First Morning

(Paige’s POV)

Darkness still hangs heavy when my eyes open. Quiet wraps around everything. Not a single noise breaks through.

Wind slips through narrow gaps, faint as a secret. Water taps far below, slow and unseen. Fire fades in the pit, breaking now and then into small noises. Not quiet like the city ever was. No wheels rolling on cobbles beyond these walls. No voices drifting from crowded halls. No hidden talk beneath every word. Stillness here feels heavy. Like rock waiting without moving.

Frozen through to the bone. Not just skin-deep, but deeper than breath, deeper than sleep - this chill slips under pelts, weaves through layers, cuts through Noah’s body heat huddled close.

Facing the same direction, I feel him close behind. His chest rests along my back, legs fitted just inside mine. Over my hip lies his arm, weight settled deep. The palm of his hand spreads across my belly, fingers relaxed but firm. Warm air moves slow at the base of my skull, matching the rhythm of rest.

Stillness holds me tight, quiet. His weight settles close, real. Safety wraps around like a blanket pulled high. He exists right here, impossible yet true. Beside me now. Inside these ice-walled rooms where wind forgets names.

Last night, once dinner ended, we went back to the room. Heavy feelings from traveling, facing the King, adjusting to everything - slowly gave way to quiet tiredness. In the glow of the flames, clothes came off without discussion, part of some silent routine now. Then into the wide bed we slipped. Without speaking, he drew me close, lined us up like two parts meant to fit, bodies settling naturally. Sleep took hold fast, worn out, tangled together, making sense of this odd life as it unfolded.

Light creeps in, pale and quiet, touching the edges of the space. Bare walls. Cold floor. Nothing extra here. Yet under that faint glow, the blades hanging there seem meant for work, not harm. The table with maps could hold dreams instead of battles. Not a cell. A shelter built by us. Ours.

Something shifts at my back - Noah waking slow. A hum escapes him, deep and soft, running down my spine. Closer I’m drawn by his arm, firm now where it lies. His breath tickles, his face pressing just behind my ear.

“You are awake,” he says, words heavy from resting.

“The cold woke me,” I whisper.

Hmm. That’s what he says, low and rough. Upward moves his hand, slow across my skin, stopping beneath my chest. Warmth spreads where his palm presses, even through the light fabric. More wood, he decides aloud. They will bring it. Fires need to burn stronger

Not the flame is missing, I tell him, shifting slowly so we stand eye to eye.

Faint light shows me his face. Not neat, his dark hair spreads like spilled ink across the cloth beneath. Sleep weighs on his gaze, that bright alertness softened now by rest. Tension has left his lips, their strict curve gone loose. Years seem to lift from him. Less guarded. Something deep inside me turns, slow and tender.

Fair to say he looks too good. A sharp jawline cuts through the hint of darkness along his skin. Above, those brows rise like quiet statements. And then - his eyelashes go on longer than seems necessary. Breath catches when he sleeps. When his eyes open, heavy with warmth, fixed on me, the world tilts.

What now? he says, his thumb moving in a lazy loop against my ribs.

Heat rises in me when my leg finds its way between his. I tell him he feels good, voice low. Skin meets skin, a quiet spark. His body answers fast, firm against mine. That blush climbs up my neck, slow like syrup.

A sudden shift shadows his eyes, wide-awake now, sharp with intent. Looking down at my lips, he breaks the silence. "That's dangerous ground you're stepping on," he murmurs - tone deep, almost welcoming. The words warn, yet pull instead of push.

“Staying warm matters,” I say, voice already softening without meaning to. My fingers rest on his chest, spreading across skin that feels firm, alive with heat. Under my touch, his heart beats - sure, slow, constant.

Silence is his reply. Instead, he steps forward, bridges the gap, then takes my lips in a kiss.

Something shifts when our lips meet now. Not like before - no hunger from the inn, no soft promise made among stone arches. Instead, it lingers. Unhurried. Like tracing a map you already know by heart. Each breath pulls us deeper into what we’ve built. A world shaped by distance, silence, choices. Morning light sits still around us. Cold air fills the space where words might go. Time stretches flat, wide open.

That slow drag along my lip makes me part them, breathing out as he moves in. Salt and toothpaste mix on his mouth, layered with whatever just is him - Noah through and through. Back of his head fits my palm when I pull slightly, close enough to feel each shift between us.

My skin shivers when his fingers slide from my side up to where the fabric presses against me. There, under the thin cloth, he touches what has been waiting - tight and warm - and moves slow enough to blur thought. I breathe out fast, almost a cry, caught between us. Heat builds deep inside, soft but insistent, like light pooling just before dusk.

The kiss ends. He gasps for air. In the low glow, his gaze moves across my face. Not duty first - instead, he rolls on top of me, solid and warm. Running a castle waits. So does convincing those who doubt us

Later will do just fine, I think, lifting myself toward him. That rub has us both gasping. Nobody stirs in the house

A shadow of a grin appears, sharp at the edges. That look hardly ever shows itself. "Always thinking steps ahead," he says, voice low

Silence falls. A kiss pulls me under, slow and sure, while fingers creep beneath the edge of my dress. Rough hands climb, heat blooming where they pass. Contact hits like a spark - sound leaps from my throat, body lifting without thought.

Hush now, he breathes near my neck, laughter caught in his throat alongside something deeper. The rock here pulls every noise into itself

Breath comes hard now, each gasp tied to the rhythm of his hand. Fingers move slow, then sudden - knowing exactly how I’ll react before I do. Watching him watch me makes it worse, better; his gaze locked on every twitch, every helpless sound forced out. Nothing else exists but this - the heat, the pressure, the way time drags and snaps.

Shaking, right there at the brink, fingers tight on his shoulders, I feel him move once more. My legs lift, guided onto his hips. His gaze holds mine - steady - as he slides fully inside, slow and sure, a single motion reaching bottom.

Breath gone, swallowed by how complete this feels. Right here, inside these walls, on this mattress, where we belong - it hits too hard. He freezes, deep within, shaking from holding back.

“Look at me,” he rasps.

His gaze meets mine, my vision softened by joy.

“This,” he says, his voice raw with emotion, “is ours. This room. This bed. This life. No one else’s story. Ours.”

Now he starts to shift. Not rushing toward some peak. Instead, there's weight behind every motion - slow, certain, like marking territory we’ve just agreed on. With each long push forward, something unspoken gets etched into skin. He silences my cries with his mouth. My fingers drag down his spine, tugging without words, asking for more than before.

Breath fogs the chill between us while his gaze holds me close. Our skin meets, warm and urgent in the fading light. A slow fire climbs higher, then breaks without warning.

A hush breaks through me, sudden and deep, like heat dissolving stone. His body jerks close, sound ripped raw from his chest as warmth spills between us.

Breathing hard, we listen to the wind far away. Down he drops next to me, pulling me close without a word. Around us both, fur gets tucked tight. My cheek feels every fast beat of his heart.

Lying there, the gray light creeps across the floorboards. Comfortable quiet settles between us - no need to fill it. Bodies tired, breath slow, everything said without words.

Slowly, his lips touch my forehead. “Afraid it’s time for duties,” he says

I give a small nod, staying still. “Yes, I understand.”

Morning comes. Cold lingers in the leftover bathwater, used again to rinse off. Clothes pulled on: heavy wool pants and a loose shirt for him, a dense dress plus wrap for me. Titled roles worn like stiff fabric - northern rulers beginning what duty demands.

Footsteps echo as we reach the big room - only Fergus waits inside. On the heavy wooden table: a meal of porridge, slices of dried apple, alongside tea that bites with bitterness. Stillness hangs thick in the air.

“The men are at their posts, Your Grace,” Fergus says, his tone neutral. “The villagers from the lower valley have sent a… delegation. They wait in the outer yard.”

A stillness settles over Noah, though his face shows nothing. Inside, something tightens. Warmth fades. Authority steps in. His voice cuts through the quiet. "Tell me what they’re after."

Fergus’s flinty eyes meet his. “To look at you, my lord. To see what the crown has saddled them with this time.”

Hard to miss, really - it shows itself just enough.

He places the spoon on the table. "We ought to go before they start wondering."

Beyond the inner fortress, open ground stretches, scoured bare by relentless gusts. Twenty figures from the north gather close, shoulder to shoulder. Wool and fur bundle each man and woman thick against the cold. Life has marked their faces - wind, grit, years without ease. Our arrival draws their gaze, steady but unreadable.

He halts in front of the group, loose shoulders yet everyone notices he leads. A step back and to the side, I stay quiet, fingers interlaced, eyes on what unfolds.

“I am Noah Wingknight,” he says, his voice carrying easily in the crisp air. “This is my wife, Paige. By the King’s decree, we are your Duke and Duchess. We’re here to stay.”

Silence. Then a broad-shouldered man with a thick, red beard steps forward. “We’ve had dukes before, Wingknight. They stay a season, take what they can, and leave us to the winter. What makes you different?”

Noah meets the man’s gaze without flinching. “I am not here by choice, but by decree. This is not a stepping stone for me. It is my home. And I do not take from my home. I protect it.”

“Words,” a woman snaps, her arms crossed. “The last one had pretty words too. Before he raised the mill tax.”

A flicker of rage stirs - directed not toward them, yet on their behalf. Moving ahead begins with only five inches gained. Every gaze shifts my way. Surprise radiates from Noah; still, his hands stay at his sides.

Who are you? I say to her.

Her eyes flicker open, surprised. "Mara." comes out quiet, like a thought slipping free

“Mara,” I repeat, my voice clear. “We are not the last duke. We are not the crown’s tax collectors. We are two people who were given this land as both a reward and a punishment. We have nowhere else to go. Our fate is tied to yours.” I look around at the gathered faces. “We don’t want your taxes. Fixing things starts with listening. Something cracks when cold comes. Without shared effort, frost claims more than roofs - it takes trust too

A stillness comes now. Not cold, but thoughtful instead. It weighs things quietly.

The red-bearded man studies me, then Noah. “The bridge to the high pasture is gone. Washed out in the last thaw. We lost six sheep trying to ford the river. The roof of the common storehouse in the village leaks. We lose grain to rot and rats.”

Noah nods. “We’ll see to the bridge. Today. And I’ll send men to repair the storehouse roof. You have my word.”

Mara repeats the phrase, doubt weighing down each syllable she speaks.

"Wow," Noah says, his voice firm like someone used to giving orders. Yet he needs help - yours, specifically. He admits that plainly. This place is unknown to him. But you understand it well. His strength means little without your skill here. So there it stands - he leads, yet depends on what you bring

Something like approval shows, just for a second, behind the red beard. A quick, stiff nod follows. "Name's Gareth," he says. "Been around these waters long enough to remember where things stood." His voice is low, matter-of-fact. "Your people? I'll point out the spots where the supports sank."

A beginning shows up. Not loud, just a thin split in the cold surface.

Fergus steps forward when the group begins to leave, face hard to read. His voice is flat. “Smart move,” he says to the man, then nods at the woman

For just a moment, the distant look in Noah's eyes fades. As Gareth disappears into the distance, he says, "Out here, nothing else matters - only what gets done." His gaze drops to me, and suddenly, the stern ruler is gone. In his place stands someone softer, familiar. The one who smiled at breakfast. Then he asks, almost gently, "Shall we go see your land now?"

Out loud, the name sits light. Not heavy. A task they both carry now.

“Ready,” I say.

A hand reaches out - his, steady. This isn’t performance. It’s standing together.

Looking up at the peaks, sharp against a bright sky, beauty sits heavy in the air. The path ahead pulls us toward the keep where the morning waits. Steps fall into place as thoughts settle behind.

This belongs to us. The task sits right here.

Facing it side by side, that is how we move forward.