The cold rushed into the study with every opening of the door to the courtyard, a reminder of the short winter days and the approaching Solstice. Richard set aside another dispatch from the eastern border—all was quiet there, suspiciously quiet—and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his palm. The festival was in a week, yet a tense silence filled the castle, broken only by the wind whistling through the arrow slits.

Three months. Only three months since that night he broke down the door to her chambers. Since then, war had given way to a fragile truce, and then to something he was even afraid to name. Not love. Not yet. But warmth—yes. She had stopped smashing vases and had begun to notice how his house was run. He had stopped seeing in her just a spoiled capital doll and had begun to notice the sharp mind hidden behind the arrogance, and the weariness in her eyes after a long day spent trying to decipher the household ledgers.

But these last two weeks... something had changed again. Not for the worse. Differently. He caught himself observing her like a scout in enemy territory, gathering strange, troubling, and maddeningly thrilling details.

This morning, he had found her in the garden, pale, leaning against a column, breathing deeply the cold air. When he asked if everything was alright, she brushed him off, muttering something about the stuffy rooms. But he had seen. Seen how yesterday, she who loved spicy southern sauces, had pushed away a plate of pungent stew with disgust. How she had poured herself grape juice instead of wine. How her breasts, which he had come to know so well over these months, had become slightly more sensitive under his touch, making her flinch not just from desire.

The thought, insistent and loud, had been pounding in his temples for days. An heir. An heir to Red Cliff.

He rose from the table, walked over to the fireplace. The flames reflected in his light brown eyes. Could it be? So soon? A storm of conflicting emotions churned within him. Foolish, boyish elation. The crushing weight of responsibility—now not just for her, but for a potential new life. And a strange, all-consuming tenderness that tightened his throat.

He didn't care if it was a boy or a girl. He didn't care about the ancient customs that demanded a son. If this child was even half as headstrong and vibrant as its mother... that would be more than enough.

But he said nothing. He waited. Watched. Afraid to scare her off or be mistaken. And afraid to hope. This hope was more terrifying than any Morgar raid.

Evening descended upon the castle, wrapping it in silence. Richard walked to their shared chambers—another change that had happened naturally a month ago. She was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair, dressed in a warm woolen peignoir. Her reflection in the mirror was thoughtful, almost detached.

He stopped behind her, placing his large, sword-calloused hands on her shoulders. Their gazes met in the mirror.

"Cold today," he said, and his voice sounded unnaturally hoarse.

She nodded, not looking away.

Richard took a deep breath, feeling the muscles tense under his palms. The mask of the count, the self-assured warrior, cracked. Suddenly, he felt like that fifteen-year-old youth, having climbed onto a roof with no idea how to get down.

"Listen," he began, looking at her reflection rather than at her, as if it were easier that way. "I need to ask you something. And don't be offended, for heaven's sake."

He felt her freeze.

"These past few days..." he hesitated, groping for words that wouldn't sound like an accusation or an interrogation. "Are you... are you feeling well? Truly?"

He saw her eyes widen slightly in the mirror, but she said nothing.

«Just...» Richard's hands came to rest on her shoulders. Then his touch softened and shifted forward, his fingertips finding the delicate line of her collarbone. He began to stroke it slowly, a gentle, wordless attempt to calm her. "I've noticed a few little things. In the garden this morning. And at supper. And... in general."

He fell silent, cursing his clumsiness. All his life, he had solved problems directly and bluntly. This... subtlety threw him off balance.

"I'm no physician," he spoke again, almost in a whisper now, leaning closer to her ear. "And I don't want to speculate. But if there's even a shadow of a doubt... if you think that... something might have changed..." He swallowed. "Maybe we should call the healer? Just... to make sure you're alright?"

He fell silent, and stillness settled in the room, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. His hands still rested on her shoulders, and he felt her every movement, every breath. He waited. Waited for her anger, her mockery, her denial. Waited for anything but this unbearable, hope-filled silence.

The scent of pine needles and wax filled Redcliffe’s great hall, overpowering the usual smells of smoke and iron. A giant fir tree, brought from the foothills, brushed the dark beams of the ceiling with its tip, ready for decoration. A week before the Solstice Festival, the castle usually buzzed with cheerful bustle. Now, it hummed with anxiety.

Richard stood by the fireplace in his study, clutching another letter delivered by a royal courier. The envelope was sealed with King Roland’s personal signet. The monarch’s anger in his words was as cold as the ice in the fortress moat, and just as heavy. The princess’s flight. Theodore’s direct disobedience. Their shelter here, in the heart of his lands. Each word was a hammer blow upon the anvil of his loyalty. He tossed the letter onto the table beside the others—a more restrained but no less concerned missive from Queen Genevieve, and a missive from Crown Prince Alexander, laconic as a blade stroke, addressed personally to his brother.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling a weariness deeper than any battle. Then his gaze fell on the door leading to their chambers. Not her chambers. Theirs. The thought was still unfamiliar, but now it carried a new, staggering weight.

Only a handful of people knew. Her faithful maid, Alice, whose eyes had gone round with reverent dread. Old healer Garrett, who had sworn secrecy upon his staff carved with serpents. Him. And her.

Pregnancy. The term was laughably small, as ephemeral as the first frost on a windowpane. But the fact was harder than the granite of the castle walls. Their political contract, their hard-won truce, had suddenly acquired the most tangible flesh. And that fact changed everything.

He pushed away from the fireplace and left the study. In the corridor, he collided with Theodore—his younger brother looked both guilty and resolute, as if ready to receive another portion of justified reprimand. Richard merely clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing until the bones cracked. "Later," he said curtly. His thoughts were elsewhere now.

He found her in the small sunroom overlooking the inner courtyard. She was sitting wrapped in a shawl, watching the blizzard begin to blanket the training yard outside the window. Her posture held none of its former defiant tension, only a deep, focused pensiveness. On the small table beside her stood an untouched goblet of ginger tea—Garrett had ordered her to avoid wine.

Richard paused in the doorway, giving her time to notice him. "Cold?" he asked, and his voice, accustomed to giving orders, sounded unusually quiet.

She shook her head without turning. He entered, walked to the fireplace, and added a log. The flame eagerly licked at the dry wood. He turned to her, leaning against the stone mantel.

"A letter from the King," he said directly, without preamble. "He threatens a dungeon for Theo and a fine that would beggar half the county." He paused, studying her profile. "The Queen pleads for prudence. Alexander... Alexander demands explanations I do not have."

He pushed off from the fireplace and walked to the window, standing beside her but not too close, watching the same blizzard. "Before, I would have already ridden for Almarion, broken lances in a dispute, demanded justice or at least clarity. Issued a challenge." His fingers tapped involuntarily on the cold stone of the windowsill. "Now I cannot. Because here, under this roof, is now the most vulnerable and important thing I have. You. And this... this tiny chance."

He finally turned to her, and his brown eyes, usually so confident, held a rare uncertainty. "I don’t know how to be a father. My own was too busy with the county to teach me anything but duty. But I want this. Desperately. Be it a son to teach to hold a sword and saddle a horse, or a daughter..." He faltered, and the corners of his mouth twitched in an awkward half-smile. "Or a daughter whom, I fear, I will protect from the entire world, including her own witless suitors."

He took a step closer. His powerful frame cast a large shadow over her, but the gesture held no threat. "All of this—the letters, the King’s wrath, even the princess’s flight... that is a storm outside. But you and I, we have silence now. And this festival that must be observed. And a fir tree that needs decorating." He reached out, not touching her, palm upturned—a gesture of offering more than demand. "I am not asking for love. I don’t even know yet what this is between us. But I am asking for... a truce. Not for the court. Not for our fathers. For us. For him. Or for her."

The air in pre-festival Redcliffe was special. It smelled not only of pine, chimney smoke, and sweet pastries, but also of unrestrained joy, which seemed to melt even the December cold. Snow fell in large, lazy flakes, transforming the castle town into an illustration from an old fairy tale. Richard walked beside her, his dark blue cloak merging with the approaching dusk, only his auburn hair standing out in the half-light. He cast brief, cautious glances her way, watching her every step on the already freezing snow.

The noise of the approaching fair grew with each step—laughter, the jingle of sleigh bells, the deafening chorus of children's voices. They turned onto the main street leading to the market square, and Richard involuntarily slowed his pace, giving her time to look around. He had allowed himself to relax today, yielding to something warm and unfamiliar. He had seen these lights every year, but today, through the prism of her presence and the quiet, terrifying secret they now shared, everything seemed brighter, sharper, more significant.

"Well then, Countess," his voice sounded beside her, a little louder than usual to be heard over the festive din, and it held an uncharacteristic softness, almost awkwardness. "It seems all of Redcliffe decided to celebrate the Solstice a week early. I hope the crowd won't be too tiring."

He automatically offered his elbow slightly forward, offering support but not insisting. His attention was already scanning the crowd: there flashed the familiar cloak of one of his squires, flirting with the blacksmith's daughter; over there—a group of garrison soldiers with mugs of hot cider. Everyone was here. And no one knew.

In the center of the square, like a huge, frost-sparkling giant, rose the fir tree. Its branches bent under the weight of glass baubles, ribbons, and gilded nuts. A round dance circled it, and the laughter of young voices rang purer than bells in the frosty air. Richard felt the corners of his mouth twitch involuntarily.

"It looks... grand," he commented dryly, but without his usual sharpness. "Last year's tree was a third smaller. Apparently, Bailiff Harry decided we deserved a special Solstice."

He guided her slightly to the side, towards a row of stalls selling hot drinks and pastries. The aroma of mulled wine, cinnamon, and roasted chestnuts was almost tangible. Richard caught himself looking at the steaming mugs. Then his gaze darted to her face, and he quickly looked away.

"Mulled wine is, alas, forbidden," he said, and his tone held not a command, but a statement of a shared, almost allied fact. "But it seems Mrs. Cooper over there sells hot apple juice with honey and spices. They say it's no worse. Would you like to try some?"

He didn't wait for an answer, taking a step towards the stall, but immediately turned back, making sure she was close. His movements, usually so confident and broad, had become more cautious, as if he were navigating a minefield, not a festive crowd.

Taking two clay mugs of the steaming drink, he handed one to her, waiting for her to remove her muff to take it.

"Careful, it's hot," he warned, and it sounded almost fatherly, making him frown. He took a sip from his own mug, not taking his eyes off her. The juice really was good—sweet, warming, without the alcoholic aftertaste of duty and oblivion. Completely different.

"Not bad," he concluded, watching the dancers by the tree. "Almost like the real thing. Although, I must admit, I wouldn't say no to something stronger right now. Especially considering the letters that keep arriving from Almarion."

He grimaced, remembering the royal wrath and his fugitive brother, hidden somewhere in the castle. But he immediately pushed those thoughts away. Not now. Not here. This evening was for something else.

"In a week," he said suddenly, looking at the lights reflected in the glass baubles on the tree. "The Solstice. There will be a feast at the castle. We'll have to attend. But, I think, we can leave early if... if you get tired."

He took another sip of juice, feeling a warmth spreading through him, but not from the drink. He stood with her amidst the laughter and lights, guarding the most important secret of his life, and for the first time in a long while, the world beyond Redcliffe's walls did not seem hostile or burdensome to him. It was merely a backdrop. A backdrop for this fragile, newfound peace.