High Vale

(Paige’s POV)

Footsteps toward Highvale pull you into an older rhythm, one where edges seem more defined than what came before. The air there cuts cleaner, almost as if memory shaped the landscape. Time doesn’t drag - instead it tightens, folding moments closer together. What remains feels less padded, stripped down to bone and breath. Places like this don’t shout - they lean in close and whisper through cracks in the stone.

A few of us move through the trees, guards close behind - Alex, Gareth, twenty from the north who’ve seen cold fights. Warmth presses into me where Lysander rests, bundled tight under wool, unseen. That child shapes each moment, even how Noah watches shadows climb the ridge line, eyes never still.

Down south from our peaks, the land shifts shape. Cold fades slowly, replaced by softer breezes. Snow lingers only where shade holds it close. Trees grow taller here, backs no longer bent by gales. Something about this calm makes me uneasy. In stillness like this, my skin prickles - too open, too seen.

Footsteps keep time with the wheels, Noah perched stiff yet pretending otherwise. Yet watch close - his gaze never settles, always moving, picking apart every shadow. Sleep’s been scarce for him ever since Blackstone faded behind us.

That night, shadows stretch long across the courtyard of a walled roadside tavern. Silence spreads through the main hall at our arrival. A hulking northern lord breaks the quiet, his presence heavy like frost on stone. Beside him moves a woman wrapped in silence and old cloth. Their fighters stand close, carrying the scent of forest resin, cold steel - nothing sweet, nothing polished by courts.

Inside the bare little room, the act fades fast. Leaning on the closed door, he lets his breath out long and low, Noah just stands there.

“They stare as if we have two heads,” I say, unwrapping Lysander to feed him.

Eyes lock on us, drawn by rumors of what we carry, he says, sounding drained. Down he lowers himself, onto the thin mattress, studying how I hold our boy. A flicker of warmth crosses his face, though tightness holds its place across his back. Word travels fast about the snow disasters, shaped into stories people now name ‘the Witch’s Winter,’ passed mouth to ear by those who lived through Greymont.

A coldness comes, though the door isn’t letting in any wind. “Could it be fear on their part?”

“I think,” he says, reaching out to stroke Lysander’s cheek, “that fear and fascination are cousins. And right now, the court is bored, the king is dying, and we are the most fascinating diversion they’ve had in years.” He looks at me, his eyes serious. “They will pick at you, Paige. They will try to find the seam in your armor. The crack in your story.”

That’s right. Ready for what comes next. Already survived something like this in the city, yet now I won’t stand still, hoping luck turns my way. Mother first, then title, then bond with him beside me. Bring it on. What happened isn’t hidden - mine is real, ours together

He nods, but the worry doesn’t leave his face. “It’s not the public questions I fear. It’s the private ones. The offers in shadowed corners. The threats whispered when I’m not at your side.”

“Then don’t leave my side,” I say, only half-joking.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Not a chance.” He leans in, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for us. “When we get to Highvale, trust no one but Alex and our own men. The food, the wine, the maids… assume everything is a potential weapon. This is not a negotiation. It’s a different kind of siege.”

Out loud, his talk sounds shiny but sharp. I pull Lysander near. Maybe we ought to have stayed back - left him there with Mara at Blackstone

“No.” His answer is immediate, fierce. “Where we go, he goes. He is our family. We stay together. That is our strength, and they know it. Dividing us is their first goal.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I hate bringing him into this vipers’ nest.”

“It’s the nest we were thrown into,” I remind him softly. “We’re just bringing our own protection.”

That moment, his gaze locks onto mine, searching every shadow and set line across my skin. Wonder slips into his voice - “Since when have you carried such courage?” - like he’s just now seeing me clearly.

My voice drops low, almost like a breath. What matters most gives courage its shape. My gaze lands on our boy’s quiet features.

Silence is his answer. Instead, he moves closer, pressing his lips to mine - a long, quiet moment holding safety, trembling honesty, together again. Words aren’t needed; this says everything.

(Noah’s POV)

Above the river bend, Highvale stands - not stone alone, but intent shaped into walls. Rising tall, made of light-colored rock, it serves both talk and threat. From every southern keep, flags wave where air moves freely. Grace lives here, alongside blades kept sharp.

From above, faces peek without sound. Open swings the gate now. Horses step forward into a space loud with life - until we appear. Noise fades like breath caught mid-air.

Spinning they go. Nobles draped in velvet, women wrapped in silk - fabrics that’d crack and rip under real arctic gusts. Wide-eyed, eager, peering hard. My people’s frayed furs catch their gaze, along with our tough mounts caked in trail dust. Paige stands there, face gone white yet jaw tight, curls a mess around her shoulders. Into that quiet, others lean forward, eyes fixed on what’s cradled close to her ribs.

Fear doesn’t own us - watch that truth settle in their eyes. See how steady we stand, even when shadows press close.

A steward in the king’s livery approaches, bowing with perfect, empty courtesy. “Duke Wingknight. Duchess. Welcome to Highvale. Your chambers are prepared. The King welcomes you to the summit tomorrow.”

Is the King really here? My words come out dull. That moment hangs still.

“His Majesty is… resting in his apartments. He will preside when his health allows.”

First up, the court will examine us - curious onlookers sizing up rare creatures - then call forth the weak king.

East wing holds our rooms - roomy, richly dressed, yet clearly a cage. From the panes, a straight fall down to the water below. Oak makes the door heavy. Just one way in or out. Right away, Alex stations two of us by the threshold.

Paige drops down on a couch covered in soft fabric just as the attendant steps away, her calm falling apart. Heavy air presses in around her - too many scents mixed together, thick like smoke. She breathes out, voice low: “Everything feels too much right now.”

“It’s the smell of lies,” I say, walking to the window, testing the bars. “Get used to it. We’ll be breathing it for days.”

Lysander comes free of the wrapping, his eyes lifting toward the shiny ceiling, utterly bored. Now what? he wonders

“Now, we wait. We show them a united, unshakeable front at the evening reception. We give nothing away.”

A tap on the door pulls our attention sharp. Into the room comes Alex, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. Held in his fingers, a scrap of paper, creased and silent. Someone left it below the frame - no footsteps seen, no voice heard

It passes into my fingers. This paper feels costly, touched with a soft flower smell I know too well - suddenly sharp in my chest. That scent again. Not jasmine exactly. But close enough. No stamp marks its surface. My thumbs break the edge free.

Four words appear, traced in smooth, graceful strokes

“The balcony awaits.”

Crushing the paper, my fingers tremble. Not heat - but ice - spreads through me now. Beatrice. Only one person fits that name. Words like those belong to her house, to the instant she reached for destruction.

Up stands Paige. “What’s going on?”

I hand her the note. She reads it, her face losing all color. “It’s a trap. It has to be. She’s dead. The King locked her away…”

“Or someone wants us to think it’s from her,” Alex says quietly. “To rattle us. To make you doubt your safety here.”

Faint light returns, then - Paige speaks. Her voice stays low. Arms pull close to him. Not letting go.

The paper darkens as I pass it through the flicker of the candle. Ash drifts downward, settling like dust on stone. My words come out sharp - tighter than my nerves allow. Knowing we’d face conflict never made it easier. One spark does not decide a war. Fear is their weapon; hesitation plays into their hands

I cross the room to her. I put my hands on her shoulders, feeling the slight tremble there. I wait until her wide, grey eyes meet mine. “Look at me. We are not the people we were when she took you. We are not alone. We are not afraid of shadows.” I glance down at Lysander. “And we have too much to fight for to fall for a cheap trick.”

A shaky breath fills her lungs, yet the fright within her gaze shifts - turns sharp. Her head moves slightly up. “True enough. After all, it’s only a spirit. Things have been tougher before.”

“We have.” I pull her and our son into a brief, tight embrace. “Tonight, we face the living. And we do it together.”

(Paige’s POV)

Silk gowns glide across the floor as chatter dies down the moment we step into the hall. Our arrival stills every voice, each face turning toward us. Noah stays close behind me, his touch solid and low between my shoulders. Lysander rests far from here - north nurse watching him inside our rooms, doors held tight by guards. Missing him pulls at my chest like a quiet ache, though knowing he’s away brings relief.

We are presented. “His Grace, Duke Noah Wingknight of the Northern Reaches, and Her Grace, the Duchess Paige.”

Quiet hangs heavy. After a breath, voices rise - sharper now, buzzing with heat instead of calm.

Here they arrive. Curious ones first. Then those who mean trouble. Followed by quiet plotters slipping in behind.

“Duchess, we heard such tales of your… resilience in the North. How… rustic it must be.” A lady with sapphires in her hair.

“It is honest, my lady,” I reply, my voice calm. “One learns to appreciate honesty.”

A portly lord approaches Noah. “Wingknight! Heard you gave Greymont a proper drubbing. Pity about the methods, though. Using the very land against men… feels almost unchivalrous, wouldn’t you say?”

Noah takes a slow sip of wine. “Chivalry is a luxury for tournaments, Lord Bromley. When an army comes to burn your home and steal your family, you use every weapon the gods provide. Even the ground under your feet.”

A shadow crosses his face instead of joy. The warmth in his eyes slips away.

Still moving forward. Questions come one after another, soft but never stopping. Noah stays close the whole time, shoulder near mine. Between us, words pass gently, steady as breath under everything else happening.

The figure in green belongs to Prestwick’s family,” he says under his breath while we shift from the cluster ahead.

“The old man by the fireplace was my father’s friend. He looks ashamed,” I whisper back.

“Stay away from the fruit punch. It’s too sweet. Could hide anything.”

A wave of scent rolls around us, yet I stand firm on this patch of stillness. He holds me fast, steady in the drift. Sharp words shaped by honesty - honed up north - they keep the distance I need.

There he stands. On the far side of the space, tucked among bowing figures who cling too close. His hair - once bright, now streaked with ash - frames a face people would call beautiful, though it carries the weight of sickness, of long nights. Sadness sits deep there, worn into his skin like a second shadow.

He goes by King Nolen. That one is my brother-in-law. Banishment came from him.

Across the room, his gaze finds me. Not sharp with rage. Not heavy with hate. Instead, a quiet sorrow sits in his stare - thick, endless - and then, just beneath it, a twitch of knowing. Maybe shame. A pause that feels like memory.

His gaze slides my way, then lands on Noah, a tiny tilt of his head barely there at all. Away he goes, arms supported by helpers as they guide him down from the platform, sound of his hacking lost beneath the swell of notes filling the air.

Tomorrow marks the start of what truly matters. Over now, the crowd has had its say. Clear it stands - the signal cuts through. Begins the climb without warning.

Once inside our room, the lock clicked shut, and faces changed. My hands tremble now. Quiet fills the space between us.

Heard you spotted him? I say to Noah, as he lifts the pitcher - checked it first - with steady hands. Water spills into the glass.

“I saw him.” He hands me a cup. “He’s dying. And he knows it.”

“What does that mean for us?”

“It means he has nothing left to lose,” Noah says, staring into the fire. “That makes him either our greatest danger… or our only chance.” He looks at me. “The note, the stares, the king… it’s all a game of pressure. They want us to crack before tomorrow.”

I put down the cup and walk to the window, looking out at the unfamiliar stars. “I’m not going to crack.” I turn to face him. “Because I’m not the girl on that balcony anymore. I’m the woman who helped build a bridge. I’m the mother of the Prince of the North. And I’m standing with the only man who ever saw me as more than a pawn.”

A quiet grin spreads across his face, softening the stillness. This one I know - seen it on the bridge, felt it beside me in that room at Blackstone. He looks different now, changed by it. His voice comes low: a summit they won’t walk away from

Outstretched, his fingers wait. Mine close around them.

Far off, shadows move while schemes take shape. Whispers rise where night stays long. Figures linger though silence grows. Quiet steps follow paths half-seen.

In here, we are a fortress.