The morning light spilled into the grand dining hall through high, arched windows, soft and golden—mocking in its warmth. Saoirse sat stiffly at the far end of the long mahogany table, a lace shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders though the spring air was far from cold.
The clatter of cutlery echoed too loudly in the silence between them.
Fenris was seated at the opposite end, shoulders squared, posture immaculate as always. He didn't so much as glance at her.
His every movement was calculated—cut, lift, chew, swallow—repeated with mechanical grace. Saoirse stirred her tea for the third time, her appetite is nowhere to be found, her gaze flicking occasionally toward him in quiet expectation.
She told herself she wasn't waiting for him to say anything. That she didn't care. That last night had been clear enough.
But her fingers trembled slightly on the porcelain handle of her cup.
Say something, she thought. Anything. Even if it's cruel again, I just want to know I'm not invisible.
The silence hung thick, and the faint clink of a spoon being set down became the loudest sound in the room.
At last, Fenris cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee. "You slept well, I hope."
His voice was low, formal—clearly detached, like reading from a script that had nothing to do with either of them.
Saoirse lifted her gaze to meet his. Her eyes were tired, but steady. "Well enough."
Liar, they both thought, though neither dared to speak it aloud.
Before the silence could take root again, a knock came from the dining hall doors. Saoirse barely had time to straighten before the tall figure of Captain Elric marched in. Fenris rose at once, his expression sharpening.
"Elric," Fenris said. "You're early."
The captain bowed slightly. "Forgive me, General. I was ordered to come directly. There's been a change."
"A change?" Fenris's brow furrowed.
"Yes, sir. Your deployment has been moved forward. You are expected to ride by this afternoon."
Saoirse froze, her teacup pausing midair. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Fenris didn't react—not outwardly. But she noticed the way his jaw tightened for half a second. He nodded briskly. "Very well. Prepare the men. I'll be ready within the hour."
"Yes, General." Elric gave a crisp bow and turned on his heel, prepared to leave—until his eyes landed on the figure at the far end of the table. He stopped, stiffened slightly, then turned back.
There was a flicker of hesitation before he bowed again, this time less formal, more hesitant. "My apologies, my lady. I hadn't realized the General was… already joined."
Saoirse looked up at him, and for the first time that morning, her expression softened. Her lips curved into a faint, familiar smile. "Not a problem, Cap'n Ric."
The old nickname slipped from her tongue like a secret passed in the quiet halls of their shared youth.
Captain Elric visibly swallowed, his jaw tightening for a moment as he straightened. He looked older now, more worn than she remembered—but in his eyes, that same boy who used to sneak her sugared almonds during dull court functions still flickered.
He cleared his throat. "Right. I— I should have remembered. Forgive me, my lady. I wasn't able to attend… the ceremony. I was on assignment in the northern provinces."
Saoirse nodded gently. "I figured as much. They keep you busy."
"Someone has to be useful," he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching with a ghost of a smile—but his gaze flicked briefly to Fenris, then back to her, and whatever words he might've said next were swallowed by restraint.
Then Elric straightened once more, defaulting to discipline. "I'll see to the men, General. My lady."
And with that, he turned and left, his boots echoing down the hall. Behind him, Saoirse sat still, her hands folded in her lap, and for a brief second, she looked not like a nobleman's bride, but the girl who used to race Captain Ric through the orchard fields before the world had made strangers of them.
"Afternoon?" Saoirse asked quietly, the word catching at the edge of her throat.
Fenris did not sit back down. He remained standing, hands folded behind his back like a statue carved from duty itself. "There are reports of unrest along the southern border. The king wants a firm presence."
"So soon after the wedding?"
He didn't answer immediately. Finally, he said, "It was always the plan. The ceremony was a formality. The kingdom can't afford for its sword to be idle."
A formality. The word struck deeper than she expected.
Saoirse rose as well, though her legs felt unsteady beneath her. "You won't stay even for a night?"
"I stayed the night." He turned to look at her now, eyes unreadable, his face impassive. "That was the agreement, was it not?"
Saoirse stared at him, lips trembling. But the tears didn't fall. Not here. Not in front of him.
She nodded instead, chin lifting with quiet grace. "Of course, my lord."
For a moment, Fenris faltered. Just slightly. There was something behind his eyes then—regret, perhaps, or guilt. But he turned away before it could deepen.
"I'll send word when I reach the southern garrison," he said. "There will be guards left behind. You'll be safe."
Safe. But alone.
Saoirse remained standing long after he had gone, the sun climbing higher through the windows as if trying to chase away the chill he left behind. The tea had long gone cold, and the silence, once again, was all that stayed.
The sun had climbed high by the time the courtyard filled with the sound of hooves, steel, and men calling to one another in brisk voices. Armor glinted in the golden light, banners fluttered with proud insignias, and warhorses stomped against the cobblestones, restless and waiting.
Inside the estate's grand hall, Saoirse stood at the top of the marble staircase—silent, unmoving, a shadow in a white morning gown that still clung to her figure like a second skin from the sleepless night before.
Below, Fenris was strapping on his gauntlets, his back turned to her.
His dark riding coat, lined with wolf-grey velvet and stitched with the insignia of House Dankworth, fit him like armor over flesh. The sword at his hip, the one said to have tasted victory in every battle he entered, gleamed with quiet threat. His broad shoulders bore the weight of command as if they had been carved for it. At nineteen, he stood like a man who had seen too much and felt too little.
And yet, Saoirse had never felt more like a stranger in her own home.
She watched in silence as a squire handed him his gloves, and Fenris took them without so much as glancing upward. Not once did he look back to see if she stood there. Not once did he ask if she would come down.
Saoirse didn't know what she had expected. A farewell? A kind word? A touch on her shoulder? Something—anything—to ease the hollow ache that had made a home in her chest since their wedding night.
But nothing came.
Her hand gripped the bannister tighter, fingers whitening against the carved wood.
Outside, the men were mounting their horses. Captain Elric gave orders with firm efficiency, though his gaze briefly flicked up to the staircase—toward her—and there was a flicker of softness there, a shadow of apology. But he said nothing, just as she did.
Fenris finally stepped out into the courtyard, his boots striking against the stone with precision. Saoirse moved, quiet as snowfall, gliding along the hallway until she reached the window that overlooked the estate gates. She watched as he swung onto his horse with ease, the reins gathered in one hand, posture straight and unyielding.
He looked so far away, even though he was just beneath her.
Then he gave the order.
The gates creaked open, and the cavalry thundered forward like a storm rolling down a mountain.
And just like that—he was gone.
Saoirse stayed by the window long after the dust had settled, the only sound in the corridor the ticking of a distant clock and the quiet sigh of wind brushing through the curtains. Her hand rested gently against the glass, fingertips leaving fading prints behind.
No kiss.
No farewell.
No promise to return.
Only silence.
And Saoirse, the bride left behind, stood still as stone in a house now emptied of warmth.