Desmond grumbled under his breath his tunic was slightly rumpled, his expression sour from the lecture he had just received — something about "not disappearing without word" and "not letting his duties fall behind for the sake of chasing skirts."
He never liked being corrected, and Ser Leon's tone — always sharp, always dry — needled him worse than most.
He turned a corner, when he spotted her.
Neriah.
In the corridor. With Gwen.
He froze.
She was walking slowly with her maid, engaged in some casual conversation, a serene smile gracing her features. But Desmond's gut twisted violently. Of all the people in this castle, she was the one he didn't want to see.
She would recognize him.
And she would remember what he had said to Kara. About the King. About everything.
Panic gripped him like iron chains.
He glanced around for a way out — an alcove, a stairwell, anything — and dove clumsily into a narrow passage, hoping to duck behind a tall iron candelabra. But his shoulder clipped a young maid carrying a full tray.
The food crashed to the stone floor in a splatter of sauce and shattered porcelain.
The girl gasped, eyes wide in horror. "Seven hells—no, no—"
Neriah's footsteps stopped.
The maid dropped to her knees, trying to salvage the mess, though there was no salvaging it. "No, please, no—my lady's going to have my head. She requested this dish specifically—she's expecting it now, and I—I can't—she'll have me thrown out—"
Neriah approached quietly, her voice calm but firm. "Take a breath. You're not going to lose your job over this."
The maid looked up, cheeks blotched with panic. "But it's Lady Marissa! The High Justicar—she said she wanted it by second bell exactly. And now—now it's ruined—"
"It was an accident," Neriah said gently. "Accidents happen. Go to the kitchens and have another prepared. I'll speak to Lady Marissa myself and explain."
The girl blinked in disbelief. "You… you would do that for me?"
"I will."
Tears sprung to the maid's eyes as she bowed low. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you so much —thank you—"
She gathered what she could and scurried off, muttering her gratitude all the way down the hall.
Desmond took one slow step backward, hoping to vanish while all attention remained on the departing maid.
But Gwen's sharp voice cut through his escape.
"Where do you think you're going?"
He froze.
"Don't you dare leave." Gwen said, hands on her hips.
Desmond turned slowly, bowing low, trying not to tremble. "My apologies, my lady. I did not mean to—"
Neriah's attention shifted to him at last.
At first, her expression was blank — But then her gaze narrowed.
"I know you," she said slowly. "I've seen you before."
Desmond kept his head bowed. "My lady, I—I fear you're mistaken. I —"
"Look at me."
His breath caught.
"My lady—"
"I said, look at me."
He raised his eyes — reluctantly, fear dancing in their dark depths.
Neriah studied his face, lips parting in dawning recognition.
"It's you," she said, voice suddenly sharper. "Desmond!"
His shoulders sagged.
"I remember you," she continued, eyes flashing. "In the stables. In Halemond. You told my sister Kara that you were a King's Guard. That the King was old and inhumane. You filled her head with lies."
Desmond opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Gwen stepped in, tone cool. "He's no King's Guard, my lady. He's a male servant. Under Ser Leon."
Neriah held his gaze for a long moment. The air between them was taut with something unspoken — shame, perhaps, or judgment he couldn't bear.
But Neriah, ever poised, simply exhaled softly.
"This is neither the time nor place for this conversation."
She straightened, her composure flawless. "You may go."
Desmond bowed so low his knees nearly touched the floor. "Yes, my lady. Of course. Thank you."
He turned and practically ran, leaving the spilled food, the scolding, and Neriah's burning memory behind him.
Neriah watched him go, expression unreadable. Then she turned back to Gwen.
"Come," she said gently. "We've got better things to do."
********************
The eastern wing of the castle was colder — quieter — as Neriah and Gwen stepped through the arched corridor that led to Lady Marissa's court. The hush that followed their steps felt deliberate, as though every stone had been trained to stay silent in the Justicar's domain.
Two guards stood at the chamber doors. One stepped aside without a word. No one questioned Neriah's presence anymore — not as the King's wife.
Inside, the chamber was immaculate — a court lined with shelves of scrolls, legal texts, ledgers, and a tall-backed chair of blackened oak, seated with its sovereign.
Lady Marissa did not rise when Neriah entered.
"Lady Neriah," she greeted, her voice clipped, precise, not unfriendly — but cool enough to freeze the warmth from the air. "I trust your morning has been… smooth."
Neriah smiled gently, clasping her hands. "It has, thank you. Though I come bearing an apology."
Marissa raised a brow, her quill still moving over a parchment. "An apology?"
"For the delay in your meal," Neriah said. "Your maid—she ran into… an unexpected incident in the corridor. It wasn't her fault, truly. She was rattled, frightened. I assured her I would explain."
The quill paused.
Lady Marissa's eyes lifted slowly. Steel-gray and unreadable.
"Accidents," she said coolly, "are often caused by incompetence."
"She's young," Neriah said, her tone patient but firm. "And scared. I believe her fear alone is punishment enough."
Lady Marissa's lips thinned. "She has served me for less than two months. If she cannot perform a simple delivery without incident—"
"Then allow this one slip," Neriah said softly. "I believe in holding people accountable, Lady Marissa, but I also believe in offering grace. Especially when no harm was done."
There was a pause.
The silence was cold and sharp — but then, finally, Lady Marissa set her quill down with a soft clink.
"I shall accept your word for it," she said tightly. "But do not make it a habit to intervene in my court, Lady Neriah."
Neriah nodded with a soft smile. "I wouldn't dream of it."
They exchanged a look. Not of warmth, but of understanding.
Lady Marissa returned to her work without further comment.
As Neriah turned to leave, her silks whispering across the stone, the Justicar said coolly, "Tell her not to test me again."
"I will," Neriah said without pause. "Thank you for your grace."
As soon as the heavy oak doors of Lady Marissa's court closed behind Neriah, Gwen sprang up from where she'd been waiting against the wall, practically bouncing on her heels.
"My lady!" she whispered, eyes wide. "You still have your eyebrows. I take it that means she didn't set you on fire?"
Neriah stifled a laugh, shaking her head. "Not today."
Gwen clutched her chest with dramatic relief. "Thank the gods. For a moment I thought I'd have to wrestle the High Justicar myself. I mean, I'd lose horribly, but the attempt would be valiant."
Neriah gave her a sidelong glance, amused. "You were going to wrestle Lady Marissa?"
"Absolutely," Gwen said without hesitation. "If she so much as raised a scroll against you, I was prepared to throw hands."
"Throw hands?"
"It's a Braemorin expression," Gwen said with a wink. "We throw more hands than flowers where I come from."
Neriah chuckled, some of the tension in her shoulders easing as they walked down the corridor together. "She wasn't pleased, but she didn't lash out. I think she only held back because I was there."
"Power suits you, my lady," Gwen grinned, clutching the folded hem of her gown like a banner. "You've got that quiet command. Like a noble dove—but one that could peck your eyes out if provoked."
Neriah laughed fully now. "You say the strangest things, Gwen."
"It's my gift," Gwen said proudly. "You have charm, I have… poetic nonsense."
They rounded a corner, sunlight beginning to stream through the tall stained glass windows.
"Did she agree not to punish the maid?" Gwen asked more seriously, glancing up.
"Yes. Though I don't think she'll forget about it anytime soon."
Gwen wrinkled her nose. "A win is a win. I'll go check on the girl later—poor thing was shaking like a leaf."
As the two of them disappeared into the brighter parts of the castle, the tension left in Lady Marissa's shadow seemed to melt away, replaced by quiet laughter and light-footed joy.