Soft and golden, it touched the edges of the stone walls, filtered through the high Reiss estate windows, and bathed the room in a fragile warmth.
A knock came.
Gentle. Dutiful.
Then, the door creaked open.
A maid stepped in, carrying a silver tray with tea and fresh bread—her eyes down as always, respectful and silent.
She took two steps into the room.
Then she froze.
The tray clattered in her hands, metal rattling faintly, nearly slipping from her grip.
Her breath hitched.
On the bed—bathed in soft light—lay Lady Frieda Reiss.
Still in her royal robe, now slightly loose, her hair tangled and spilled across the chest of a man the maid had never seen before. An outsider. Not of the court. Not of the bloodline. Not of anything she could recognize.
And yet, Frieda was asleep.
Peaceful.
Entwined. One arm draped over the man's waist, her face buried into the hollow of his neck. His hand was resting against her spine.
The maid stood frozen, breath shallow, tray trembling in her hands.
She didn't dare move.
Then, Frieda stirred.
A faint exhale escaped her lips. Her fingers flexed slightly against bare skin—smooth, warm.
Her eyes fluttered open—slow, heavy with sleep.
She blinked once.
Then again.
And saw the maid.
Their eyes met.
The maid's heart stopped.
Frieda didn't flinch. She simply looked at her—calm, composed, still half-curled against the stranger's bare chest like it was the most natural place in the world.
She exhaled again, voice soft but clear.
"Put the tray down," she said.
The maid hesitated—shaking slightly.
Frieda's tone didn't change.
"I said, put it down. And leave."
The maid nearly stumbled over herself in obedience. She crossed the remaining distance, set the tray down on a nearby table with shaking hands, then backed away quickly—head low.
At the door, she paused, as if waiting for some final permission.
Frieda's eyes hadn't left her.
"You didn't see anything," she said gently.
The maid nodded.
And fled.
The door clicked softly behind her.
Silence returned.
Frieda lay still for a moment longer, breathing in the warmth that lingered between them.
Then, slowly, she moved—careful, measured. She slipped from under the blanket, the cool morning air kissing her skin as she sat up, her robe loose around her shoulders.
Her hair spilled in a dark cascade down her back—long, unbraided, and wild from sleep.
She caught her reflection across the room—and frowned.
"...I look like I got dragged backwards through a bookshelf," she muttered under her breath.
She stood, pulling the robe snug and tying it tight at her waist. Then crossed the room and sat before the ornate mirror. Morning light filtered in, brushing gold over the silver-trimmed vanity.
Frieda ran her fingers through the strands, separating knots, working through tangles without ceremony.
As she combed through her hair, she glanced sideways toward Jake's still form.
He was awake.
"What?" she said over her shoulder. "Never seen a girl actually groom herself?"
Jake's lips twitched. He watched her, his gaze lingering on the way her fingers worked through her hair.
"I've seen plenty of girls groom themselves," he said, voice low and teasing, "but none that look like they just woke up in the middle of a battlefield."
Frieda shot him a side glance. Her fingers were still at work, though now more gently, smoothing out the tangled mess of her hair.
"Good thing I'm not trying to impress anyone," she muttered under her breath.
Jake chuckled softly. "Don't know about that. You've got a certain... charm even when you look like you've been run over by a horse."
Frieda raised an eyebrow, glancing at him again through the mirror. "You sure know how to flatter a girl."
"Just telling it like I see it." Jake shrugged with an easy grin.
She sighed, setting down the brush, her reflection staring back at her. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough.
"I was thinking of taking a walk this morning," she said, her tone casual but carrying a note of invitation. "The gardens are nice this time of day. Calm. Fresh air."
Frieda stood up from the vanity, walking towards the door and pausing before she opened it, her expression turning a little more serious. "You coming?" she asked, her voice a little softer now.
Jake met her eyes for a long moment, his expression unreadable for a second before he nodded.
"Yeah. Let's go."
Jake stood up from the bed, stretching slightly as the blanket slid off his body. Frieda turned her gaze sideways, and as her eyes landed on him, a faint blush spread across her cheeks. His bare chest didn't seem to faze him in the slightest.
She cleared her throat and quickly averted her eyes, her voice quieter than usual. "Are you planning to go out like that?"
Jake paused for a moment, his lips twitching into a smirk as he saw the flush creeping up her neck. He looked down at himself, as though noticing for the first time that he was still shirtless. A thought flickered through his mind, and with a slight flick of his hand, the material of a shirt seemed to manifest out of thin air, settling over his chest in a perfect fit.
He raised an eyebrow, looking at her with a mix of amusement and mock confusion. "What do you mean?"