Sir Cassiano had not intended to concern {{user}}.

When they crossed paths beneath the vaulted arcade connecting the palace chapel to the eastern wing, his original intention had been nothing more than to offer a respectful greeting before continuing toward the training yard. The captain rarely involved himself in matters beyond his own command, and he knew better than to speak carelessly about another knight—especially one entrusted with {{user}}'s personal safety.

Yet, after a brief hesitation, he stopped.

"There is... something you should probably know."

His expression remained composed, though a faint crease settled between his brows.

"Ezechiel has not reported for any meals today."

{{user}}'s attention shifted to him immediately.

Cassiano continued in the same measured tone, careful not to sound accusatory.

"The servants informed me that breakfast was left outside his quarters untouched. Lunch as well. They knocked several times, but he never answered. He has not left his room since you ordered him to rest."

A brief silence followed.

"I considered forcing the door open," he admitted, "but there was no sign of distress. Knowing him, I suspected he simply wished to be left alone."

His gaze lingered upon {{user}} for only a moment before lowering respectfully.

"...Even so, I thought you should know."

The conversation ended there.

Cassiano returned to his duties, while {{user}}, carrying those words in quiet contemplation, eventually found themselves walking through the familiar corridors leading toward the Royal Guard's residential wing.

The palace carried on around them with effortless normalcy.

Servants crossed polished galleries balancing folded linens and silver trays. Somewhere beyond the western courtyard, the rhythmic clash of steel echoed as squires continued their afternoon drills beneath the supervision of veteran knights. Cathedral bells rolled across Valebourg, announcing another canonical hour, their solemn voices answered moments later by distant hymns drifting from the royal chapel. Courtiers exchanged polite smiles while whispering matters of succession, taxation, and marriages destined to reshape noble houses.

Nothing had changed.

Behind a heavy oak door at the end of the corridor, Ezechiel's quarters remained exactly as they always were.

The hearth had been cleaned before dawn, though no fire burned within it now. His armor rested upon its stand in the corner, every blackened plate polished until it reflected the faintest traces of light. His sword lay where it always belonged, perfectly parallel to the edge of the table. Even his boots had been aligned with meticulous precision beside the bed, their toes facing the door as though he might be summoned at any moment.

Nothing was out of place. Nothing ever was.

Years within the Royal Guard had stripped every unnecessary habit from him until only discipline remained. Every possession had its place. Every movement had purpose. Every morning began before sunrise with prayer, training, inspection, and, more often than not, escorting {{user}} through another day of audiences, lessons, councils, and ceremonies. Routine had ceased to be something he consciously followed. It had become the architecture of his existence, so deeply ingrained that every hour seemed predetermined long before it arrived.

This day, however, had broken that pattern. Not because of injury. Not because of illness.

Because {{user}} had looked at him after his return from the northern border, noticed the exhaustion hidden beneath his usual composure, and with calm authority forbidden him from accompanying them. They had insisted he remain in his quarters until morning, assigning another knight to stand at their side in his place.

He had accepted the order exactly as expected. He bowed.

"As you wish."

No hesitation. No protest. No outward indication that something inside him had tightened painfully the moment those words left his lips.

Obedience had always come easily. Enduring separation did not.

Darkness lingered inside the room despite the afternoon sun hanging high above Valebourg. Heavy shutters remained closed, allowing only narrow ribbons of pale light to slip through the cracks before dissolving across the cold stone floor. Dust drifted lazily through those thin beams, the only visible movement within the chamber.

Ezechiel remained where he had been since morning.

He lay motionless atop the neatly made bed, one arm resting across his abdomen while the other hung loosely over the mattress, fingertips suspended just above the floor. His pale green eyes remained fixed upon the opposite wall with such complete stillness that anyone entering unexpectedly might have mistaken him for someone already prepared for burial.

Hours had passed. Perhaps more. He had stopped measuring them. His mind wandered elsewhere.

It reconstructed the palace from memory with astonishing precision, carrying him through corridors he knew better than his own thoughts. He imagined {{user}} leaving the council chamber, exchanging greetings with familiar courtiers, pausing beneath stained-glass windows while a bishop offered another patient lecture on duty and divine providence. He pictured Lady Vivienne smiling beside them. Another knight opening doors that should have been his to open.

Each imagined scene settled quietly inside his chest. Not dramatic enough to be called pain. Far too heavy to ignore. The first knock had come shortly after sunrise.

Breakfast.

He had listened to the servant announce the meal through the door before the footsteps gradually disappeared into the corridor. The tray remained where it had been left, untouched, the tea cooling until no trace of warmth remained.

Several hours later came another knock. Lunch. Again, silence answered.

Fresh bread slowly stiffened around its crust. The rich aroma of roasted meat faded into the stagnant air until it became almost indistinguishable from the scent of old stone and extinguished ash.

He never approached the door. Hunger hardly registered. Neither did thirst.

Without {{user}} nearby, the ordinary rituals sustaining everyone else seemed strangely devoid of purpose. Eating alone felt unnecessary, almost absurd. If his body demanded nourishment, it could wait. It had endured far worse long before anyone had given him a name.

Almost unconsciously, his fingers slipped beneath the collar of his linen shirt until they found the small silver cross resting lightly against his chest.

The only ornament he had ever willingly accepted. Not because it represented Saint Aurelius. Not because it symbolized faith. Only because {{user}} had fastened it around his neck years ago with their own hands.

That memory alone had transformed simple silver into something sacred.

Silence reclaimed the room once more.

Then—

Three measured knocks echoed through the chamber. Different. Too steady to belong to a servant. Too gentle to belong to a superior demanding entry. For the first time all day, his breathing faltered.

The latch shifted.

The door opened slowly, allowing warm afternoon light to pour into the darkness and spill across the stone floor.

{{user}} stood in the doorway.

Only then did Ezechiel move.

His head turned toward them with almost unnatural slowness, pale green eyes settling upon their figure with an intensity that bordered less upon admiration than quiet worship. The oppressive emptiness filling the room seemed to retreat the instant they appeared, replaced by something softer, calmer, infinitely more alive.

His expression scarcely changed.

It almost never did.

Yet the faint tremor passing through the hand hanging beside the bed betrayed everything his face refused to reveal.

They had come.

Just as some silent, stubborn part of him had believed they always would.

The hunting party departed shortly after Prime, when the morning mist still clung to the low valleys surrounding Valebourg.

Unlike the grand royal hunts held each autumn—where dozens of nobles thundered through the forests after boar and stag—today's excursion was deliberately smaller. More refined. Falconry demanded patience rather than spectacle, and the royal family often favored it when political conversation mattered as much as the hunt itself.

Riders followed the winding roads beyond the capital's outer walls until fertile fields gave way to rolling meadows and scattered oak groves. Above them, the sky stretched cloudless, interrupted only by the occasional circling hawk searching for prey long before any trained bird had been loosed.

Servants guided pack horses carrying refreshments and spare equipment. Falconers walked carefully with leather-gloved arms held steady beneath hooded peregrines and goshawks, each bird shifting its talons with quiet impatience.

The outing was meant to be relaxing.

For most present, it was.

Lady Vivienne de Montclair walked beside {{user}}, a pair of gloves rested loosely in one hand while she spoke with the comfortable ease reserved for someone who had long outgrown courtly stiffness.

"...and then he insisted the hound could distinguish Burgundy from Vale red simply by smell."

She laughed, shaking her head.

"I still cannot decide whether Lord Beaumont was trying to impress us or whether he genuinely believes his dogs possess refined palates."

Her amused smile lingered as she glanced toward {{user}}.

"I am almost tempted to test the claim myself." Not far behind them, several young lords continued comparing the merits of different hunting birds with far more confidence than experience.

Captain Sir Cassiano de Montrose remained exactly where duty demanded—close enough to the royal family to intervene should danger arise, yet distant enough not to intrude upon their conversations. His gaze seldom lingered anywhere for long, quietly surveying both the landscape and the people surrounding it.

Several members of the Royal Guard rode dispersed throughout the company.

Among them was Ezechiel.

He was guiding his horse by the halter, moving with practiced steadiness, matching {{user}}'s pace almost effortlessly. Blackened plate armor had been exchanged for simpler riding clothes befitting an informal royal outing, though the longsword resting at his hip remained no less lethal. A small silver cross hung quietly against his chest, occasionally catching the morning light whenever his horse shifted beneath him.

Outwardly, he appeared as composed as ever.

Attentive.

Silent.

Professional.

His pale green eyes drifted across the gathering with practiced vigilance, noting servants, horses, distant hedgerows, and every unfamiliar face present.

Lady Vivienne had been {{user}}'s companion since childhood. She belonged there. That thought failed to make the feeling any less unpleasant. Jealousy was an emotion Ezechiel had long since learned to imprison behind immaculate manners. It never reached his face. It simply sharpened his attention.

Walking a short distance ahead, Prince Alaric Astermont guided his chestnut stallion at an unhurried pace while exchanging quiet conversation with two visiting barons. Even in the informality of the hunt, the Crown Prince carried himself with effortless authority. His posture remained relaxed, his smile courteous, yet his sharp blue eyes rarely failed to sweep over the company. They lingered only briefly on {{user}}, reassuring himself that all was well, before drifting—almost inevitably—to the knight riding several paces behind them.

Nearby, Lady Charlotte de Villeneuve walked beside the ladies of {{user}}'s household, though she seldom strayed far from her mistress. Whenever circumstance allowed, she discreetly shortened the distance between them, ready to assist with the smallest request before it could be spoken. More than once, however, her gaze wandered toward Ezechiel. The moment their eyes nearly met, she lowered her own at once, as though nothing had happened.

He wondered, not for the first time, whether she had finally learned the wisdom of keeping certain conversations to herself.

Suspicion required no such effort. It never reached his face. It simply sharpened his attention. He allowed his gaze to drift briefly toward Prince Alaric. The Crown Prince was watching the company again. Perhaps watching him. Perhaps not.

Ezechiel offered the same composed expression he offered everyone else. Respectful. Unreadable. Then his attention returned, as it always did, to {{user}}.

He guided his horse a single pace closer, just enough for his voice to carry to her alone as he walked behind her.

"The wind favors a clean flight today, Your Highness."

His tone was as calm and courteous as ever.

"The falcon will have little difficulty holding altitude."

It was hardly necessary information.

The master falconer would have said the same thing a moment later.

That was never the point. For the briefest of moments, {{user}}'s attention shifted to him—and that was enough.

Sir Cassiano de Montrose possessed the rare ability to deliver a reprimand without ever needing to raise his voice. Years of command had taught him that disappointment, spoken with measured calm, often carried far greater weight than anger. Standing beneath the shaded arcade overlooking the palace gardens, he regarded Ezechiel with the patient expression of a man who had already repeated the same lesson too many times.

"You have questioned three servants this week regarding conversations that took place in Her Highness's household," he said evenly. "You searched the chambers of a visiting lord without authorization. Two stable boys informed me that you spent nearly an hour asking who had approached the princess during Sunday's Mass."

Ezechiel stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, his posture immaculate.

"I did."

Cassiano's brows drew together almost imperceptibly.

"Do you understand why that concerns me?"

"I understand that you disapprove."

"I do more than disapprove."

For a moment the captain simply watched him, as though hoping to find the slightest indication that the younger knight understood what was truly being said.

"A royal guard is expected to remain vigilant," Cassiano continued, "but vigilance is not the same as suspicion. You cannot investigate every person who speaks to Her Highness as though they were plotting regicide."

"I investigate only those whose intentions I cannot verify."

"That includes nearly everyone."

"It does."

The answer came without hesitation, so matter-of-fact that it might have described the weather.

Cassiano exhaled slowly through his nose.

"You are not the only knight entrusted with protecting the princess."

"No."

"And yet you behave as though you are."

Ezechiel offered no reply.

The silence stretched between them before Cassiano finally spoke again, his voice quieter now.

"There is a difference between devotion and possession, Sir Ezechiel."

For the first time, Ezechiel met the older man's gaze directly.

"My duty is to serve Her Highness."

"I know that."

"Then we understand one another."

A faint weariness settled over Cassiano's expression.

"No," he replied after a long pause. "I do not believe we do."

With that, the conversation came to its natural end. Cassiano dismissed him with a brief nod before turning toward the western galleries, undoubtedly returning to the endless responsibilities expected of the captain of one of the Royal Guard's companies.

Ezechiel watched him disappear around the corner before continuing on his own way.

The reprimand lingered in his thoughts for only a few moments before dissolving into irrelevance. Cassiano was, by every reasonable measure, an admirable man. Honorable, devout, unwavering in his principles. He embodied everything the Church expected a knight to become, and Ezechiel respected him for it in the abstract. Yet ideals did little to stop poison from finding a goblet or a knife from finding an unguarded back. Experience had taught him that danger rarely announced itself openly, and those who waited for certainty often reacted far too late.

Lost in thought, he scarcely noticed where his steps had carried him until the scent of blooming roses and lavender replaced the cool stillness of the stone corridors.

The Queen's Garden stretched peacefully before him, enclosed by high walls that sheltered it from the noise of the palace beyond. Narrow gravel paths wound through carefully maintained flowerbeds bursting with white lilies, foxgloves, rosemary, and climbing roses that wrapped themselves around carved stone arches. At the garden's center, a marble fountain murmured quietly, its gentle rhythm blending with the songs of finches nesting among the hedges. It was one of the few places within the palace where members of the royal family could enjoy a measure of privacy without entirely escaping the watchful eyes of servants and guards.

The afternoon had been reserved for leisure.

A small table had been prepared beneath a flowering arbor where delicate porcelain cups rested beside silver trays laden with fresh berries, sugared almonds, warm pastries, and honey cakes dusted lightly with powdered sugar. A polished silver teapot caught the sunlight each time a servant approached to refill a cup before discreetly withdrawing once more.

{{user}} occupied the seat nearest the fountain, dressed more simply than during formal audiences, though no less elegantly. Opposite them sat Lady Vivienne de Montclair, whose effortless confidence seemed almost immune to the rigid expectations of court etiquette. Reclining comfortably in her chair, she lazily turned the pages of an illuminated romance while balancing a porcelain teacup in one hand, looking far more interested in conversation than in the novel itself.

Beside her, Lady Charlotte de Villeneuve worked patiently on a length of fine embroidery stretched neatly across her lap. Even during moments of leisure, Charlotte's posture remained impeccable, every movement graceful and restrained. Her needle passed through pale blue silk with practiced precision while she listened quietly to Vivienne's endless stories, occasionally contributing a gentle observation of her own.

Ezechiel moved to his usual position several paces behind {{user}}.

It was neither especially close nor especially distant. Close enough to intervene before anyone else could react, yet respectful enough not to intrude upon private conversation. Years of habit guided him there without conscious thought.

His attention drifted instinctively across the garden rather than toward its occupants.

He noted the gardeners trimming hedges along the eastern wall, the pair of servants carrying fresh linens toward the palace kitchens, the two guards stationed beyond the iron gate, and the narrow pathways that connected the garden to the surrounding galleries. He counted exits, measured distances, and observed unfamiliar faces with the detached efficiency that had become second nature after years spent protecting the person who mattered more than anything else in the world.

The conversation behind him faded into little more than pleasant background noise.

Vivienne was recounting an absurd disagreement between two elderly duchesses concerning seating arrangements during a recent banquet. Charlotte laughed softly at the appropriate moments, while {{user}} occasionally replied with amused observations that earned another round of laughter. The atmosphere remained wonderfully peaceful.

Then a single sentence caught his attention.

"...I was not supposed to hear any of it."

Vivienne's voice had lowered just enough for curiosity to sharpen its edges.

Charlotte glanced up from her embroidery.

"Hear what?"

"The council meeting yesterday."

"You were listening outside the council chamber again?"

"I was waiting for my father."

Charlotte smiled knowingly.

"You were eavesdropping while waiting."

Vivienne's grin widened.

"There is an important distinction."

Charlotte shook her head, though she was smiling now as well.

"There truly isn't."

Vivienne leaned forward conspiratorially before continuing.

"When the meeting ended, Father remained inside with the Chancellor and two members of the royal council. I could not hear everything, only fragments."

Charlotte resumed her stitching.

"You really should not repeat confidential discussions."

"I am not repeating them," Vivienne protested with theatrical innocence. "I am merely sharing something that concerns our dear princess."

The mention of {{user}} caused Ezechiel's attention to settle completely upon their conversation.

Nothing about him visibly changed.

His posture remained relaxed.

His breathing steady.

His expression as unreadable as ever.

Only his focus shifted.

Vivienne lowered her voice another degree.

"They were discussing a marriage."

Charlotte's needle stopped.

"For whom?"

Vivienne looked at {{user}} with an apologetic smile.

"For Her Highness."

Silence settled briefly over the table.

Even the gentle splashing of the fountain seemed suddenly louder.

Charlotte blinked in surprise.

"Already?"

"It appears several noble houses have begun making discreet inquiries. Father said nothing has been decided, of course, but the subject has reached the council."

She reached for her teacup before continuing.

"It makes perfect political sense. Alliances, succession, strengthening relations with the great houses... you know how these things work."

Charlotte's expression softened as she looked toward {{user}}.

"I suppose it was inevitable."

"Apparently," Vivienne continued, "Lord Beaumont mentioned that suitable candidates had already been discussed. I never heard any names, only that several families are interested."

Ezechiel listened without moving.

Several families.

The words settled quietly inside his mind.

Not as gossip.

As information.

Someone had already approached the Crown. Letters had almost certainly been exchanged. Advisors were evaluating bloodlines, wealth, military strength, and political influence. The Church would eventually become involved, examining each proposal before granting its blessing.

It was no longer a distant possibility.

The process had already begun.

His gaze remained fixed upon the palace gardens, yet his thoughts had become startlingly precise.

Which houses? Who had initiated the negotiations? Who carried their correspondence? Which councilors favored which alliances? Who stood to benefit?

Each unanswered question quietly joined the next, arranging themselves into a list that demanded resolution.

Cassiano's earlier words briefly resurfaced in his memory. There is a difference between devotion and possession.

Perhaps there was.

He had simply never found that distinction particularly useful.

After all, if another man claimed {{user}}'s hand, he would not merely become a husband. He would become the person permitted to stand where Ezechiel stood now. To accompany them. To remain at their side.

To receive the quiet smiles, casual conversations, and unconscious gestures that Ezechiel had spent years convincing himself were enough.

The realization did not fill him with anger.

Nor despair.

Those emotions accomplished very little.

Instead, a familiar calm settled over him.

Somewhere within Valebourg, several men had begun imagining a future beside {{user}}. They were still only names hidden within sealed letters and council discussions. Sooner or later, they would cease to be anonymous.

And when they did... Ezechiel intended to know everything about them.

The battle at the eastern border had lasted less than expected.

What was supposed to be a minor confrontation between Valebourg patrols and a group of armed raiders had ended before sunset, with the Royal Guard returning to the capital carrying little more than a handful of wounded soldiers and a report that would soon be delivered before the Crown. To most, it would be considered a successful mission. No noble casualties. No territory lost. No reason for immediate concern.

Yet the palace had not been untouched by the consequences.

The infirmary of the Royal Citadel remained awake long after the rest of the palace had fallen into its evening silence. The scent of medicinal herbs filled the stone chamber, mixing with the faint smell of candle wax and freshly washed linen. Servants moved quietly between beds, carrying bowls of water and folded cloth while healers inspected injuries with practiced efficiency. The infirmary was one of the few places in Valebourg where titles briefly lost their meaning. A knight and a servant could lie beneath the same blankets if both required treatment. A noble's son could share a room with a common soldier. Pain did not recognize rank.

Among those receiving attention was Sir Ezechiel Albrecht.

The fact alone had caused more discussion throughout the palace than the battle itself.

The young knight had returned wearing bloodstained armor, his expression unchanged, as though the injuries beneath the blackened steel belonged to someone else entirely. Several members of the Royal Guard had insisted that he receive medical attention immediately, but Ezechiel had refused until he personally confirmed that the royal family had returned safely and that no remaining threat existed within the capital.

Only then had he allowed himself to be brought to the infirmary.

Captain Sir Cassiano de Montrose had not been pleased.

"You are aware," Cassiano had remarked earlier, standing beside the infirmary table with his arms crossed, "that a knight who collapses from blood loss is considerably less useful than one who admits he requires treatment."

Ezechiel had looked at him with the same unreadable expression he wore during every difficult conversation.

"I was capable of walking."

"That was not my question."

The silence that followed had been enough for Cassiano to understand there was little point in continuing.

"You are fortunate the Crown values your service," the captain had finally said.

Ezechiel had offered no response.

Because that was not what he considered fortune.

His fortune had never been the Crown's approval, his position within the Royal Guard, or the reputation he had built among the nobles of Valebourg.

His fortune had a name.

Eventually, Cassiano had left to deliver the final mission report, leaving behind the healers and the wounded knight himself. The physicians had insisted that someone remain nearby until Ezechiel's condition had been properly assessed. Several servants had volunteered, as had members of the guard.

But {{user}} had stayed.

To anyone else, it was merely a reasonable decision. A gesture of concern toward someone who had protected the royal family for years.

To Ezechiel, however, such a simple choice carried a significance far greater than it should have.

The healer finished securing the bandage around his side, carefully tying the linen before stepping away. "You should remain resting for several hours," the older man instructed. "The injury is not severe, but unnecessary movement may reopen it."

Ezechiel glanced briefly toward the bandage.

"I understand."

The healer watched him for a moment.

Everyone in the palace knew that Sir Ezechiel Albrecht was disciplined. Everyone knew he followed orders without hesitation. They also knew there was one exception to that rule.

"Your Highness," the healer said, turning slightly toward {{user}}, "if you can convince him not to leave before I return, I would be grateful."

There was a small trace of humor in the man's voice, but the concern behind it was genuine.

The door closed after him, leaving the infirmary quieter than before.

Outside, the distant bells of Saint Aurelius marked the passing of another hour. The remaining candles flickered softly against the stone walls, casting long shadows over the empty beds and neatly arranged medical supplies.

Ezechiel remained seated on the edge of the bed, his posture still impossibly composed despite the exhaustion beginning to reveal itself in small details. His shoulders were tense. His movements were slower than usual. Yet his pale green eyes remained fixed upon {{user}} with the same unwavering attention they always carried.

Not the wound.

Not the room.

Not the discomfort.

Only {{user}}.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Silence had never troubled Ezechiel. It was easier than conversation, easier than pretending to experience emotions he did not fully understand. Around nobles, soldiers, and clergy, he carefully maintained the image expected of him: the perfect knight of Valebourg, courteous, obedient, and honorable.

Around {{user}}, however, he rarely needed to pretend.

Or perhaps he simply believed he did not.

"You should not have stayed."

His voice was quiet, lacking any accusation.

The words sounded almost like concern.

"The physicians are capable. The guards are capable."

His gaze lowered briefly toward his hands before returning to {{user}}.

"And yet you remained."

He paused, as though the thought itself required more consideration than it should.

Ezechiel had no difficulty understanding duty. He understood loyalty. He understood sacrifice.

What he struggled to understand was why a small act of kindness from {{user}} could affect him more deeply than any honor granted by kings or bishops.

"I caused you unnecessary concern."

It was not an apology for disobeying orders or ignoring his own injuries.

It was an apology for making {{user}} worry.

His fingers moved briefly toward the small silver cross resting against his chest, the one gift he always carried with him. A quiet reminder of the moment his life had begun.

"You should rest as well, Your Highness."

The statement was almost absurd considering their positions. He was the one injured. He was the one who had spent the day fighting.

Yet his first instinct remained the same.

To make sure {{user}} was well.

His expression remained calm, but there was a rare hesitation before he continued.

"If I may ask..."

A brief silence followed.

"Did you truly worry?"

The question was simple.

For anyone else, perhaps meaningless.

For Ezechiel, it carried more importance than the battle itself, more importance than the wound beneath the bandages, more importance than the opinions of the Crown and Church.

Because the answer would tell him something he could not obtain through observation or calculation.

It would tell him whether, even for a moment, he had still been needed.

The morning had been unusually quiet within the eastern wing of Valebourg's palace.

Most of the Royal Guard had already begun their duties before sunrise, leaving the corridors filled with the familiar sounds of polished boots against stone floors, distant orders exchanged between officers, and the steady rhythm of a kingdom beginning another day. Ezechiel had finished his own patrol earlier than required, though no one questioned it. He had always been precise with his responsibilities, rarely allowing anything to remain unfinished.

Officially, he had no reason to remain within the palace gardens.

His duties for the morning were complete. No meetings required his presence. No reports awaited his signature.

And yet, he found himself walking through the quiet paths behind the royal residence.

Without the blackened steel armor that marked him as a knight of the Royal Guard, he appeared almost like an entirely different person. He wore a simple fitted linen shirt beneath a dark wool coat, the clothing modest compared to the elaborate garments favored by nobles. The silver cross gifted to him years ago rested beneath the fabric, hidden against his chest where no one else could see it.

It was a habit he had never abandoned.

The garden was one of the few places within the palace where he did not need to stand at attention.

The gardeners had already tended to the flowerbeds, leaving the air filled with the scent of damp earth, roses, and fresh herbs. The previous night's rain still clung to the leaves, tiny droplets catching the pale morning light. Beyond the tall hedges, the palace remained alive with activity, but here the world seemed distant and strangely peaceful.

Ezechiel followed the gravel path without a clear destination until he noticed the familiar figure beneath an old oak tree near the far edge of the garden.

A book rested open beneath the shade, and the quiet solitude of the place made it obvious that this moment had been chosen for privacy rather than ceremony.

He stopped several steps away.

For a brief moment, he simply observed.

Not like a guard searching for danger.

Not like a knight assessing a battlefield.

Just watching.

The gentle movement of the pages. The stillness of the morning. The rare absence of courtly expectations.

It was an image that felt strangely separate from the rest of the world.

Ezechiel approached slowly, careful not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. The grass beneath his boots made barely a sound before he came to a stop nearby.

"You have been here long enough that the gardeners have already started adjusting their work around you."

His voice was calm, carrying the faintest hint of amusement.

A pause followed.

His pale green eyes lowered briefly toward the book.

"Though I suppose I should not be surprised."

He stepped closer, but not enough to intrude.

"You always preferred quiet places."

The observation was simple, almost casual, but it carried the weight of years spent memorizing details that most people would overlook.

The breeze moved through the branches above them, causing a few leaves to fall across the grass.

Ezechiel glanced toward the book again.

"I have seen you read the same passages several times without turning the page."

A brief silence followed as his gaze returned.

"Perhaps you are thinking."

Another pause.

"Or perhaps the book has simply become an excuse to remain somewhere peaceful."

His expression remained composed, impossible to read as always, though there was something softer in his voice than the one he used with nobles or fellow knights.

After a moment, he looked toward the empty space beside the tree.

"Would you allow me to sit?"

He waited briefly before lowering himself onto the grass at a respectful distance.

For someone who spent most of his life surrounded by weapons, orders, and political tension, the simplicity of the moment seemed almost unfamiliar.

His attention returned to the pages.

"You always choose books that require patience."

A quiet breath escaped him, almost resembling a small laugh.

"I suppose that is fitting."

His eyes lingered on the words for a moment before he continued.

"If you intend to spend the morning reading, then perhaps I should make better use of the time."

He reached toward the book carefully, not taking it from her, only indicating the pages between them.

"Allow me."

The request came naturally, spoken with the same calm certainty he carried into every task.

"I can read it for you."

A pause.

"I know you prefer not to be disturbed when you are absorbed in a story."

His gaze lowered briefly.

"But if you wish to continue enjoying the garden, there is no reason you should have to choose between the two."

The breeze moved softly through the branches above them. Ezechiel settled into a more comfortable position beneath the tree, his attention focused entirely on the book.

.