Penelope followed his gaze upward.

Heavy gray clouds had begun to roll over the horizon, steadily swallowing the warm afternoon light.

True to his prediction, the weather was starting to change.

A sharp, chilly gust of wind swept through the fairgrounds, rustling the canvas tops of the merchant stalls and sending ribbons, banners, and loose scraps of papers fluttering through the air. It carried the scent of impending rain.

Penelope knew that meant they had to return, and a small part of her was disappointed.

She was actually having the time of her life by being here, feeling the simple joy of the crowds, tasting the sweet candied apples, and listening to Vincent break down the secrets of the four kingdoms like he carried a map of it inside his head.

It had been wonderful, truly.

Far more wonderful than she had expected.

But it seemed the weather had other plans. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips as she looked around.

"We can plan something else later," Vincent said, looking down at her. His deep voice was quiet, grounding, and completely devoid of its usual stern edge.

He had noticed the subtle drop in her shoulders, and for once, he looked almost apologetic that he couldn’t command the skies to clear up for her.

Penelope knew he was right. If a sudden, northern downpour caught them here, the dirt pathways of the fairgrounds would turn into a muddy nightmare within minutes.

"I know," she replied softly, offering him a small, reassuring smile to let him know she wasn’t truly upset. "I’ll hold you to that promise, My Lord."

However, they still lingered for another couple of minutes, content to just stand beside each other in the cool breeze, before finally making their way back. They walked at a leisurely pace, cutting through the edges of the dispersing crowd toward the quiet, wooded path where they had left their carriage parked far away from the fair to avoid drawing any unwanted attention.

******

Several miles away, within the private quarters of the Vandalian Palace, King Alden sat cross-legged on the thick, woven carpet. A low, mahogany writing table rested directly in front of him, covered in neatly organized reports and correspondence.

The king pressed a feathered quill against a sheet of parchment, his sharp brows furrowed in concentration as he reviewed the latest matter of the state and was currently drafting a letter.

A sudden, chilly gust of wind swept through the chamber, causing the heavy curtains to billow violently. Alden paused, his hand hovering above the parchment as he glanced toward the open stone window.

Outside, the northern sky had darkened considerably into a bruised, stormy twilight. The storm advanced like an army, swallowing the last traces of daylight. The king simply watched them, a thoughtful shadow settling across his weathered face.

Something about the approaching storm left him uneasy.

Perhaps it was merely the weather. Or perhaps years upon the throne had taught him to trust the instincts that whispered trouble was coming long before the thunderclaps arrived.

"Your Majesty."

A soft, melodic voice broke the silence.

Queen Isolda rose from the chaise lounge near the hearth and crossed the chamber, the silk of her skirts whispering against the stone floor.

"Is it truly necessary to send the Marquis to the Imperial Capital?" she asked quietly. "Could we not go ourselves? This matter requires discretion before rumors begin to spread." 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

Alden glanced briefly up at his wife, the tension in his shoulders evident. He carefully signed the bottom of the parchment, and once he was entirely finished, he dropped the feathered pen back into its dark, ink bottle with a soft click.

"That is precisely why I believe the Marquis is the ideal choice," he replied, rising to his feet as he moved toward the open window.

Outside, storm clouds continued to gather across the horizon.

"A King’s arrival attracts attention," he continued, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky. "But that of a warlord invites silence."

He folded his hands behind his back.

"People tend to speak less as long as Vincent is involved. Besides, the Emperor specifically requested the Marquis of Aelgard. It is not in our place to refuse the summons of an Emperor."

A rumble of distant thunder echoed beyond the palace walls.

"If His Imperial Majesty requires Vandalia’s shield, then we shall send it. After all, the Emperor has been protecting that boy for years."

That particular word hung heavily in the room.

Queen Isolda noticed her husband did not use the Marquis, nor the Empire’s most feared commander.

Just.. the boy.

As though, despite everything Vincent had been forced to become, Alden still remembered the child who had survived when he should not have.

Meanwhile, in the Devereux estate, the rain had already started to fall heavily, and Vincent stared at the downpour from the window.

"It’s heavier than I thought," he murmured to himself, the cold wind stirring his hair. He finally closed the window shut, locking off the fierce elements, and turned around to Penelope who was lying on the mattress, rubbing her palms together.

"Are you cold?" He asked, stepping closer to the edge of the bed.

Penelope blew hot air into her palm, her shoulders shivering slightly beneath her layers. "The rain here is always so heavy."

Vincent sat at the edge of the bed, his imposing frame casting a shadow over her as he reached out. He took her chilled hands into his own, rubbing them gently between his palms before bringing them to his lips and breathing warm air against her skin.

Penelope blinked up at him.

"How are your hands always so warm?"

"A soldier’s circulation," he replied smoothly. His thumb continued their slow massage, working the tension from her palms. "Martha already brought you some hot tea to take, but you’re still so cold."

Despite his efforts, a fresh rattle of thunder shook the windowpane, and Penelope curled her toes beneath the blankets. The chill of the storm seemed capable of finding its way through stone walls and layers of fabric alike.

"It’s still freezing," she mumbled, her eyelids already beginning to droop beneath the soothing rhythm of his touch.

"Would you like me to massage your feet as well?"

"That would be nice."

"If that does not work, we can try something else."

"Hm?"

Her voice was thick with sleep.

"Like what?"

"Skin-to-skin contact."

The answer came immediately.

"It is the most efficient method of transferring body heat in extreme climates."

Penelope let out a soft laugh. Even half-asleep, she managed to cut him off before he could launch into what was undoubtedly a detailed explanation.

"You’re funny."

Vincent frowned.

"I am being serious."

A faint smile tugged at her lips.

"Did your ghost friends teach you that too?"

"What exactly do you take me for?"

"You never answered me when I asked about them," she said softly. "I wanted to ask about your relationship with your parents, but you fell asleep before I could."

Vincent’s hands stilled at that, looking at her closed eyes.

Then she shifted beneath the blankets and turned onto her side.

"Actually, don’t answer that."

Her words came out as little more than a sleepy murmur.

"You can tell me when I wake up."

Vincent looked at her for a long time. The storm continued to howl beyond the windows.

But inside the room, there was only the steady sound of her breathing.

Within minutes, she surrendered completely to sleep.

Carefully, Vincent rose from the bed. He adjusted the blankets around her shoulders, making certain no cold air could reach her. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss against the curve of her shoulder.

His eyes lingered on her sleeping face.

I’m afraid I cannot tell you," he whispered, the confession so quiet that even the storm nearly swallowed it. A shadow passed across his expression.

"You would hate me all over again if I did."