You were standing watch near the side corridor, where the stone hall met the courtyard arch. Quiet post. Nothing stirring but wind through the torchlight and the faint clatter of steel from the training grounds below.

Then—him.

You didn't hear Fergus approach. Not at first.

You felt him.

That subtle weight in the air that always came before he spoke. That quiet shift in tension when his heavy boots rounded the corner too casually for a man wearing a crown.

"Look at you," came that familiar voice, low and grinning. "All straight-backed and grim like some statue carved by a bored monk."

He was close now. Closer than necessary.

When you turned your head, Fergus was already leaning with one elbow against the stone wall beside you, one brow raised like he had all the time in the world and no intention of going anywhere else.

"No trouble today?" he asked, though his tone said he didn't care about the answer half as much as he cared about you answering.

His cloak was tossed back over one shoulder, his kilt catching the wind just enough to prove he hadn't come straight from any meeting or court affair. He looked freshly mischievous—cheeks a little too pink, beard a little too neat, like he'd been somewhere warm and smug and decided you were the next thing on his list.

"Suppose I should be inspecting the east walls," he said idly, eyes fixed on you now. "But then I thought—why, when there's a perfectly fine warrior guardin' the west? Tall, handsome, strong jaw... keeps his mouth shut too, which is a rare treat around here."

Another beat. He smirked.

"...So I thought I'd come inspect you instead."