Before He Changed.

Winter's POV

For a long moment after my mother's words, neither of us speaks.

The room is quiet except for the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the distant sounds of the palace beyond the walls.

I should be thinking about the relics.

Or the attacks.

Or the eye from my dreams.

Instead, I can't stop thinking about one sentence.

"We weren't always... like this."

It keeps circling through my mind.

Because if there is one thing I have always been certain about, it is that my parents were never happy.

I grew up watching them occupy the same spaces while somehow feeling miles apart.

Every conversation was measured.

Every interaction polite.

Cold.

Like two rulers sharing a kingdom instead of a husband and wife sharing a life.

I never questioned it.

It simply was.

The idea that there might have been something else before that feels impossible.

My mother studies me quietly.

"You don't believe me."

I blink.

"I don't know what to believe."

A small smile touches her lips.

"Fair."

I pull my knees closer beneath the blanket.

"What was he like?"

The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it.

Mother's expression changes immediately.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Enough that I know the answer matters.

She looks toward the window.

Toward the mountains in the distance.

And for a moment, she looks younger.

Not physically.

Just... softer.

Like she's remembering someone I never met.

"He was funny."

I stare at her.

The answer is so unexpected that I genuinely think I heard wrong.

"What?"

Her smile widens slightly.

"That is exactly what Ariana said."

I continue staring.

"No."

"Yes."

"Father?"

She laughs softly.

A real laugh.

The sound is so strange that I almost forget what we're talking about.

"Your father."

I shake my head immediately.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Mother."

"He was."

I narrow my eyes suspiciously.

"You're serious."

"Very."

I try to imagine it.

My father making jokes.

My father laughing.

My father being anything other than intimidating.

The image refuses to form.

It's like trying to picture a fish climbing a tree.

Mother watches my struggle with obvious amusement.

"He wasn't always the man you know."

The amusement fades from her face gradually.

"He used to smile more."

Something about the way she says it makes my chest tighten.

Not because of the words.

Because of the loss behind them.

As if she's mourning someone who is still alive.

"What happened?"

The question comes out quietly.

Mother's fingers trace the edge of the velvet pouch resting in her lap.

For a moment, I think she won't answer.

Then she exhales.

"The marriage happened first."

I blink.

"What?"

She glances at me.

"The marriage."

A dry laugh escapes her.

"Believe it or not, your father and I did not get along."

That part, I can believe.

Easily.

"How bad?"

Mother actually considers the question.

"On the day we met, he informed me that he had no intention of becoming my husband."

I stare.

"He said that?"

"Word for word."

"Oh my gods."

"He wasn't particularly subtle."

A laugh escapes me.

Mother's eyes gleam.

"I informed him that I had no intention of becoming his wife."

"That sounds more accurate."

"It was."

The laugh grows.

Despite everything, I find myself smiling.

The image is ridiculous.

My mother and father glaring at each other across a room.

Both stubborn.

Both furious.

Both convinced the other is unbearable.

I can almost see it.

"When was it? How old were you?"

"The day I turned 18."

My smile fades slightly.

Seventeen.

That's younger than I expected.

Mother leans back in her chair.

"I hated him for the first year."

"Only one?"

"Winter."

I grin.

She shakes her head.

"The second year wasn't much better."

"So what changed?"

For the first time, she hesitates.

Not because she doesn't know.

Because she does.

Because she remembers.

"We stopped fighting."

That wasn't the answer I expected.

"What?"

Mother shrugs lightly.

"We ran out of things to argue about."

I frown.

"That's not romantic."

"It wasn't."

Her smile softens.

"It was friendship."

The room grows quiet.

"We started working together."

She looks down at her hands.

"Then trusting each other."

Something catches in her voice.

Tiny.

Barely noticeable.

But I hear it.

"And then?"

Her gaze lifts to mine.

"And then one day I realized I was looking forward to seeing him."

I don't know why that makes my chest ache.

Maybe because it sounds so simple.

So normal.

Like the beginning of something good.

For a few moments, neither of us speaks.

Then Mother laughs softly.

"He wrote terrible poetry."

I choke.

"What?"

"Terrible."

"No."

"Truly awful."

I stare at her in disbelief.

"Father wrote poetry?"

"Unfortunately."

I laugh so hard my side hurts.

The image is absurd.

Completely absurd.

Mother is laughing too now.

The sound fills the room.

Warm.

Familiar.

For a moment, everything feels normal again.

Then the laughter fades.

And reality returns.

Because eventually, every story reaches the part where things go wrong.

My smile slowly disappears.

Mother's does too.

The silence between us changes.

Becomes heavier.

Older.

"What happened?" I ask again.

This time, the answer takes longer.

Much longer.

Mother looks down at the pouch in her hands.

At the necklace hidden inside.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter than before.

"The relics."

My stomach drops.

Of course.

"The obsession started slowly."

Her fingers tighten.

"So slowly that neither of us noticed it."

The room feels colder.

"He became convinced that our people were being denied something that belonged to them."

I say nothing.

Because I know this part.

I've heard versions of it my entire life.

Just never from her.

"At first it sounded reasonable."

A humorless smile crosses her face.

"Most dangerous ideas do."

I swallow.

Mother's gaze drifts toward the door.

Toward the world beyond it.

"The problem with obsession is that it rarely announces itself."

Her eyes return to mine.

"It disguises itself as purpose."

The words settle heavily in my chest.

"He wanted to protect our people."

She nods.

"Then he wanted to empower them."

Another nod.

"Then he wanted control."

Silence.

Then:

"And eventually he wanted the relics more than he wanted anything else."

The room goes still.

I suddenly understand why she sounds tired.

Why she sounds sad.

Because this isn't a story about a marriage.

It's a story about losing someone.

Little by little.

Year after year.

Until the person standing in front of you isn't the one you fell in love with anymore.

Mother looks at me carefully.

"Love doesn't stop people from becoming dangerous."

The sentence lands with frightening precision.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just true.

Painfully true.

I look away first.

Because I know she isn't only talking about my father.

She's warning me.

About power.

About obsession.

About the future.

About choices.

The silence stretches between us.

Then Mother reaches forward and places the velvet pouch into my hands.

I freeze.

The fabric is soft beneath my fingers.

The weight surprisingly heavy.

"This belongs to you now."

My throat tightens immediately.

"Mother..."

"I was supposed to give it to you on your wedding day."

The words hit harder than I expect.

For a second, I can't speak.

Can't breathe properly.

Can't do anything except stare at the pouch resting in my lap.

Slowly, carefully, I open it.

Inside rests a silver necklace.

Simple.

Elegant.

Ancient.

The pendant catches the light from the window and reflects it across the room.

Something about it feels familiar.

Like I've seen it before.

Maybe I have.

In dreams.

Mother watches my expression.

Then something changes in hers.

The warmth fades.

The softness disappears.

Concern takes its place.

Deep concern.

My stomach tightens immediately.

"What is it?"

She doesn't answer right away.

Instead, she looks at the necklace.

Then at me.

And finally says very quietly:

"There is one thing I haven't told you."

I close my eyes briefly.

Of course there is.

When I open them again, Mother is watching me with an expression I've never seen before.

Fear.

Genuine fear.

"The eye isn't what scares me, Winter."

The room falls silent.

And suddenly I don't think I want to hear what comes next.