The morning sun had barely cleared the stone parapets of the estate when Grayson stepped out into the courtyard. He was already dressed, though his coat hung loose and unfastened—a small, rebellious concession to the morning air.

He didn’t head for the east wing or the study. He walked straight toward the greenhouse frame.

Behind him, Mailah watched from the terrace. He looked like a man on a mission, but as he reached the center of the iron ruins, his pace slowed. He stopped, looking down at the ground where forty square meters of lavender had been meticulously installed by a crew clearly afraid of what would happen if they left a single inch of soil bare.

He didn’t inspect the structural integrity of the frame. He didn’t pace the perimeter. He just stood there, looking at the vibrant, gray-green rows.

Mailah walked down the stone steps, her boots clicking softly on the flagstones. As she drew near, she saw he had knelt in the dirt—not to dig, but to lean in close. He was examining the leaves with a focused intensity that bordered on the reverent.

"It’s a lot of lavender," she said, stopping beside him.

Grayson didn’t look up. "It’s consistent," he replied. He reached out, his large, now calloused fingers hovering inches above a flowering stalk, testing the air around it. "The fragrance is... concentrated. I find it difficult to maintain a state of agitation when the air smells like this."

"That was the point."

"I am aware." He finally stood, dusting off his trousers. He looked at the greenhouse, then at the sprawling, grey-stone architecture of the estate looming over them. "It feels strange."

"Which part?"

"The lack of noise. The lack of expectation." He gestured toward the main house. "Somewhere, my brothers are waking up, preparing their agendas. And I am standing here, evaluating the aromatic properties of a perennial herb."

"Does it bother you?"

"No," he said, and the speed of the answer surprised them both. He looked at her, his expression shifting into that unguarded, private look that still made her breath catch. "I find it remarkably efficient."

A heavy footfall sounded on the gravel path behind them.

Grayson didn’t turn around, but his entire posture shifted—the tactical readiness returning, albeit in a muted, involuntary wave. He knew the gait of the person approaching before they were even halfway across the courtyard.

Mason.

The man arrived in a gray wool jacket, a thick book tucked under his arm. He stopped a respectful distance away, looked at the sea of lavender, and then looked at Grayson with the weary, intelligent eyes of someone who had spent his life observing other people’s chaos.

"Forty square meters," Mason said. It wasn’t a question.

"It appears so," Grayson replied.

Mason looked at the greenhouse, then at the gardening book Mailah was holding. "I assume this was part of the ’Welsh conditions’ curriculum."

"It was an environmental requirement," Grayson said, his tone perfectly flat.

Mason let out a soft, dry laugh. He walked closer, peering at the plants with genuine interest. "It’s a massive improvement over the rubble. The grounds crew was terrified, by the way. They thought you’d have them flogged for the spacing."

"I have no interest in flogging," Grayson said. "Though the spacing could be improved."

"Of course it could," Mason agreed. He finally turned his gaze to Mailah, giving her a slow, deliberate nod of acknowledgment. "Good morning, Mailah. I see you’ve successfully integrated horticulture into his daily briefing."

"It’s a work in progress," she smiled.

"Clearly." Mason looked back at Grayson. "Lucson is in the study. He has the folder, he has the tea, and he has a level of patience that is currently nearing its half-life. He expects you in ten minutes."

Grayson glanced at his watch. "I have eight."

"Then I suggest you use them wisely," Mason said. He started to turn, then paused. "The estate is different, brother. You might want to get used to it."

"I am adjusting," Grayson said.

Mason offered a final, brief smile and walked off toward the stables.

Grayson turned back to the lavender. He looked at the vast, fragrant expanse and then at Mailah. "Eight minutes," he said, his voice dropping.

"You’re going to go in there and handle the business of the realm," she said, feeling the weight of the house pressing down on them.

"I am," he said. He reached out, taking her hand, his thumb stroking her palm with a quiet, grounding rhythm. "And then I am coming back out. And we are going to finish the honey cake."

"That’s the plan?"

"That is the primary objective," he confirmed.

He leaned in, a quick, firm kiss that tasted of the morning air and something much deeper. Then, he let go of her hand—reluctantly, she noted—and turned toward the imposing silhouette of the estate.

He didn’t look back as he climbed the steps. He walked with the stride of a man who knew exactly what he was returning to, but who also knew, with absolute certainty, that he had a place to retreat to.

Mailah watched him disappear into the shadows of the doorway. The courtyard felt silent again, save for the hum of a single bee navigating the lavender. She looked at the book in her hands, then at the rows of green, and realized that for the first time, she wasn’t waiting for the storm.

She was just enjoying the sun.

The eight minutes vanished into the cold, stone-lined hallways of the estate. By the time Grayson reached the double oak doors of the study, the sun had shifted, casting long, sharp shadows across the floorboards. He took a breath, not to prepare for a confrontation, but simply to center himself—a habit he was currently trying to unlearn, though the muscle memory of a decade of warfare clung to him like a second skin.

He pushed the doors open.

Lucson was exactly where Mason had placed him, seated at the heavy mahogany desk that had served as the command center for the estate for generations. The folder lay open. A tray of tea, untouched, sat to his left.

"You’re early," Lucson said, not looking up.

"Mason is efficient," Grayson replied. He walked into the room, his footsteps silent on the rug. He didn’t take a seat. He leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, looking at the room—the maps, the ledger books, the high-backed chairs. It felt like walking into a suit of armor he had outgrown.

Lucson closed the folder with a soft thud. "Theron is in the deep holding. The sentencing will be public by noon. There is a question of assets, and the matter of the border garrisons remains unresolved."

"The border garrisons are defensive positions," Grayson said. "They are currently over-manned. Reduce the rotation by twenty percent. Let them cultivate the valley land instead."

Lucson paused, his pen hovering over a ledger. He looked up, his brow furrowing. "Cultivate? You want the garrisons to farm?"

"They are stagnant," Grayson said, his voice level. "Stagnant troops are a liability. If they are working the land, they are integrated into the community. They become a part of the landscape rather than a threat to it. It increases the stability of the sector."

Lucson stared at him. It was a long, clinical look, the kind he usually reserved for analyzing potential defectors. "You want to turn a defensive line into a farming collective."

"I want them to have something to lose," Grayson said. "A man who tends a crop is a man who defends a home. A man who stands in a watchtower for months at a time is just waiting for a reason to break."

Lucson didn’t argue. He tapped his pen against the desk, his expression thoughtful. "It would require a complete rewrite of the supply lines."

"Rewrite them," Grayson said. "It’s just paperwork."

Lucson’s lips twitched—the closest thing to a smile the man had ever permitted himself. "I will have the logistics ready by evening."

"Good." Grayson moved away from the mantle. He felt a strange lightness, a sense of having successfully maneuvered through a minefield by simply refusing to step on the mines. He wasn’t playing the game anymore; he was rewriting the rules.

As he turned to leave, Lucson called out. "Grayson."

He stopped, his hand on the doorframe.

"The lavender," Lucson said, his voice dropping slightly. "Mrs. Baker was concerned. She thought you might want it removed if it was a...distraction."

"It is not a distraction," Grayson said. "It is a necessity."

"Understood."

Grayson left the study and headed straight for the courtyard. He didn’t head to the kitchens, and he didn’t head to the barracks. He found Mailah exactly where he had left her, sitting on the low stone wall that bordered the garden. She was reading, the sunlight catching the gold in her hair.

When she saw him, she stood up, closing the book. "Paperwork handled?"

"Logistical adjustments made," he corrected. He stopped in front of her, the weight of the house falling away the moment he looked at her.

He didn’t speak for a long moment, simply absorbing the sight of her—the way her dress moved in the breeze, the quiet confidence in her posture, the way she was the only thing in this entire, sprawling fortress that felt like home.

"You look tired," she said, stepping closer.

"I am fine." He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin. "I spent the last ten minutes explaining to Lucson why soldiers should be farmers."

She let out a soft, delighted laugh. "And how did that go?"

He leaned down, his forehead pressing against hers. The scent of her was faint—sun, soap, and the crisp, clean smell of the morning air. It was better than any lavender, better than any victory he had ever claimed on a battlefield.