Morning came early.
Ariella woke to the muted sounds of axes splitting wood and the low murmur of guards changing shift in the yard below. She dressed quickly, eager and anxious for Frederick’s farewell. She wanted him to leave reassured. Wanted him to see that she was safe. Wanted him to believe that this strange, sudden marriage was not the disaster it could have been.
When she stepped into the courtyard, Frederick stood already saddled, reins in hand. The sky above was a winter-grey, though the air held the faint promise of sun.
She rushed forward. “Ye are leaving now?”
“I must,” he said, cupping her cheek. “I have clan matters waiting. And I can see ye are in capable hands.”
His gaze lifted over her shoulder.
Maxwell approached with measured steps, cloak gathered against the wind.
Frederick turned to him, extending a hand.
Maxwell took it, firm and steady.
Frederick spoke first. “I came prepared to drag me sister home if need be.”
Ariella groaned softly. “Frederick —”
“Hush,” he said with a faint grin, then looked back at Maxwell. “But she looks well. She looks… happy.”
Ariella’s breath caught.
Maxwell did not look at her. His eyes stayed on Frederick.
“She has a gift,” Maxwell said quietly, “for finding light in dark places.”
The words punched straight through her chest.
Something in his tone made her stomach flip. She stared at him, the world blurring for a moment.
Frederick released Maxwell’s hand with a nod. “Then I leave her in good care.”
Ariella stepped forward and hugged her brother tight. “Travel safe,” she whispered. “Send word when ye arrive home.”
“I will, and write to our maither, Ariella.”
He mounted his horse, gave her one last lingering look fraught with brotherly worry, and then rode toward the gates.
Ariella watched until the wind stole the last sight of him.
Silence settled as she stood in the courtyard, cloak tugged by the breeze.
Maxwell had not moved.
She felt his words echoing inside her,She has a gift for finding light in dark places.
Ariella swallowed, unsure what to do with the ache that bloomed in her chest. It was not sadness. Not joy. Something quieter, deeper, more dangerous.
Loneliness.
Not her own.
His.
She saw it now, the shadow behind his composure. The way he carried himself as if used to standing alone. The way he spoke carefully, touched sparingly, lived cautiously.
