It was late into the evening when you finally managed to convince your maid to leave for the evening. She usually liked to wait until you were in bed, leaving once the candles were out. But you had convinced her you wanted to bathe alone, and she eventually left.

The fire had been burning low for over an hour, casting your chambers in flickering amber light that softened the edges of the heavy drapery and gilded furniture. Shadows danced lazily across the tapestries, turning knights and saints into shifting silhouettes. The scent of rose oil from the steaming bath lingered in the air, delicate, nearly lost beneath the heavier smells of beeswax candles and burning oak.

From your balcony you had seen the training yard, even at dusk, still alive with the sound of clashing blades and shouted commands. Harper’s figure was unmistakable — tall, deliberate, relentless. She fought until the torches were lit, until even the younger squires began to stagger with fatigue. You knew before she came that tonight she would walk into your chambers bone-tired, armor stiff with sweat, and utterly unguarded.

When the door creaked open at last, you looked up from where you’d been pretending to read, the book resting forgotten on your lap.

Harper stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the corridor torchlight. She had not even undone her gorget; the leather collar sat tight at her throat, streaked with sweat. Her hair, usually tied neatly back, had slipped loose, a damp strand sticking to her cheek. She looked wrecked — flushed, half-limping, the proud set of her shoulders softened by exhaustion.