The heavy oak door slowly closed behind him, shutting out every trace of the meeting hall's clamor and arguments.
The corridor was silent. Only Duke Edmund's boots echoed through the emptiness, each step steady and heavy.
The words of the battle reports still churned in his mind. Every force driven into retreat southward, every fallen town, pressed against his chest like a block of cold ice, making it hard to breathe.
He returned to his room and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The warm fire flickered in the hearth, gilding the stone walls with a soft golden glow. A faint herbal fragrance hung in the air-holly and dried lavender, Lady Elena's favorites.
Duke Edmund struggled to put away the weight he had carried all the way back and forced a kindly smile onto his face.
The enormous scar across his face lent the smile a strange look, but he did his best not to seem like a man fresh from the battlefield.
Lady Elena sat beside the hearth, holding their one-year-old child and humming a lullaby as she gently patted his little back.
At the sound of the door opening, she looked up, a glimmer lighting her eyes.
A letter from the Red Tide Fief lay open on the table. Emily had sent it, and a few tiny grains of snow still clung to the envelope.
Edmund stepped forward, bent down, and took the child into his arms.
He tried rocking him gently. The child studied him curiously for a few seconds, then reached out a soft little hand, caught his beard, and tugged hard. The pull was surprisingly strong, drawing his head back slightly.
The child giggled, the sound clear as wind chimes.
Edmund simply lowered his head and gently touched his forehead to the child's, earning a