There wasn’t a space in the castle that felt safe. Fervent seemed to linger in every corner, and if it wasn’t him, it was his daughter. They didn’t speak. They watched my every move, gesture, and word.

I found myself retreating to my room day after day. Yet even that space closed in, amplifying the silence, where my mind replayed every word, every conversation.

My only freedom came late at night. I’d roam the castle corridors near the king’s study. Nothing was ever there, not even a tired servant. No Wells, no hovering eyes, or need to perform.

I walked slower there, studying the portraits of white knights lining the walls. They all posed the same, stiff and tall, faces set in neutrality. Names etched beneath them: Mirelle Locke, Rowan Valmere, Benjamin Rookwood. Armor stands rested between each frame, gauntlets folded over sword hilts.

“…this cannot continue…”

I stopped.

The voice came faintly, pressed through a door ahead. Low and familiar. For a moment, I thought I’d imagined it, something conjured from want more than reason. Then it came again, clearer this time, and my chest tightened before I could stop it.

“We don’t have a choice.”

Collins.

I hastened my steps, quieter only as I neared the king’s study. The words were muffled, swallowed by thick wooden door, but the tension behind them wasn’t.

I leaned in just slightly.

The door opened.

I barely had time to step back before Collins stood there, the doorway framing him like I’d interrupted something I was never meant to see.

His expression hardened the moment he saw me. Behind him, Wulfric didn’t move. His gaze alone was enough. Steady, unreadable, and unmistakably displeased.

“…Your Highness,” Wulfric said. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

“I was just walking.” Heat rushed to my face, but I forced myself not to look away. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course not,” Collins cut in, his voice tight. He glanced back at the king. “If you’ll excuse us.”

He stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him with a quiet finality that made my chest feel smaller.

“I need to speak with you.”

Not a request.

I nodded.

Collins didn’t wait. He started down the hall, and I followed.

We didn’t stop until the corridor curved, until the study was well out of sight. Only then did he slow.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Up close, I could see it, the strain he was trying to hide. His posture was still perfect, his expression still composed, but it sat too tightly now. Like it might split if pressed any further.

“You’re supposed to stay out of sight,” he said. “Away from prying eyes. Not outside the king’s study.”

“I’m sorry, it’s the only quiet part of the castle.” I gripped my wrist. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I didn’t have time to write. I’m here to check in.” 

I looked at him. “You didn’t answer my letter.”

“I never received one.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I never received it,” he repeated, quieter this time, but no less certain.

A cold weight settled in my chest.

“I sent it just like the last one. I made sure.”

“Then it didn’t reach me.”

We both went still.

“You can’t write to me anymore,” he said, jaw tight. “For now. If letters are being intercepted, you’re only making yourself visible.”

“Then how do I reach you?”

He hesitated.

“If you need help, send one of your dresses home. Say it requires mending.”

I frowned. “That’s it?”

“It’ll be understood.”

Of course it would.

“What about home?” I asked, trying to ease the air between us.

“Not good.” He flicked a glance down the corridor, voice lowering. “Worse than we expected. That’s why I’m here – to see how things stand.”

“The whole point of me being here is to make things better. How can it be worse?”

“There are people involved who don’t want peace.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

He looked at me. “We need your best. No incidents. Can you do that?”

“I can, but…”

“Yes?”

“I need dance lessons. There’s a ball coming up, and if I’m going to blend in, I need to know how.”

Collins sighed, the strain showing plainly now. “Can’t you stay to the side? Say you’re unwell?”

“You said you’d teach me to be like Vivian. She can dance.”

“…Alright.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t have much time. I can show you the basics.”

He held out his hand.

“Now?”

“I don’t have much time.”

I took his hand, resting the other on his shoulder. He placed one at my waist.

“Shoulders back.”

I adjusted.

“No. Not like that.”

“Like this?”

“Better. Now let me lead. Follow my steps.”

My movements were clumsy and slow. I stepped on his feet more than once.

“Left. Left. Now, right.”

We moved down the hall.

“Turn your body—” He exhaled sharply. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m trying.”

“Winslet.”

My name cut through the space, sharper than before. We both stopped. He inhaled slowly, as if forcing something back into place.

“Again,” he said, more measured. “From the beginning.”

We tried. Once. Twice. It didn’t improve.

My timing was off, my steps uneven. His patience wore thin in the slight tightening of his hand at my waist, in the clipped corrections, in the silence that followed each mistake.

Finally, he let go.

“That’s enough.”

“I can keep going,” I said quickly.

“No. We’ll continue later.”

He straightened, composure settling back into place like nothing had happened.

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry about that. Practice what you can.”

He walked off, leaving me alone in the hall – watched by the portraits’ eyes.