Heart Of Stone

(Paige’s POV)

Darkness sits heavy in Blackstone Keep's main hall, deep and still. From a fireplace big enough for a whole cow, flames leap and crackle, yet warmth climbs only so far. Up above, cold air holds the smoke, trapping it beneath the high arches where shadow gathers thick. Stone forms the walls - raw, uneven, untouched by tools meant for beauty. Underfoot, flat rocks lie cracked and smoothed, shaped not by design but by time and tread. Nothing hangs on the walls but old weapons. Axes, long spears, shields - silent, worn, resting against stone. Light from the flames licks at metal, giving them a cold shine. Portraits? Tapestries? Not here.

Fergus stands there, a weathered man from the north. Tight features shape his face, hard as if carved from rock. A flicker of gray lives behind stony eyes - cold, sharp. Bowing comes slow, almost unwilling, more habit than respect. “Your Grace,” he says, then adds, “My Lady,” like it was forgotten. Sound scrapes out of him, rough and low, like stones dragged across stone. Rooms above breathe fresh air now, opened just as the King ordered. A single meal comes from each kitchen. Still, the shops aren’t much to look at

Quiet settles around the word. Not because it asks for forgiveness. Because it stands still, real as ice, waiting to see who flinches first.

Stillness holds him upright. In the middle of the room he stays, tall against the noise, eyes moving like a hunter who knows every shadow. That will do, Fergus, he says, send soldiers to tend the animals and unload the supplies. Dinner will be taken in the private rooms upstairs. Let someone carry up warm water for washing later.

A glance from Fergus - sharp as stone - lands on me, studying the plain blue fabric, the mess of my hair after wind, how I stand without court grace. In his view, just another gentle southerner lost here. His back bends again into that rigid dip of respect. The words come flat: obedience served cold

Turning sharply, he shouts commands in a rough dialect that’s hard to follow. Because of his voice, the few guards and workers nearby begin moving without enthusiasm. Their actions show reluctance, yet they still do what is required. This place offers nothing warm. Obedience exists, though it comes with bitterness toward authority far away.

Alex appears at Noah’s elbow, his face grim. “The perimeter is secure, my lord. But the mood is… cold.”

I'll heat it up, Noah tells me, speaking slow and steady. His eyes flick toward mine. Follow along now - time to check where we’re staying

Up we go, following a narrow stair lit by flickering torches set deep in the rock. Underfoot, each step dips slightly, shaped by countless passes long before us. Sounds bounce off the walls - our feet striking stone, rhythm steady, low. Cold seeps in slowly, then holds on tight. Moisture clings now.

A creaking sound comes as he shoves against the thick door, studded with iron. This is where the Duke stays

A space like this never held dreams. Instead, imagine cold steel along every side. Over there, rising like fortress beams, stands a heavy wooden bed - dark, draped in animal skins beneath fabric high above. Alongside it, shelves carry blades more than books do. Maps litter a wide table, cracked with age, surrounded by parchment trails leading nowhere clear. Furniture built rough takes up the far corner - one solid block shaped into what some might call a desk. A flicker lives in the tiny fireplace, gasping under cold air pressing down. Through a thin crack in the wall, just one slice of night appears - pierced by stars, hung above silent peaks.

A room built for fighting lives inside it. That man is there.

“It’s… really something,” I say, finding my voice.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “It’s a cave. But it’s defensible.” He walks to the window and looks out. “You can see the only approach for miles. No one will take us by surprise here.”

Me. His thoughts settle into ours, into protecting what we are. Heat rises inside me, unrelated to the weak flames nearby.

A thin girl walks in, hauling a heavy metal tub that hisses with heat. Her fingers are raw, cracked from work. Eyes down, she avoids my gaze completely. Water sloshes into the basin as steam rises. A quick dip of her knees - almost like a reflex - and then she’s gone before I can speak.

A warm shower surprises me, almost too good to be real. There by the edge of the bathtub, my body tenses up. Just us here now. Inside his bedroom walls. This quiet closeness fills every corner.

Hesitation must show, because Noah notices it. Turning away from the glass, he faces me now. Fire shadows deepen every trace of travel across his skin - tiredness carved into place. Yet something sparks behind his gaze: alert, steady. Water losing heat matters to him. Quietly, he offers space by moving toward the exit

No reply escapes me at first - too quick, too sharp. This hollow mountain feels heavy with silence. His going would make it worse. Wait here. Only that. Face the other way

For just a beat, his eyes stay locked on mine before he tilts his head slightly, like he gets it. Off he goes, pivoting away toward the wooden table where maps lie spread out, one unrolled parchment now catching all his attention. His focus sinks into the inked lines as if nothing else is there.

Fingers stiffen under cold, shaky from more than just the temperature while peeling off clothes. Air bites at bare arms like tiny needles. Into the tub now - heat hits hard, sudden warmth wrapping around like something alive. Down into the water comes that quiet sound people make when relief finally arrives. Eyes shut tight, body sinking deeper. Steam rises slow, carrying with it layers: dust kicked up on trails, dread held too long inside, shadows left by frozen rooms and silent rulers.

Leaves tremble under my fingers. A flame sighs beside me. He breathes without hurry.

Few moments lately have carried such calm. Stillness settled in like an old friend dropping by unannounced.

Water sloshes as I ask what the map means. The sound bounces off the porcelain walls.

He doesn’t turn. “It’s a survey of the duchy. Or what passes for one. It’s fifty years out of date. The villages marked here…” I hear his finger tap the parchment. “…half are probably abandoned. Flooded pits probably hide under what maps call working mines. Updating never mattered much to those in charge

“So we don’t know what we rule.”

“We know we rule a mystery,” he corrects, a thread of dark amusement in his voice. “And a people who have learned that rulers are irrelevant, except when they come to take.”

Water runs through my fingers as I scrub each strand clean. That quiet moment becomes mine again. "We will need to lead in another way entirely."

He does not speak right away. Then he says those two words

Coolness rises through the water. Up I get, slow and stiff, wind sliding across damp shoulders. From the seat nearby comes a thick cloth - burlap-rough - and I pull it tight, teeth chattering at the edges.

“I’m okay,” I say quietly.

Turning, he sees me right away. Damp strands of hair trail down my neck, a towel draped loosely around me. Not hunger in his look - something quieter pulls him in. Steam curls off my arms, warmth colors my face, fingers grip fabric tight. He notices every detail without moving.

Firelight shapes his face in ways that catch the eye. Tired, yet striking all the same. Each mile traveled carved something finer into his frame. Bone structure stands out now - cheeks higher, chin tighter. Yet the lips stay gentle. Brown like soil when spring melts the frost, his gaze stays on me. Without coat or blade now, he stands there barefoot almost - just pants and a light shirt made of linen. That cloth sticks close to his chest, follows every edge and slope of him.

Breath stops mid-air. There he stands - fiercely, completely man. The one who holds me steady. The chaos that shakes my world.

Out comes the words, soft and low: “It is your move now.”.

Stillness holds him, one breath caught midair, eyes locked on mine like I might fade. A single nod follows, measured, careful, almost too quiet to see.

Down he goes toward the bathtub. Not a word about turning, just starts peeling off clothes - quick, like it means nothing. Most would glance aside. That’s what you do. Yet my eyes stay fixed. They won’t move.

The way he lifts the shirt up catches my eye. Gold flickers across his skin, then vanishes into dark patches where light won’t stay. Shoulders like carved stone shift under the glow, stomach tight with lines that show years of holding back nothing. Old wounds stand out, faint but clear, marks from fights I never saw. Every part of him feels stitched together by what he's lived through. A sudden hush fills my throat.

Into the bath he slips, a sharp breath drawn at the first touch of warmth. Back resting on the curved edge, eyelids fall shut. Tension eases out, smoothing what was once tight across his brow. On damp skin, beads glisten where they settle among strands of wet hair - small flashes under the glow. Then stillness takes hold.

There I am, clothed only by a damp towel, eyes on the Duke as steam rises around him. He sinks into the bath like he might vanish beneath it. Quiet settles differently here - no schemes, no urgency from that night at the roadside lodge. Just warmth, skin, and tired bones meeting clean water. We do not speak. Words would spoil what the silence holds.

A different, smaller towel lies nearby, so I take it toward the tub. His eyes lift when I come close, fixed on my steps, searching without words.

It slips out before I can stop it - my voice quiet. “Your hair.”.

It makes sense to him. Leaning just a bit closer, he lets me reach. Down on the stones by the tub, I stay, even as chill creeps up through the thin cloth under me. From the bowl of fresh water, I wet the rag - soft strokes follow along his thick, dusty hair, lifting grime, clearing trails left by heat and effort. A soft sound escapes him, half groan, half breath, as my hands move slow circles. His skull yields slightly under the pressure, warm and alive beneath my palms.

This quiet moment holds a closeness no project ever reached. Care lives here. Attention shows up, slow and steady.

That’s not something you need to handle,” he says, sounding full of quiet satisfaction.

Fingers move through wet strands, washing away the suds. My voice stays low. Words come out soft. There’s a pause between each sound. Want fills the space where silence sits. This moment does not need more noise

After finishing, he takes hold of my wrist. Wet warmth spreads under his touch. Turning slightly, he places a kiss where my palm meets fingers. That small act pulls at something deep inside me.

Up he rises, droplets racing down his skin. The big towel I left behind finds its way around his hips, loose and low. Out of the water, one step at a time. There we stay - eyes meeting, cloth hugging shoulders, air thick with steam and smoke. This place burns bright now, sharp edges glowing under orange flicker.

A sudden touch - his hand moves to catch a damp piece of hair, sliding it gently back. From there, his fingertips drift along the edge of my face. The pad of his thumb pauses, skimming the curve of my mouth.

“We will make this place ours, Paige,” he vows, his eyes holding mine with absolute certainty. “Stone by stone. If I have to carve a home for you out of this mountain with my bare hands, I will.”

Fearless, he stands - like the stone walls nearby, steady without need to prove it. His eyes show what words never could.

“Together,” I say.

This time, he leans in to kiss me - long, quiet, like something final settling into place. Salt lingers on his lips, mixed with warmth that feels like trust remade. Not just feeling, but decision. Here, where land ends, we tie it down again.

Freshly changed into roughspun layers, the kind folks up north favor, we make our way down. The room waiting holds what they’re calling a humble supper. A pot of deer meat simmers beside thick brown loaf and salted curds. Every bite carries weight. There’s truth in how it tastes.

Forks scrape plates while nobody speaks - yet the quiet feels right. Like when warriors rest once fighting ends, or two people sit together after surviving something fierce, checking bandages and blades without needing words.

A sliver of ice floats above dark mountains, visible through the slim window - there, the moon hangs.

This time, we sleep under northern skies. Here begins what was forced upon us. What comes next feels unknown.

Out of nowhere, Noah stretches over the splintered tabletop, fingers closing around mine. Gritty skin meets mine - warmth there, solid, unmistakably alive. Ends with his steady grip.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “we begin.”

My eyes move from our fingers laced together to the silvered peaks beyond, stretched wide beneath the night sky.

“Tomorrow,” I agree.

Tomorrow crosses my mind now without the weight it used to carry.

Becomes clear why I move forward.