Magnus’ temper rose as he looked down at the stubborn set of Meya’s face, “I cannot allow you to just disappear after a group of men who just rode into town and murdered innocent people.” Meya’s face softened slightly as she recognized concern in the ridges of his face.

“Yes, you can. And you will. Because you know as well as I do that this will continue if the correct adversary is not identified. This is what I do. I disappear to find information. These people need to be taken to the city. They have no hope of surviving here through winter now.”

Magnus swallowed and nodded, releasing her. In one quick movement, he pulled her into a hug, and squeezed her tightly.

“Be safe. Please.” When he pulled back, his concern was evident in the rigid set of his jaw. “I cannot lose you for a second time.” His voice hitched as he reached up and cupped the side of her head in his hand. Swallowing, she nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Quickly disengaging from him, she slid her sword back into its sheath and moved through the crowd, quickly locating an unmanned horse and pulling herself onto its back.

*

“Your Highness!” A voice called out as soon as Aidan entered the gates, and a soldier who had clearly spent days on the road eased his horse to a stop beside him. “I come from Lokby. The town was attacked while we were dropping supplies, and burned. The people are headed this way on foot. They are about a day away, and while we have managed with a small contingency, we could use more soldiers to meet them the rest of the journey. Many of them are injured.”
 
Aidan pulled his horse to a halt, his pulse quickening as the soldier’s words sank in. Burned. His jaw tightened. He wasted no time in replying.

"Take my message to the capital," Aidan said firmly. "Tell the commander to send reinforcements to secure Lokby and to meet the survivors en route. Supplies, healers, and protection. They’ll need everything we can spare."

The soldier saluted and wheeled his horse around without hesitation. Aidan watched him disappear down the road before spurring his own horse forward. Meya was there. She had to be. And Magnus. When Aidan finally reached the smoldering remains of Lokby, his heart sank. The acrid smell of smoke still lingered in the air, mingling with the faint, bitter tang of blood. Blackened frames of houses jutted like skeletal remains from the earth, and scattered belongings littered the muddy streets. Survivors were huddled together, their faces streaked with soot and grief, while a handful of soldiers tended to the injured. Magnus stood near the edge of the ruins, directing men as they carried the dead onto makeshift carts. Aidan’s sharp eyes scanned the scene, searching for her—searching for Meya. But she was nowhere to be seen. He dismounted swiftly and strode toward Magnus, his voice cutting through the grim air. “Magnus.”

The older man turned, his weathered face etched with exhaustion and sorrow. When his gaze met Aidan’s, there was a flicker of recognition, but also surprise.

“Your Highness,” Magnus said, inclining his head.

Aidan’s eyes narrowed. “Where is she?”

Magnus’s lips tightened. “She’s gone after them.”

“What?” Aidan’s voice was sharp, his frustration breaking through. “Gone after who?”

“They flew the South Seas’ flag, but it’s a ruse. Their uniforms and tactics—they don’t match. Meya saw it too. She left to track them. Alone.”

Aidan swore under his breath, his hands balling into fists. “And you let her?”

“I didn’t have a choice.” Magnus’s voice was heavy, his shoulders slumping slightly as he looked back toward the carnage. “She’s stubborn, Your Highness. She always has been. And she’s right—this won’t stop unless we figure out who’s behind it.”

Aidan wanted to argue, but he bit back the words. There was no time for recriminations. He looked around at the devastation, his jaw tightening. He could do nothing for Meya now but trust her to survive. For now, the people of Lokby needed him.

“Let’s move the survivors to the nearest town,” he said. “They can’t stay here.”

Magnus nodded, already gesturing for his men to begin organizing the wounded. Aidan joined in, his presence lending authority and urgency to the effort. They worked tirelessly, hauling the dead onto carts and loading the injured into wagons. It was grim, backbreaking work, but Aidan pushed through it, his grief and anger channeled into every step. By nightfall, the survivors had been escorted to safety, and the dead had been given the beginnings of a burial. Exhaustion weighed heavy on Aidan as he sat by the dwindling fire outside the makeshift camp. Magnus joined him, sinking onto a log with a groan. For a while, neither of them spoke, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them. Then Aidan broke the silence.

“I need your help,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Magnus glanced at him, his expression wary. “Help with what?”

“With preventing this from happening again,” Aidan said. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You know the South Seas better than anyone in Gaelica. Their politics, their factions, their weaknesses. If this wasn’t them—if it was someone else using their name—then we need to find out who it was and why. And if it was them...” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “We need to know how to stop them.”

Magnus was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.

“You’re talking about an alliance,” he said.

Aidan nodded. “An alliance that ensures Gaelica’s future. We can’t afford another war, Magnus. And I can’t... I won’t lose her.”

Magnus turned his head to look at him, his blue eyes sharp and calculating. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking? The South Seas won’t trust you, not after what you’ve done.”

“I don’t expect them to trust me,” Aidan said. “But they’ll trust you.”

Magnus let out a humorless laugh. “You overestimate my influence.”

“Maybe. But you know their leaders. Their factions. Their motivations. You can help me navigate this, Magnus. Help me show them that an alliance benefits us all.” Aidan leaned closer, his gaze intense. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen. For Gaelica. And for Meya.”

Magnus studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You’re a fool, Aidan,” he said, though there was no malice in his tone. “But a determined fool. I’ll help you. For Meya’s sake.”

Relief washed over Aidan, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he nodded, his resolve hardening. “Thank you.”

Magnus shook his head, his gaze returning to the fire. “Don’t thank me yet. If this goes wrong, it could cost us everything.”

“It won’t,” Aidan said, his voice quiet but firm. “It can’t.”

The fire crackled between them, its light casting flickering shadows on their faces as they sat in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts of what lay ahead.

Aidan exhaled, leaning back against the wall of the small, makeshift council room they'd commandeered in the next town over. His face was streaked with grime, and exhaustion tugged at the corners of his eyes, but his voice remained steady as he addressed Magnus, seated opposite him. The flickering light of the oil lamps cast dancing shadows across the room.

"We need this alliance, Magnus," Aidan began, breaking the heavy silence.

Magnus nodded, his broad arms crossed over his chest. "The South Seas have always been opportunistic, but you're right—this is bigger. Whoever orchestrated this attack wanted to stoke fear and instability. The timing isn’t a coincidence." He paused, studying Aidan. "But an alliance with the South Seas themselves? Your father won’t agree to negotiate with people he sees as marauders and pirates."

Aidan’s jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the table. "I know. But that’s where I come in." He looked up, meeting Magnus’ sharp, discerning gaze. "My father doesn’t listen to me, Magnus. He hasn’t in years. I’ve been nothing more than the dutiful son, doing what’s expected of me—fighting his wars, securing his borders, smiling at banquets for political gain. But this alliance... if I can broker it, if I can prove its worth, maybe he’ll finally see that I’m not just his pawn."

Magnus raised an eyebrow. "And what of Lady Eira? Your father’s already laid the groundwork for a union between your house and hers. An alliance through marriage would cement his plans for the kingdom’s future."

Aidan let out a bitter laugh, his fists clenching on the table. "Lady Eira... she's everything he wants for me, isn’t she? A title. Connections. A pretty face to stand beside me at court. But that’s all she is—a tool. A means to an end. She doesn't care for me, and I certainly don’t care for her." His voice softened, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I can't go through with it, Magnus. Not when my heart is elsewhere."

Magnus stiffened, his expression unreadable. "You mean Meya."

Aidan nodded, his throat tightening as he spoke her name. "I love her, Magnus. I’ve loved her since the day she challenged me in that dungeon, fire in her eyes. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted—strong, fearless, uncompromising. But more than that, she sees me for who I am, not who I’m expected to be." He hesitated, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And I’ve been a coward. I pushed her away because I was afraid—afraid of what my father would say, afraid of what it would mean for the kingdom."

Magnus leaned forward, his expression softening. "And now?"

Aidan’s eyes burned with determination. "Now I know what I want. I’m going to prove to my father that this alliance can secure peace without sacrificing everything I care about. I’ll show him that we can protect Gaelica and its people without compromising on what truly matters. And I’ll fight for Meya. She’s worth it."

Magnus studied him for a long moment, the tension in the room palpable. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady. "If you want my advice, Aidan, then I’ll give it to you. Your plan for the alliance is sound, but you’re walking a dangerous line. Your father will see any deviation from his plans as defiance—and defiance from you, his heir, could fracture the kingdom if handled poorly."

"I know," Aidan said quietly. "But I’ve lived in his shadow my entire life, Magnus. If I don’t stand up for myself now, I never will."

Magnus sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Then you’ll need to tread carefully. Your father is a proud man, but he’s not unreasonable. If you can present this alliance as a benefit to Gaelica first and foremost—and if you can deliver results—he might come around."

Aidan leaned forward, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "You’ve spent years in the South Seas, Magnus. You know their people, their leaders. If anyone can help me navigate this, it’s you. Will you stand with me?"

Magnus held his gaze for a long moment before nodding. "I’ll help you, Aidan. But you’d better be sure about this. If you fail, you won’t just lose your father’s favor—you’ll lose the kingdom’s trust."

"I won’t fail," Aidan said firmly. "I can’t. Not with so much at stake."

He straightened, his heart pounding as he thought of Meya—her fierce determination, her sharp wit, the way her presence lit up even the darkest moments. He had made his decision. Now, all that remained was to act.​
 
Days passed since Meya had left Lokby, but she could hardly keep track of just how many. Time had never been her strong suit. When she was on the hunt, she had a habit of losing track of everything else around her, and she certainly didn’t find value in recollecting the number of sunsets that passed her by as she trailed the group at a fair distance. Initially, she’d been concerned that they would make for another town, but the group of men seemed content to remain unseen. Their numbers had been diminished in Lokby, no doubt due to the unexpected presence of so many soldiers from Gaelica, but they still rode at ten strong.

When they stopped at night to camp, Meya had been able to leave her horse and get close, eavesdropping from the shadows, and rolling her eyes from the sheer tediousness of their conversation. Nothing of value had slipped from any of them, and her impatience had her contemplating whether she should find a way to engage one of them. The logical part of her brain held her at bay, reminding her that she was best unseen.

Ronin had tried to get her to use the fact that she was a woman to distract a man once. Only once. It had not gone well. While the South Seas had a few women spies who were adept at seducing men to loosen their tongues, Meya was certainly not one of them. She’d never had a taste for luring a man in with charm. Probably because she didn’t think she actually possessed that type of charm.

The raid party’s contentment for their solitude ran out, and when a homestead of five homes crossed their path, they didn’t hesitate to act. That was the moment her plans, and her cloaked presence, disappeared.

*

The town came into view, the torches scattered throughout acting as a beacon in the night to the two weary women who brought their horses up to a stop.

“This is it?” Meya asked, turning her eyes to the other woman, noting the woman’s pale, withdrawn exhaustion even in the dark. She nodded slowly, her hand absentmindedly rubbing the back of the sleeping child in front of her. Meya looked down at the small toddler nestled against her, nothing but the little boy’s dark curls visible from the cloak Meya had given up to wrap around his little frame. The bitter cold of night had sunk deep into her bones as the two had ridden, first hard to get away from the burning and destruction, then less so as they tried to soothe the children. They’d been riding since mid-day, and despite the ache in her back from being on the back of a horse for so long, they’d made quick time of arriving in the village. The woman’s brother lived here, and it was the only place she could think to go.

As they rode into town, a soldier on patrol stopped them, demanding an explanation as to their arrival. Meya quickly explained, and he ordered them to remain where they were. Meya gently picked up the toddler, resting him on her shoulder as she moved carefully to dismount. She winced as she put weight on her left foot, swinging her right over the back of the creature, and came down a little harder on the ground than she’d intended, unable to hold her weight for long on the injured side. Sliding her foot out of the stirrup, she took a moment before putting weight on it. Grateful it wasn’t broken, she walked slowly over to the other woman, trying to lend her support as she did the same.

Meya looked worse for wear than when she’d left Lokby, but she was whole. The bottom left of her tunic, long untucked, was drenched in blood. The injury she’d sustained at Lokby had scabbed over, but the dark rust stain on her sleeve had turned dark. Though it was nearly impossible to see in the dark shadows, a bruise encompassed a small cut on her left cheek, a reminder of the ring on the hand that had put it there.

“Your Highness,” speaking swiftly, the soldier bowed to Aidan when he entered the room. “I beg your pardon. There has been another attack, and two survivors with children have just arrived. I thought you would want to know.”
 
Aidan felt the words hit him like a cold wind, stealing the air from his lungs. Another attack. He didn’t respond immediately, his mind working quickly, piecing together what this meant. His chest tightened as he considered the implications—another village struck, more lives shattered. The South Seas were moving with ruthless precision, and his failure to intercept their plans sooner weighed heavily on him.

He dismissed the soldier with a nod, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. “Where are they now?”

“In the main hall, Your Highness. They’re being seen to.”

Aidan gave a curt nod. “Stay alert. Post more men on the perimeter. If this group is still in the area, I want to know before they can strike again.”

The soldier saluted and left, leaving Aidan to collect himself. He turned to Magnus, who had been standing silently nearby, his expression grim. “They’re growing bolder,” Aidan said, his tone clipped. “This isn’t just a raid for supplies—it’s calculated. They’re trying to break us.”

Magnus folded his arms across his broad chest. “And they’ll keep trying until we make it clear the cost is too high. We need to find their camp and put an end to this.”

“We will.” Aidan’s voice hardened as he started toward the main hall. “But first, I need to hear what these survivors have to say.”

He pushed through the heavy wooden doors, his gaze immediately drawn to the two women and the children they held. They looked utterly spent, their faces pale and etched with exhaustion. One woman sat hunched over, cradling a toddler with dark curls, her free hand gripping a young boy who couldn’t have been older than six. Beside her stood another figure, uncloaked but unmistakably familiar. Aidan stopped mid-step, his pulse quickening.

Meya.

She looked as though she had fought through hell and barely emerged on the other side. Blood stained her tunic, and a bruise darkened her cheek. Her usual confidence seemed muted, weighed down by exhaustion and the burden of the child she carried. But she stood tall, her presence commanding even in her weariness.

Aidan’s heart clenched. He knew better than to let emotion show, especially with others in the room, but seeing her like this made it impossible to suppress entirely. The last time they had parted, there had been tension, unspoken words hanging in the air between them. Now, those unresolved feelings crashed over him like a wave, mingling with relief that she was alive and anger at what she must have endured.

He forced himself to move, crossing the room in measured strides. “What happened?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with urgency.

The seated woman glanced up, her eyes wide with fear and grief. “They came out of nowhere,” she whispered. “There were ten of them—maybe more. They burned everything. My husband—” Her voice broke, and she pulled the children closer to her as if to shield them from the memory. “If she hadn’t been there...” She gestured weakly toward Meya, tears streaming down her face.

Aidan’s gaze shifted to Meya, searching her face for answers. She didn’t speak, her expression unreadable, but the weight of her silence told him enough. She had fought to protect these people, and it had cost her. He wanted to demand why she had gone off alone, why she hadn’t sent word, why she always felt the need to take on the world by herself—but he knew now wasn’t the time.

“Magnus,” he said without looking away from Meya. “See that the children and their mother are taken care of. Food, warmth, medical attention—whatever they need. And double the guard around this village.”

Magnus nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

As Magnus guided the woman and children away, Aidan stepped closer to Meya, lowering his voice. “You should have sent word,” he said, his tone softer than he intended. “I would have come.”

She didn’t respond, her gaze steady but distant, and he realized she wasn’t ready to explain herself—not yet. Her silence only deepened the ache in his chest.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her uninjured arm. “You’re hurt.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s nothing,” she finally said, her voice quiet but firm.

“It’s not nothing.” Aidan shook his head, his frustration evident. “You can’t keep doing this, Meya. Taking on everything alone. Let me help.”

For a moment, it seemed as though she might argue, but she simply turned her head, avoiding his gaze. Aidan let out a heavy breath, realizing he wouldn’t get through to her tonight. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than just another raid. Something bigger was happening, and whatever it was, Meya was caught in the middle of it.

“Come with me,” he said finally. “At least let the healers take a look at that wound.”

When she hesitated, he added, “Please.”

Her silence stretched for a moment longer before she nodded, allowing him to lead her from the hall. As they walked, Aidan’s mind raced. He didn’t just need answers about the raid—he needed to find a way to protect her, even if she refused to let him. For now, he would do what he could: make sure she was safe, make sure she healed.

And then, when the time was right, he would finally tell her the truth he’d been holding back for far too long.​
 
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Nothing could have surprised Meya more than to see Aidan and Magnus in this small town so many days after she'd left. She'd assumed Magnus would have returned to the Capitol. Aidan took her completely by surprise, and it took great effort to keep her face expressionless when he walked through the door. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about the situation out in the open. Walls always had ears, and given the information she'd eventually been able to gain from the small contingency, Meya remained tight-lipped.

The woman's voice, the strain as she spoke, pulled Meya's eyes towards the three remaining members of their family. Reaching out, she laid her hand on the woman's shoulder and squeezed it gently, trying to bring her what little comfort she could, though she realized there was none to be had.

Her eyes trailed after her father, lingering longer than necessary for no other purpose than it kept her from looking at the man in front of her. He became impossible to ignore when he moved closer to her, and she felt her body stiffen at his closeness. When she lifted her blue eyes to him, her expression was sharper than she’d intended. She needed to remain indifferent to him, which he made impossible by touching her arm. Whether it was the cold that had crawled onto every inch of her skin or the very fact that her body yearned for closeness with him, Meya felt the reach of that small gesture as assuredly as if he had pulled her entire body against him.

She couldn't bear it. Subtly, she pulled her arm back just out of reach. The notion that he was likely engaged played in her thoughts, and she refused to let herself fall back into ease with him. Meya wasn't strong enough to allow herself to follow that natural pull towards him, only to be reminded that he wasn't hers and never could be. This world had not been designed for them to be together beyond the time they had already shared. As long as she looked at him like she would any other commanding officer, she would be fine.

Biting down on her tongue, she followed him from the hall, her movements tentative on her ankle. She spoke no further as he led her to the healers, who looked as though they had not stopped working for days. Biting down her defiance, she sat patiently as the healer cleaned the few wounds she had, her eyes on the floor as he wrapped the spot on her arm. When he got to her ankle, removing her boot to properly inspect it, she bit down on her lips as he poked and prodded the muscle tissue.

“Nothing broken. The tendons are strained and swollen, but should heal easily as long as you rest.” The older man's voice was scratchy when he spoke, and he made quick work wrapping her ankle to minimize any further injury.

“Thank you,” she spoke softly, offering the man a small, grateful smile. As he walked away, the smile faded from her face as she exhaled slowly. She really wanted to change. Her clothes felt disgusting after so many days on the road, and she hadn't been able to rid her nose of the smoke and blood that stuck to the fabric and her hair. Forcing herself to look at Aidan, she contemplated him for a moment.

“I have information to share with you, but not out in the open.” Her voice remained hushed as she barely met his eyes. Pushing herself off the cot, she followed him, her pace a little quicker now that it had been wrapped and had extra support. She followed his broad frame out of the medical tent, her eyes taking in the scenes around them as Aidan led her to his tent. Once they were inside, she felt her spine straighten, a quiet resolve to maintain formality between them.

Bringing her hands together in front of her, she stood more like a soldier at ease than a woman in the presence of the man who possessed the ability to undo her in every way imaginable.

“The contingency was sent from Thalrund.” She delivered the information bluntly, the name of one of Gaelica’s allies rolling off her tongue in a clipped manner. Her eyes remained locked on the ground as she spoke, recalling the conversations she'd overheard the last night she'd followed the group. “The attack on Lokby was planned. The attack on this family's homestead was not. They came across it on the way to their border and decided to act of their own accord.”
 
Aidan absorbed Meya’s words in silence, his expression unreadable. Thalrund. That name alone was enough to stir the simmering tension in his gut into a roiling storm. He had suspected that Lokby’s attack was more than a mere raid, but confirmation made it worse. This wasn’t just an escalation—it was a deliberate provocation. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he considered the implications. Thalrund was no minor kingdom, and if they were moving against Gaelica, it meant one of two things: they were testing the strength of the crown, or they had already forged an alliance with those who wished to see his father weakened.

Aidan exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain composed. “That means they have a border stronghold within reach,” he said, thinking aloud. “If they were retreating rather than pressing an attack, they’ve already accomplished what they set out to do.” His jaw tightened. “This was about destabilization. Sowing fear. They want us looking inward, scrambling to defend our own people instead of preparing for what comes next.”

His eyes flickered to Meya, but she still refused to meet his gaze. She stood with the discipline of a soldier, but he knew her well enough to see the exhaustion lurking beneath her carefully composed exterior. He wanted to reach for her again, to reassure himself that she was here, whole, but the way she had stiffened at his touch earlier kept his hands at his sides.

Instead, he spoke, his voice steady. “We’ll speak more in the morning, once I’ve had time to weigh our next move.” He paused, watching her closely before continuing. “But there’s something you should know.”

He hesitated only for a moment before saying the words that had been pressing against his ribs since she first walked into the hall, wary and wounded but unbroken. “I will not be entering an engagement with Lady Eira.”

That, at last, made her look up. Aidan held her gaze, though she was unreadable in a way that left him unsettled. He had expected resistance or skepticism—perhaps even a sharp remark—but she remained silent, and that silence was almost worse. He didn’t elaborate. Not here. Not now. Whatever her reaction, it was a conversation for another time, when neither of them were bloodstained and weary from the road.

Aidan ran a hand through his hair, the weight of the night settling over him. “Get some rest,” he said at last. “Take my tent. I’ll make do elsewhere.” He gestured toward the space, the offer not just one of hospitality, but something else—an acknowledgment that she deserved a place to breathe, to gather herself after what she had endured.

He stepped past her before she could protest, pausing only briefly at the entrance. “We’ll speak at first light.”

Then, without another word, he left her to the quiet.​
Aidan strode through the camp with purpose, his mind racing even as his expression remained impassive. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows over the soldiers still tending to the wounded, but he barely registered them. His conversation with Meya had left him restless, the weight of what she had revealed pressing down on him like an iron chain.

Thalrund. A deliberate attack. A kingdom emboldened enough to strike at Gaelica’s borders and disappear into the night.

It was not an act of war—not yet—but it was the beginning of something far worse. And Aidan knew that if they did not act quickly, Gaelica would be on the back foot when the true storm arrived.

He reached Magnus’s tent and pushed aside the flap without ceremony. The older man sat at a makeshift table, poring over a map with a candle burning low beside him. Magnus glanced up, his sharp gaze assessing. "You look like a man with a dangerous idea," he said dryly, setting down the quill he had been using to make notes.

Aidan didn’t bother denying it. "The South Seas," he said. "Tell me what you know about Meya’s cousin."

Magnus leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest. "I know he’s young. A far cry from his father, which is likely a blessing. Tyrell has made his share of enemies, and from what I hear, his own people wouldn’t be too upset if he were to—let’s say—vacate the throne."

Aidan exhaled through his nose. That aligned with what Meya had said. Her cousin could be reasoned with, which meant there was an opportunity here—one that Gaelica could not afford to ignore.

"If Tyrell is deposed, the South Seas could become an ally rather than a threat," Aidan said. "An alliance would secure our southern waters, strengthen our trade, and deny our enemies a dangerous partner. The question is how to make it happen."

Magnus studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Unseating a king is no small feat, Aidan. The South Seas are not Gaelica. Their rulers are not bound by the same laws of inheritance. Tyrell took the throne through force. If he is to be removed, it will be by the same means."

Aidan nodded, having already considered as much. "Meya is loyal to her people, not to Tyrell. She would support her cousin’s claim, and if she does, others will follow. But if we are to back him, we need a guarantee that the South Seas will stand with Gaelica when the time comes."

Magnus arched a brow. "And how do you propose to get that guarantee?"

Aidan met his gaze without hesitation. "A marriage."

For the first time, Magnus looked truly surprised. "To Meya?"

"Yes," Aidan said, the word firm, unyielding. "She’s a warrior in her own right, trusted among her people. If she stands beside her cousin and throws her support behind him, it will solidify his claim. And if she is wed to me, it will bind our kingdoms together."

Magnus exhaled, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "You do realize what you’re saying, don’t you? Your father has spent the better part of a year trying to secure you a noble match, one that strengthens Gaelica’s standing in the north. If you bring him this proposal, he won’t just refuse—he’ll see it as defiance."

Aidan’s jaw tightened. "I don’t intend to ask his permission. I intend to show him that we can both get what we want. He wants security for Gaelica. So do I. An alliance with the South Seas ensures that. It’s not just about war—it’s about the future of the kingdom. And if he cannot see that, then he is blind to the reality we are facing."

Magnus was silent for a long moment, weighing his words. Then, finally, he let out a low chuckle. "You really are your father’s son, you know that?"

Aidan smirked, though there was little humor in it. "He’ll see reason. He has to."

Magnus sighed. "You’d better pray you’re right. Because if you’re wrong, this will be more than just a political gamble—it’ll be treason in his eyes."

Aidan already knew that. He had made his choice the moment he had decided Meya would not be just another fleeting moment in his life.

He would see this through. No matter the cost.​
 
“This was about destabilization. Sowing fear. They want us looking inward, scrambling to defend our own people instead of preparing for what comes next.”

“I would also assume it was about making the South Seas look guilty in the hopes that Gaelica would send sizable resources in that direction, leaving the kingdom’s back open to an attack from an unexpected place. I can tell you the South Seas did not authorize that attack under their banner. Alliances can never fully be trusted, Your Highness. Rarely is one side of an allyship not waiting for an opportunity to usurp the other half. I would hazard a guess that Thalrund allied with Gaelica because it would be easier trying to dethrone your father than to take it from King Tyrell.” Her mind was moving a mile a minute as she tried to put the pieces together and recall any knowledge she had about the other kingdom. Her uncle had not had any real inclination towards it. They weren’t an ally, nor were they ruled under his flag, and they were distant enough that he’d never had much inclination towards them. Perhaps given more time and resources, Tyrell would have sought to conquer every kingdom the world possessed.

“I will not be entering an engagement with Lady Eira.”

His announcement took her by surprise, and when she lifted her eyes to his, she saw him staring intently at her. She assumed he was waiting for a reaction, and it took great effort not to allow one through. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. If not her, there will be another. Meya could not afford to lose sight of the fact that she and Aidan could not be together. She needed to remain vigilant about devising a plan for what would become of her once they returned to the palace. Her eyes followed him as he walked towards the exit, and she offered him the slightest nod.

Once she was alone, Meya let out a long breath, finally allowing the exhaustion to sink in and her shoulders to relax. It was taxing to hold herself aloof from Aidan. Unnatural. Looking around, she found clean clothes that had been brought for the prince, deciding that she could, at the very least, shed the blood stained tunic. Discarding it, she pulled Aidan’s tunic over her head, doing her best to ignore the faint red stains on her skin. The tunic swallowed her, but it was clean and soft. In a bucket, she found water and a dry rag, and she did the best she could to clean herself up. Clearly it had become a sign that she was growing spoiled that she found herself dreaming of a bath, the memory of lavender and mint so strong she could almost smell it.

Rebraiding her hair, she laid down on the makeshift bed and wasted no time in falling asleep.

When the voices of an awakened encampment pulled her from her sleep in the morning, Meya was surprised at how deeply she’d slept. Her muscles were stiff from days atop a horse, and several muscles that had been overextended during battle let their dissatisfaction be known when she stood up. Stepping on her ankle tentatively, she made every effort to step lightly on it.

Tucking the tunic in, she did her best to adjust the top so that it didn’t hang too low on her chest, but the sleeves made it clear that she was wearing a top meant for someone broader than she. Stepping out of the tent, she could smell the campfires and food cooking. The air hung damp as the sun had not yet lifted high enough to begin drying everything, and she shivered as she remembered that she had no cloak anymore. Wrapping her arms around her body, she went off in search of food, eventually coming across her father. He sat by a cooking fire on an overturned log, his eyes staring intently at the flames, his plate mostly forgotten.

Without a word, she sat down on the log next to him, grateful for the warmth from the fire. Magnus, almost absentmindedly, handed her the plate in his lap. The two sat in silence, both their minds otherwise occupied as Meya picked her way through the food.
 
Aidan stood at the edge of the camp, watching the sun break through the mist, its golden light casting long shadows over the damp earth. The morning was quiet, save for the distant clatter of soldiers preparing for the journey back to Gaelica. He had spent much of the night considering his next move, running through every possible outcome, every obstacle that stood in his way. Convincing Magnus had been the first step. Now, he faced the more difficult challenge—convincing Meya.

She would not yield easily.

Aidan had known that the moment the idea took root in his mind. She was not a woman to be swayed with promises alone, nor would she place herself in a position of power for the sake of ambition. She would have to see the necessity of it, the future they could build together—not only for Gaelica and the South Seas but for themselves.

That was the part that unsettled him most. This was not merely strategy. He wanted her. And that made everything infinitely more complicated.

He found her sitting beside Magnus at one of the campfires, wrapped in his tunic, her hair neatly braided back. The sight of her wearing his clothes sparked something deep and possessive in him, but he shoved the thought aside. There was work to do.

Magnus caught sight of him first, giving him a knowing look before rising from his seat. He clasped Aidan’s shoulder briefly before walking away, leaving the two of them alone.

Aidan sat down beside her. The warmth of the fire did little to ease the tension in his chest.

“You slept well?” he asked, his voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil within him.

She gave him a nod, her expression unreadable as she picked at the food on her plate.

He exhaled, rubbing his hands together before leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “We need to talk.”

That got her attention. She straightened slightly, her blue eyes flickering to him with quiet caution.

Aidan did not waste time. “Magnus agrees with me. If Tyrell remains on the throne, the South Seas will never be a stable ally. We both know that. And if Thalrund is bold enough to attack us now, they will be emboldened further if they see weakness. We cannot afford to fight on two fronts. We need the South Seas to be an ally—not an enemy waiting for an opportunity.”

Meya’s expression did not change, but he knew her well enough to recognize the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the plate she held.

“If your cousin takes the throne,” Aidan continued, “it changes everything. He’s young. Inexperienced, perhaps, but more reasonable than Tyrell. With the right backing, he could rule well. And he would have Gaelica’s support.”

She remained silent, listening, but he could see the calculation in her gaze. She was considering it.

But she was also weighing the cost.

Aidan turned to fully face her. “You know what this means, Meya. If we do this, you would have to stand against Tyrell. Publicly. You would have to back your cousin’s claim and denounce the man who sits on the throne now.”

A shadow passed over her features.

He continued, undeterred. “I won’t ask you to betray your people. But you’ve said it yourself—Tyrell rules with conquest in mind. He doesn’t care for alliances. He cares for dominance. He will not stop until he has taken everything he can. And if he sees Gaelica as weakened, he will not hesitate to strike.”

She looked away, her lips pressed into a firm line.

Aidan let the silence settle between them before he spoke again. This time, his voice was quieter. “There is another way to ensure this alliance holds. To ensure your cousin’s claim is secured.”

Her gaze flickered back to him, wary.

“Marriage,” he said, watching her carefully. “Between us.”

There. The word was spoken. It hung in the air between them, a bridge waiting to be crossed—or burned.

She inhaled sharply but did not speak.

Aidan leaned forward. “This is not just about politics,” he admitted, his voice lower now, more raw. “You know that. You have always known that.”

Her fingers curled into her palm.

He continued, unwavering. “I will not pretend this is merely a matter of duty. I want you as my wife, Meya. Not just for Gaelica. Not just for the South Seas. For us.”

She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments before looking at him again, her expression unreadable.

Aidan exhaled slowly, giving her space to process it. “I won’t force your hand in this. But you need to consider what happens next. Gaelica and the South Seas will be drawn into war sooner or later. This is a chance to stop that before it begins. If you stand with your cousin, if we stand together, we can change everything.”

She was silent for a long moment before finally speaking, her voice guarded. “I need to speak to my father.”

Aidan nodded, relief settling into his bones. It was not a yes. Not yet. But it was not a no.

And for now, that was enough.​
 
Meya’s body tensed the moment Aidan joined them, her mind mentally putting up a wall that felt unnatural and impossible to maintain. Even knowing he had not taken the hand of the first lady that had been paraded in front of him, Meya had taken it as a stark reminder that she didn't belong in this world of his. He had unlocked parts of her she didn't know existed, parts of her that she knew would shutter back up, and she was already grieving the loss of those parts. The warmth. The safety. It would be too easy to fall back into that comfortable companionship with him, and the last thing she felt strong enough to handle at the moment was falling deeper into a man she could not keep.

She'd thought she could count on her father to remain, hoping the three of them would focus on a plan for the day. It bothered her that there were crimes being committed under the false guise of the South Seas. When her father rose and exchanged a look with Aidan before leaving them, Meya narrowed her eyes at his retreating back.

Traitor.

When he settled beside her, she focused her attention on lengthening her spine, grounding herself to the spot in an effort to prevent her from leaning towards his heat. The words that came flowing from his mouth made it easier to keep her distance, and she quickly darted a glance around to ensure that nobody was close enough to hear him.

“You would have to back your cousin’s claim and denounce the man who sits on the throne now.”

Meya held up a finger to stay his words further, her eyebrows furrowing as she looked him in the eye.

“Have you recently taken a blow to the head, Your Highness?” Her voice remained low, though her internal thoughts were yelling at full volume. “First of all, to even discuss the idea of a plan like this out in the open is a recipe for someone to overhear you. There are spies all over this country, and clearly not all of them are from the South Seas. Thalrund was bold enough to attack because they were attacking under another kingdom’s flag. If you send your resources to retaliate in that direction, you leave your borders to them weak and entrust them on the merit of your allyship. They seek to turn your attention away from them, likely so they can move in. That will not be a threat to King Tyrell in the way your father and you are. Secondly, I will agree with my father on my cousin being less of a beast than my uncle; however, you would do well to remember that Magnus has not stepped foot near nor been in contact with anyone close to the crown for ten years. The knowledge he once had about things might be less true than they were then. You make a bold assumption that dethroning the king in the first place can be done and that my cousin would even welcome your support, let alone betray his father.” Though she kept her volume low, Meya was aware that her tone and words were bordering on insubordination to a royal. This entire conversation was asinine.

Meya thought he couldn't possibly unseat her astonishment any more, but he proved her wrong. The moment the word ‘marriage’ left his lips, her stomach tightened and her veins turned cold. Tension escalated in her body, and as her fingers balled into a fist, she tried to tell her body to relax. This wasn't happening.

“Not just for Gaelica. Not just for the South Seas. For us.”

Closing her eyes, she tried to steady the flood of emotions that came rushing through her. She understood his father's reminder about him being a dreamer. The part of her heart that had leaned into his was thudding thunderously in her chest, practically trying to leap out of her skin to cling onto him. It was her head that refused to acquiesce. Opening her eyes, she looked at him, her jaw tightened.

“No.” The word came out stilted, as if she’d had to physically push it off the side of a cliff to come out. Shaking her head, that familiar tightness in her lungs began to claw its way into her chest. “It is not that simple. It will never be that simple. I will not agree to us being used as pawns. This doesn’t end with a pretty little ribbon, Aidan. It ends with death, and I will not be a part of it.” If she didn't leave immediately, he would see her fall apart, and she couldn't allow it. If she broke in front of him, he would want to fix it, and she didn't have the strength at the moment to not let him.

“I need to speak to my father.” Keeping her voice as steady as she could, she stood up, biting down on her lip as she went off in the direction she'd seen Magnus walk moments before. It took her a while to find him, and when she did, he was surrounded by a couple of soldiers. He took one look at the anger on her face, and excused himself. They said nothing as they walked to the end of the encampment, moving far enough away that nobody could possibly hear them. Or sneak up on them.

Finally, she rounded on him, her blue eyes burning brightly.

“How could you even think about encouraging that line of thinking?” It took every inch of self control for her not to yell at him, the logical part of her brain trained for secrecy. “Overthrowing Uncle Tyrell? Really? A marriage? You know that would never work.”

Magnus remained unreadable as he stared down at her, taking a moment before speaking.

“To which part do you object, Meya?”

“All of it. To even attempt to overthrow him is a death sentence. Faolán would never betray his father like that. He would take the crown, but not at the expense of possible treason should he fail. To openly go against Uncle Tyrell would be to openly reengage in war, and Gaelica cannot win that again right now. You know that. Both kingdoms are weakened, but with an allied kingdom attacking Gaelica, they will have two enemies vying for their flag.”

“Do you think Tyrell would agree to a marriage between the two of you should he remain on the throne?” His eyes remained locked on hers, studying those facial features he used to when he tried to read her as a child.

His question took her off guard. For a moment, she just blinked at him.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“You said you objected to all of it, and yet you didn't say anything about that in your tirade.”

Meya dropped her gaze to the ground, and she gnawed on the inside of her lip. Finally, she spoke, her head remaining down.

“I will not marry him.”

“Because you do not wish to?”

“Because I will not be part of a marriage sanctioned by political motivations.” She did lift her eyes to meet his, the stubbornness evident in the way her chin lifted slightly.

“You think the prince wants to marry you for the sake of an alliance?” There was no judgement in Magnus’ tone, only the desire to understand his daughter's mindset.

“No.” The word came out small, unusually timid for her. Swallowing, she shook her head, her eyes hardening. “But regardless of his motivations, it would become that. I do think that there is a chance Uncle Tyrell would sanction the marriage. He would do it under the guise of an allyship, with the expectation that I work on bringing down the crown from the inside out. I will not do that. I… cannot do that.” Her voice tightened as she looked at Magnus, her unease furrowing in her brow.

“Hm.” Magnus made a thoughtful noise as he looked down at her, nodding slowly as he came to an understanding.

“You have to make him see that this is a terrible idea.” There was a twinge of pleading in her voice, the sentiment reflected in her face. Magnus’ eyes filled with sadness, and he reached up and brushed and errant hair out of her face before laying his calloused hand against her cheek.

“I cannot do that, Meya. To do so would be dishonest of me.” Stepping closer to her, he wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the way she tensed up at the unfamiliar contact. He pulled her into a hug, holding her against him. “I love my brother, but he has become a monster. He has to be stopped. I managed to help Gaelica win their freedom from him, but as long as he remains, that freedom is not safe. There are tens of thousands of people suffering under his rule. We have an opportunity to make things better. I cannot walk away from that opportunity. Stopping him has already cost me the two most precious things in this world to me. I cannot let that sacrifice die in vain.”

*

Magnus found Aidan in his tent several hours later. A contingency of soldiers was preparing to return to the castle, shepherding more of the townspeople to the main city for the duration of winter. Magnus had left Meya packing supplies for the return trip. The sooner he got her out of the village and back to the capital, the easier he would breathe. He did not want her to have another chance to go darting off into danger.

“That went well.” Lifting an eyebrow in Aidan's direction, Magnus’ face didn't quite reflect the sarcasm in his words. “I am not sure who she is more upset with at the moment, but it could very well be me.”

“That being said, she brought up some valid concerns. Although, what I walked away from that conversation feeling the most certain about is that my daughter has fallen in love with you. I don't think she knows that yet, though, and I didn't have the heart to tell her. Perhaps when we get back home we try a different approach with her. Give her a few days to process this. Ply her with cake to soften her up.”
 
Aidan remained seated long after Meya had left, staring at the empty space where she had been just moments before. The warmth of her presence still lingered in the air, but the words she had spoken left him chilled. Her rejection had not been immediate—not in the way he had feared. But when it came, it had landed like a blade to the chest, precise and undeniable. No. Just one word, but it carried the weight of all the walls she had been trying to rebuild between them. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain still when every part of him wanted to go after her, to make her listen, to make her understand. That this was not about strategy alone. That he was not his father, treating marriage as a move on the game board of kingdoms. That when he said it was for them, he meant it in the deepest way possible.

But she had not stayed to listen. She had fled. And Aidan did not know what to make of it. He had always known Meya was stubborn, and he had expected her resistance to the idea of backing her cousin over her uncle. But the way she had reacted to the idea of marriage—to him—that was what unsettled him most.

Had he misread her? Had he let his feelings blind him to the truth? He had thought—no, known—that she felt something for him. He had seen it in the way she looked at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice, in the way she leaned into him when she let her guard slip. The battlefield had shown him the depths of her loyalty, of her trust. He had assumed that trust was enough to build upon, that she would want to stand beside him in more than just war.

But now…

Aidan exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps it was not love she rejected but the idea of what that love would cost her. Her words came back to him—it ends with death. She was afraid. Not for herself, perhaps, but for what her choice could mean for the people she had spent her life trying to protect. And no matter how much it wounded him that she had said no, he could not blame her for that fear. But fear alone was not enough to stop him.

Aidan stood, rolling his shoulders back as he exhaled. He would not push her now. Not when her mind was clouded by the immediacy of it all. He would give her space. But only for now. They would return to the capital soon, and when the time came, he would try again. He had not given up on her yet.
​

Aidan was still deep in thought when Magnus entered his tent later that evening. The older man carried himself with the quiet confidence of a seasoned warrior, but there was something weary in his expression as he studied the prince.

“That went well.” His words were dry with sarcasm, though his face did not quite reflect the jest. “I am not sure who she is more upset with at the moment, but it could very well be me.”

Aidan scoffed under his breath. “She’ll get over it.” But his tone lacked conviction.

Magnus let out a low hum as he stepped further into the tent. “Perhaps. Though, I suspect her anger has little to do with strategy and everything to do with what you asked of her.”

Aidan said nothing, but his expression darkened. Magnus was not a man who spoke without purpose, and the fact that he was choosing his words carefully meant he had already come to his own conclusions.

He was proven right when Magnus sat down across from him and leveled him with a knowing look.

“She’s in love with you, you know.”

Aidan’s breath hitched for just a fraction of a second before he forced himself to remain still. He looked away, focusing on the candlelight flickering against the tent fabric. “She told you that?”

Magnus let out a dry chuckle. “No, but I have known my daughter long enough to recognize when she is at war with herself.” He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. “She wants to say yes. You must know that.”

Aidan ran a hand down his face, exhaling. “If she wanted to say yes, she would have.”

“Not necessarily.” Magnus studied him for a long moment before speaking again, his voice softer now. “Meya has spent her whole life learning that survival means keeping her heart locked away. She loves fiercely, but she has never been allowed to love freely. The things she wants most are the things she fears losing. And you… you are something she could lose.”

Aidan’s throat tightened. He wanted to deny it, to say that she would not lose him. That he would never let her go. But he knew that was not a promise he could make. Not in this world. Not in this war. He swallowed hard, fingers curling into fists against his knees. “So what do I do?”

Magnus sighed, tilting his head slightly. “You wait.”

Aidan’s head snapped up, brows drawing together. “Wait?”

“Yes.” Magnus nodded. “You have already given her the truth of your feelings, and you have planted the seed of the idea. If you push her now, she will only dig in her heels. But if you give her time, if you allow her to come to her own conclusions, she will see that what you ask of her is not a demand but a choice. And it must be her choice.”

Aidan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “And if she still refuses?”

Magnus was quiet for a long moment before answering.

“Then you will have to decide if you are willing to fight this war without her.”

The words landed like a blow, and Aidan closed his eyes, trying to push back the frustration rising within him. He did not want to fight this war without her. He did not want to face a future where Meya was not by his side, where she was forced to choose a path that led them in separate directions. But she was not a woman who could be won by force or by desperate pleas. She was not someone he could take. She had to choose him. And so, he would wait. No matter how much it pained him, no matter how much it tested his patience, he would wait. Because she was worth it.
​

The return to the capital was a quiet one. The soldiers moved in disciplined formation, keeping a watchful eye on the weary people they escorted, but there was an undeniable tension in the air. The previous days’ revelations still hung heavily between Aidan and Meya, though neither had spoken a word of them since that night.

Aidan rode near the front, his posture rigid, his thoughts elsewhere. Every so often, his eyes flickered back toward the caravan, searching for a glimpse of her. She was there, riding near Magnus, her expression carefully neutral. She had barely acknowledged him since their conversation, and though Aidan had expected as much, it did not make it any easier to bear.

By the time they reached the castle, the sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows against the towering stone walls. The people they had brought with them were ushered inside, some for temporary shelter, others for an audience with the council to determine their placement within the city. Aidan remained with the soldiers long enough to ensure everything was in order, but his patience wore thin.

He needed to be alone. With a brief word to his men, he took his leave, making his way through the familiar halls of the palace until he reached his chambers. The guards stationed outside gave him a sharp nod as he entered, closing the doors behind him. Silence. Aidan exhaled, rolling his shoulders back as he strode toward the fireplace, staring into the low-burning embers. His chambers were large, lavishly furnished as befitted a prince, but at that moment, they felt suffocating. The flickering firelight cast shadows against the stone, and for the first time since their return, Aidan allowed himself to feel the full weight of Meya’s rejection.

No.

He could still hear it, sharp and final, echoing in his mind like the ring of a blade striking steel. She had not hesitated. That was what unsettled him most. She had not needed time to consider, had not faltered in her refusal. But she had fled. That, more than anything, was what kept him from abandoning hope entirely. If she had truly meant to sever what had grown between them, she would have been calm. Resigned. Instead, she had recoiled, as though the very thought of what he proposed had frightened her.

Aidan raked a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room. He had spent much of the ride back replaying their conversation, dissecting every word, every shift in her expression. She did not reject him. She rejected what loving him could cost.

Magnus had confirmed what Aidan had already begun to suspect—Meya cared for him more than she was willing to admit. And yet, she had convinced herself that they were doomed from the start. He could not let that stand.

Aidan stopped pacing, his gaze flicking toward the window. From here, he could see the city below, the winding streets illuminated by the glow of lanterns. Somewhere among them, Meya was settling back into the castle, likely still wrestling with the same thoughts that plagued him.

He could not push her now. He had promised Magnus he would give her time. But time alone would not be enough. He had spent his entire life fighting battles on the field, but this was a different kind of war—one that required patience, not brute force. He could not demand her trust. He had to earn it. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, resolve settling deep in his chest. He would not abandon the cause. He would not abandon her. One way or another, he would find a way to make her see what he already knew. They belonged together. And he would not stop fighting until she realized it, too.​
 
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