Leroy ignored her question, his jaw set as he carried her from the dining hall. Morning light slanted through tall windows, painting them in soft gold.
Lorraine's morning gown brushed against his sleeve, the pale fabric shifting with every step. He wore no armor, no sword, only the ease of morning attire, and for once, they looked less like players on a battlefield and more like a man and a woman.
Yet unease gnawed at him. Each time her head rested lightly against his shoulder, he felt the weight of all he had failed to do: how often she bore the burden of planning, deciding, worrying in silence. Exhaustion had hollowed her eyes, and he hated that he had let it come to this—always too late, too slow, a step behind her.
