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Isolde turns toward her. “That was not on the day’s agenda.”
“It should be. I like agendas with cake.”
My throat tightens, which is ridiculous given everything we have survived. Devourers, summoning circles, Vaerith’s legal rot, evolution, exile proceedings, public inquiry, and one conversation with Lady Othrel about shared property rights that nearly killed me from boredom. Yet the word marry still moves through me with a warmth.
Her eyes soften.
Then she saves me by smacking my arm lightly with the folio. “Eastern line. Dignified competence.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The estate work takes most of the morning. I drain three corrupted pockets from the old foundations, release clean power into the new lattice, and watch minor nobles pretend they are not relieved every time I stop glowing. By midday, the central hall’s emergency wards hold without Rhazek reinforcing them, which sends a murmur through the engineers and forces Othrel to say, “Adequate,” with the gravity of a coronation.
After that, we leave the estate.
Gladly.
The road out of the district slopes toward neutral land where no house banners fly and no old wardship laws cling to the stones. Grass grows through the broken seams of abandoned border markers. A line of young trees follows the stream that separates the old Sylmorne holdings from Ardyn territory, their leaves washed clean by days of rain and bright now under a sky finally clearing itself of storm.
Our house is mostly a skeleton at the moment.
A beautiful, stubborn skeleton.
Posts stand in a rectangle on a rise overlooking the stream, with beams laid across the top and stacks of cut timber waiting beneath canvas. Sable drew half the plan with a carpenter who kept arguing about practicality until Isolde produced four counterexamples, two cost comparisons, and one look that made him rethink his relationship with doors. Rhazek added ward placements without asking permission. Mira insisted on a kitchen twice the size of the first sketch and got it because everyone feared her quietly. Bren claimed he was only here for delivery work, then spent three days advising the builders where not to put drainage.
I stand in the unfinished doorway with my hand resting against the frame.
Cedar, fresh-cut and sun-warmed, fills the air. The ground is green, rich with mud and crushed grass. In the distance, the reconstructed estate rises behind trees and smoke from work fires, smaller from here, less like a cage and more like a problem being dealt with by other people for once.
Isolde steps beside me and studies the frame. “The north wall needs another ward nail.”
“You say that like you aren’t carrying six.”
She reaches into her coat pocket and produces one. “Preparation is attractive.”
“I agree. Deeply.”
Her eyes slide toward me. “You agree too quickly when tools are involved.”
“I am a man of broad romantic vision.”
“You are a menace with carpentry access.”
“I’m building you a house.”
“You are supervising skilled people while occasionally lifting beams dramatically.”
“Still counts.”
She laughs softly, and the sound spreads through me with an ease that still feels new.
Later in the afternoon, the district delegation arrives.
Not a grand council, because everyone has agreed we have had enough grand anything for a while. Othrel comes with two clerks, Kairven’s nephew with a seal box, Syrenya with a cloak entirely unsuited to muddy ground, and half a dozen minor representatives who look as if they are trying to decide whether neutral land is charming or offensive. They gather near the unfinished house while the sun lowers toward the tree line, turning the wet grass gold.
I know why they are here.
So does Isolde.
