Keiran sat alone in the garden behind the west wing of the palace, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the frost-kissed grass. He'd come here to breathe or at least try to. The quiet was a thin comfort, but it was better than the restless echo of his own thoughts inside stone walls.
He heard the footsteps before he saw her. Ophelia didn't make a habit of announcing herself anymore. There was a time she would have swept in like a storm, all proud laughter and sharp beauty. But now, her steps were hesitant, her shadow lingering at the edge of the old marble fountain where he sat, elbows braced on his knees.
"Keiran," she said at last, her voice soft enough that the breeze nearly swallowed it.
He didn't look at her immediately, just stared at the reflection of bare branches rippling on the water's surface. "Ophelia," he murmured back. He wished he could keep it cool, unbothered but his throat tightened around her name. He hated that.
