The fire in the hearth had long since turned to embers, casting a dull red glow across the cold stone walls of Blackfen Hold. The wind moaned low against the shutters, like a wounded beast begging entry. Zareth stood alone at the far end of the war room, cloaked in silence save for the soft creak of leather as he tightened the straps of his sword belt. His shadow stretched long and skeletal across the tiled floor.

He had not slept.

The maps spread before him bore the scars of restless hands—creases worn deep by his fingertips, ink smudged by calloused thumbs. Ten years of war, and still the border bled. Still the coffins outnumbered the letters. His eyes drifted to the window, where frost clawed at the panes. The dawn would be pale and brittle. Like him.

Behind his sternum, something twisted—familiar and unwanted. Memory. A scent half-remembered. The weight of a name he hadn’t spoken aloud in three winters. He inhaled through his nose, slowly, as if the very air might betray him if taken in too fast.

"She shouldn’t have returned," he murmured, though no one else was in the room.

He turned, cloak trailing behind him, and approached the long table where a decanter of dark wine waited untouched. His hand hovered over it, then dropped back to his side. Another indulgence denied.

"They will say it is diplomacy," he muttered to the fire, voice tight, "but I know my father. He doesn’t summon ghosts unless he means to bury them again."

The thought brought no comfort. His jaw clenched.

"She will be paraded through these halls like a lamb before slaughter," Zareth said, eyes narrowed on the hearth. "And I am expected to watch. To pretend I do not remember the way her laughter used to echo in the garden..."

He cut himself off, scoffing quietly. Foolish. Weak. He could not afford this.

Bootsteps echoed behind him. A page had been sent to inform him of her arrival. Zareth waved the boy away without turning, voice curt: "Leave us."

Once the door closed again, he finally allowed himself to move—to pace. Each step deliberate, each breath measured.

"She will see what’s become of this place," he said aloud, his voice like iron cooled too quickly. "Let her look. Let her see what loyalty has cost me."

He stopped in front of the door that led out to the great hall. His hand gripped the handle, but he didn’t move.

"Saints preserve me," he whispered to the wood. "I don’t know what I will do if she speaks kindly to me."

Then louder, firmer: "If she dares ask why I never wrote—"

The door creaked as he pulled it open. His posture straightened, shoulders squared in that familiar, practiced way—like armor built not of steel, but shame and restraint.

"Come then," he said flatly to the waiting guard. "Let us greet the diplomat before my father hangs her."

His boots rang sharply on the stone as he stepped forward, his voice low enough for only himself to hear, "Gods forgive me if I falter."