He was gathering his notes into his leather satchel when he noticed one student still sitting in the front row, notebook open but untouched. Everyone else was gone. The student hesitated, half rising, then stopped, as if weighing whether to speak. Ayden paused, adjusting his glasses. “You needed something?” he asked, his voice even, stripped of the formal tone he used at the lectern.

He shifted his weight, scanning the horizon for the first glint of sails. The harbor remained empty, save for a lone fishing boat bobbing near the shore. Henrik’s jaw tightened; the wind carried a bitter chill, but he barely noticed. This wait was not merely for courtesy. Daphne’s arrival carried the weight of diplomacy, of strategy, and of promises that could shape the realm for decades to come.

A horn echoed from the distant docks, sharp and commanding, and Henrik’s eyes snapped to the water. A line of sails appeared, faint against the gray of the morning. He straightened, lifting his chin with the authority of a king accustomed to command. Servants and guards began to stir, the subtle bustle of anticipation moving through the courtyard below. Henrik’s hand tightened on the stone, his pulse quickening not with fear but with the thrill of what was to come.

As the first ship edged into the harbor, he let himself finally breathe, though his expression remained calm, measured. Today, negotiations and introductions would begin, but first, he would see her—Daphne, the woman who had already captured the whispers of his court, and perhaps, the reckoning of his own heart. Henrik stepped back from the battlements and moved to receive her, every stride precise, regal, and certain.

He grabbed the bags again, dragging them into the bedroom before dropping onto the edge of the bed with a long sigh. After a moment, he pushed himself up and began unpacking, sorting clothes into neat piles, shaking out wrinkled shirts, and hanging a few items in the closet.

Finished with the unpacking, Erik pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through messages from professors, reminders about assignments, and a few unread emails he’d ignored on the trip. He tossed the phone onto the nightstand, ran a hand through his sun-bleached hair, and caught his reflection in the mirror—tanned, a little tired, but relaxed.

He wandered into the kitchen, filling a glass of water and leaning against the counter, listening to the hum of the neighborhood outside. That’s when he spotted her at the counter, busy with something he didn’t need to see to know she was up to her usual careful planning. He leaned against the doorway, grinning. “Well, well… look who’s already at work,” he teased. “Tell me—have you started planning our wedding yet, or are you going to make me wait a little longer?”

He stepped closer, resting a hand on the counter near her, tilting his head with a playful smirk. “Come on, you can’t hide from me. I can already see the glint in your eye—that’s the ‘I’ve got a whole list and I’m going to drive you crazy’ glint, isn’t it?” Erik shook his head, chuckling softly.

August offered his arm but kept his eyes forward as they crossed the courtyard. As they approached the castle doors, he felt the weight of eyes upon them—the courtiers, the guards, and the lords who would soon judge not only his words but the woman at his side.

Inside the great hall, the air was warmer, thick with the scent of burning pine and beeswax candles. August’s voice rang firm as he bowed deeply to their hosts. “My lords,” he said, his tone carrying the authority of a man used to command, “allow me to present my lady wife, Mary of House—” He paused briefly, letting the name carry in the hall, his gaze steady as he met the eyes of the ruling family.

As the formalities passed, August guided her forward, his hand never straying far from hers. Every bow, every word was measured, yet beneath his calm exterior was a quiet protectiveness, an edge sharpened by the knowledge of the child she carried. Tonight, they would dine as guests; tomorrow, the negotiations would begin. But for now, August allowed himself one fleeting breath of pride. He had not come merely as a lord seeking favour, but as a husband introducing the heart of his house.

The boy took one step, then another, his small feet scuffing against the packed earth beneath the rushes. Each shuffle was slow, cautious, yet full of resolve. Jorah stayed still, though every muscle in his body was taut, ready to spring forward if Duncan toppled. His own breath slowed, steadying the moment as if the entire hall held its breath with him. Somewhere behind him, Kate watched from her chair by the fire, her gaze warm but silent, leaving this triumph to father and son.

Duncan wavered, swayed, and then pushed forward, a laugh bubbling from him as he toddled into his father’s waiting arms. Jorah caught him up, lifting him easily, the boy’s small weight pressing against his chest. He pressed his stubbled jaw to Duncan’s soft head, breathing in the faint, milky scent of him, and held him close for a long heartbeat.

With a low chuckle, Jorah shifted Duncan onto his hip, one large hand steadying his tiny back. The boy gurgled and kicked, eager for more, but Jorah only tightened his hold, his broad shoulders relaxing as he rocked him gently. Kate’s smile lingered at the edge of his vision, but Jorah kept his focus on the boy in his arms. For now, the lesson was done.

finn figured that she'd find her way here at some point. a few of his fellow firemen at the house told him that a woman had come around looking for him, and that they'd given her his address. normally, that was frowned upon, but his buddies thought emily felt harmless and she only wanted to thank him for saving her life. and the first time she popped up at his home, it had been sweet, endearing even, how much she wanted to offer his thanks for risking his life to save hers. it was his duty as a fire fighter and he'd do it a thousand times over and never once think about it.