106

106

The morning came pale and cold, the kind of cold that seeped into bones without snow to show for it. October woke to the muted hum of the fortress, the soft clang of hammers on distant repairs, and the low murmur of soldiers changing shifts.
She lay still for a moment, her eyes tracing the frost that had gathered at the edges of the window. Something in her chest felt… different. She didn’t know if it was dread or anticipation, but it made her fingers curl into the blanket.
When she finally rose, Scheuer was already pacing in the corner, her sharp eyes fixed on a piece of folded parchment.
“You’re up early,” October said, reaching for her cloak.
“I didn’t sleep,” Scheuer answered. “Something’s wrong, October. I’ve been hearing things—bits of talk from the kitchens, from the servants who handle the wine shipments.” She lowered her voice. “I think there’s a plot. But I can’t pin it down yet.”
October frowned. “A plot? Again? Against who?”
Scheuer’s gaze darkened. “Against Baldwin.”
October hesitated, a flicker of heat running through her. “You’re sure?”
“I wouldn’t be saying it if I wasn’t certain something’s coming. I just don’t know when.”
October stepped closer, voice firm. “Then we stay alert. You tell Baldwin?”
“Not yet. I want proof before I run to him with shadows. He’s already got enough to watch.”
October didn’t like it. But before she could press further, there was a knock. A guard entered, clearing his throat.
“His Majesty requests your presence for the midday meal, my lady.”
October raised an eyebrow. “Requests?”
The guard almost smiled. “His exact words, ma’am.”

He wasn’t usually the sort for formal requests, but today was different. Weeks of war and strategy had left them both frayed, and he wanted—no, needed—to see her without maps, without reports, without the constant thrum of danger.
He had arranged for the fortress’s smaller dining hall to be emptied. A long table was set, candles ready even though it was only midday, the fire burning high to keep the room warm.
He told himself it was simply a gesture to lift her spirits. He ignored the part of himself that knew it was more than that.

When she entered, Baldwin was already waiting. He stood instead of sitting, his armor gone, dressed in a dark tunic that somehow made him look even more dangerous.
“You’re early,” he said.
“You requested,” she teased, pulling out her chair.
His mouth curved just slightly. “Then I’m glad you came.”
For a time, they ate in relative quiet. He asked after Elara, she asked after the walls, and for a brief, precious stretch, it felt like the war had stepped back to watch from a distance.
But she kept thinking of Scheuer’s words. Her eyes scanned the hall—too many servants for such a small meal. Two guards she didn’t recognize stood by the far doors.

\[
It happened too fast and yet in slow motion. Baldwin had just poured her wine when the far door opened again. A man entered—carrying a tray, head bowed—but October saw the flick of his wrist, the way his other hand stayed hidden under the cloth.
Her stomach dropped.
“Baldwin—” she started, but the sound of steel clearing leather cut her off.
Time bent.
One of the unknown guards lunged, drawing a blade. The false servant pulled a dagger free. October didn’t think. She moved.
The world narrowed to the arc of the blade aimed for Baldwin’s ribs. She reached him in two steps, shoving him back, and the dagger meant for his heart caught her instead.
The shock was bright and cold.
Her breath left her in a rush. Somewhere, Baldwin shouted her name, the sound torn and raw. The room erupted—guards clashing with attackers, chairs overturned, steel striking steel—but all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart.

He saw her move before he understood why, and then she was in front of him, her face tight with urgency. The dagger struck, and the world went red.
“October!” He caught her before she hit the floor, his own sword already in his hand. He cut down the nearest attacker without hesitation, rage a white-hot clarity in his chest.
The surviving assassin tried to flee, but Baldwin’s men blocked the door. Steel met steel again, and Baldwin didn’t stop until the last threat was on the ground.
Then he was back at her side. Blood was spreading fast, seeping through her dress, hot against his hand.

The hall was chaos—guards dragging the dead, servants weeping, Scheuer bursting in too late, her face pale with fury.
“What happened?!” she demanded.
“An attempt,” Baldwin ground out, his voice low and lethal. “Coordinated. They knew where we’d be.”
Scheuer’s eyes went to October and the blood pooling beneath her. “Gods—”
Baldwin cut her off. “Clear the hall. Now.”
They obeyed, but the echo of the fight still rang in the air.
October’s hand twitched against his, her voice barely a whisper. “Told you… we protect each other.”
“Don’t,” Baldwin said sharply, the edge in his voice born of fear. “Don’t speak like you’re saying goodbye.”
Her lips curved faintly despite the pain. “Then stay alive… so I can yell at you later.”
Scheuer knelt on the other side, pressing fabric against the wound to slow the bleeding. “We need to move her—now.”
Baldwin nodded but didn’t let go. Not yet. His hand stayed on hers, as if that single point of contact was the only thing anchoring them both to the moment.