Thornes and Roses

Paige’s POV)

Back in the city feels different from that first trip up north. That time, fugitives inside a locked coach, running from cold and shame. This moment, leading the line of riders.

On horseback rides Noah, mounted atop a dark gelding that moves with quiet menace, the spy lord’s ring faintly catching light, the name Lord Protector settling on him slow and heavy. Beside him I go, tucked inside a rolling coach, fresh wind slipping through unlatched panes, Lysander curled up asleep near my feet in a tied-down wicker box. Trailing behind come envoys from noble families bound by the pact - Duke Argon among them, plus a few more - and soldiers drawn from our northern ranks, their numbers speaking without words.

Our arrival isn’t a request. Power comes with us, not permission.

Still, the city holds its breath. Crowded corners reek of sweat, spilled waste, sweet scents clawing through the damp. Perfume battles grime beneath a sky choked with mist like secrets never told. People watch from doorways, eyes sharp. Wonder flickers across cheeks. Respect lingers in nods. Yet dread coils low. Anger builds slow under skin, souring every shared glance.

Inside the royal palace now, our rooms drip with luxury - yet everything seems strange, tight. Silk walls, gilded edges, still can’t hide the weight of unseen eyes. Each time a servant bows, it lands like a test. Smiles come too precise, never quite reaching their eyes.

Right away, things get moving. Meetings pull Noah in - first the leftover royal council, then army leaders, after that the money administrators. The Charter shakes everything up. Making it real feels like steering a giant, corroded vessel through a tight waterway.

Being Chancellor changes things. Not tied to old loyalties, I answer to the Charter’s purpose instead. Meetings happen - guild leaders sit across from me, thinkers lean in, rare nobles listen who notice what shifts bring. Talk turns to local rule, food stored together, paths moving more than coins - they move breath itself.

Out here, voices rise against her rule. Calling themselves “The Purists,” they gather where shadows thicken - rooms thick with pipe haze, paper trails curling under ink-stained fingers. Their words slither through print: talk of balance undone, magic corrupting crown and council alike. Never naming her directly - their meaning still cuts sharp. A duchess touched by witchcraft, they claim, unfit to pass power to shoemakers, healers, those from the alleys and hearths.

One week back, it’s time to speak at Republic Square - first chance to tell the city crowd about the Charter. Sleep won’t come the evening prior.

Frozen mid-step, Noah spots me out there where the night hums with scattered lights beneath us.

“They’ll be waiting for me to stumble,” I say, not looking at him.

“Then don’t stumble.” He comes to stand beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. He’s still in his day clothes, smelling of parchment and faint smoke. “Speak to them like you spoke to Mara. Like you spoke to the King. Not to a crowd, but to people trying to understand.”

“They’re afraid of me.”

“Some are,” he concedes. “And some are afraid of a future where their unearned privileges might fade. Give the rest something better to be than afraid. Give them a part to play.”

Faces crowd the square by morning, turned skyward like flowers under sun. Hope mixes with doubt there, stirred together by a breeze of casual onlookers. Built overnight, a wooden stage breaks the flatness of the ground. At its rear, Noah holds still - quiet, eyes moving, saying nothing. Around him spread Alex and the others, spaced just right, forming a loose ring without looking like one.

Footsteps break the silence. Hush falls across faces turned my way. Every gaze locks, unblinking. Stillness holds them.

No big words come out of my mouth. From up north, there’s a bridge - that’s where I start. Gareth shows up next, along with his flock. Then Mara appears in the story, her home tucked inside a quiet village. Simple talk follows: under the Charter, asking for a well wouldn’t vanish into offices nobody knows. Decisions might stay close, maybe even land at a table where they themselves could take a seat. Paperwork doesn’t need to crawl through six hands before someone listens. Local choices could finally belong to those who live with them.

“It is not about magic,” I say, my voice growing stronger. “It is about attention. The kingdom has been run like a man trying to read a book by only looking at the gilded cover. The Charter asks us to read the pages. To see the words - the people, the needs, the skills - that the story is actually made of.”

A few heads tilt in quiet agreement. Eyebrows knit, lost in thought. Over there, a kitchen helper stands still, ears wide open.

A voice rang out next, sharp from the fringe of people gathered there.

“Witch! Go back to your frozen hell!”

A heavy splash breaks the silence. One by one, shapes blur in the afternoon light. Something soft hits the ground near your feet. Air carries a sour twist, sudden and sharp.

A stillness takes hold. The crimson arc of it crawls through air. My body stays locked. Movement isn’t possible.

But Noah moves.

One moment he’s just a man. Then - sudden - he becomes motion. Across the stone, fast like something fired. His limb snaps forward, not guarding, not standing firm. Instead, his palm meets the fruit midair. Close to my skin, almost touching, it bursts into mush. Red runs between his knuckles, thick and wet. Seeds scatter without sound.

People catch their breath. Then, nothing but quiet, heavy with shock.

Frozen in place, Noah faces away, breath heavy, chest rising and falling. From his open palm, the spoiled chunk slips through, landing with a soft thud on the wooden planks. A slow turn of the head - just a sliver - to catch where the throw came from among the people watching. Quiet settles on his features. Not peaceful. Still. The kind of stillness that comes right before ice breaks free and crashes down without warning.

A shadow slips through the onlookers - thin frame, lifeless fabric - as hands seize him from either side. Our men from the north move fast, though they seemed part of the noise just seconds before. Dull threads cling to his arms while grip tightens. One step late, and he might have vanished. Now he stumbles, caught between their hold.

Facing the crowd again, Noah stands quiet. Not a yell escapes him. Nothing sharp appears in his hands. Instead, his voice lifts - sharp, cold, like words chiseled from frozen stone.

“The Duchess Paige is your Chancellor,” he says, the sound carrying to the very edges of the square. “She speaks for a kingdom that includes you. That tomato was an attack on your own future.” His gaze sweeps over them. “The next hand that rises against her, or any who serve this new covenant, will not find my hand so… accommodating.”

The danger feels total. Air shifts because of it. Interest in the ‘witch’ mixes now with gut-level awareness - someone fierce stands near. That strength hides nothing. A pledge lives inside it.

That part of the talk finishes smoothly. Still, the meaning lands in pieces - first her dream, then his promise to guard it by any means necessary.

Afterward inside the stone rooms, water sloshes as Noah rubs his palm until it stings. That sour trace of decay has washed away - yet tension hums under his skin like a plucked wire.

Silence sits between us as I speak. He stays still while my words hang there. Apology leaves my mouth, eyes fixed on his face.

His eyes lift, caught off guard. “Why’s that?”

“That you had to do that. That because of me, you have to be… that.” The monster. The enforcer.

Water drips from his fingers before he steps close. His touch lands on my cheeks - fresh, calm. Eyes lock. Not a favor meant for me, those actions

I blink, confused.

He speaks quietly, gaze sharp. For them, he explains - needing they see a boundary exists. Not about anger, more like proof: beliefs deserve standing firm. Strength lives in what we defend without hesitation. The tomato missed its true target completely. Paige, protecting the Charter - that falls to me. My role sits right there. Aimed straight at it, yes. Gladly taken up, that duty. You focus on your part. Mine stays firm

A slow wave of clarity hits, pulling my affection into sharper focus. Not merely bound by marriage, we fit together like breath and bone. One carries the vision forward, while the other stands guard without speaking. Purpose links us - quietly, completely.

“We cannot live here,” I say, looking around at the gilded cage. “In these rooms. We’ll drown in silk and suspicion.”

He nods. “I’ve already arranged it. We take up residence in the Spymaster’s Citadel. It’s austere. It’s defensible. It’s real. It’s us.”

A hush hangs over the fortress, built tight inside the city with its hard grey walls and thin window slits. As if someone dragged a chunk of northern cold right into town. That first night, while walking past shadowed corners, I pluck a sprig from the winter rose - still blooming where it always did, tucked behind brick in the courtyard garden we used to know.

Out past the main hall, I step into the courtyard’s quiet space - just soil by the stone, warmed now and then by light. There, among dust and stillness, Noah spots me on my knees.

“What’s going in the ground?” he says, lowering himself next to me.

“A piece of home,” I say, patting the soil around the thorny stem. “A reminder. That beauty can grow in hard places. That something can be fragile and fierce at the same time.”

A pause hangs there. His eyes stay on my grimy fingers. After a breath, his voice comes - same as mine

Up above, I watch his face. Sunlight spills into those hazel eyes, pulling out tiny threads of gold. Right here on the ground, fingers gritty with soil, he feels like the old Noah again - like before we came back.

Into my space he moves, lips meeting mine. Slow it is, this kiss - deep, carrying something we both carry now that no one watches. Earth on his mouth, yes, but also the quiet flavor of maybe.

Later that evening, inside cold unfamiliar rooms, closeness comes not from titles, instead it rises from shared memory. Not rushed like before in northern storms, now movements carry weight, purpose. Each motion says we’re still here. Fingers brush faint scars across my stomach - traces left by childbirth - with careful warmth. Breath near my shoulder speaks less about fire, more about staying. About facing whatever grows in this sharp, tangled life we decided to grow.

Lying there later, our bodies caught in the Citadel's plain sheets, his fingers follow the curve of my shoulder.

“The Purists will not stop,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

“Beatrice died yesterday. In her asylum.”

A quiet door closed on him. This man shaped endless hurt, yet slipped away without sound. The world learns it like winter light - sharp, sudden. His tale doesn’t fade. It just stops.

“Does it feel over?” I ask.

“No,” he says, his arm tightening around me. “Her story is over. Ours is just being written. And we have all the pens.”

Truth sits with him. From walls built on silence and rock, power flows. The boy gains height each season. Down here, far from frost, a northern bloom pushes through warm earth. Still, shaping a realm that matches its folk goes on - day by hard day, moment by bright moment.