jenna, the housemaid—her skirts starched to precise pleats—ushered Sif through corridors of polished oak to his chamber. The room was vast: a canopied bed draped in burgundy velvet, a low-windowed alcove where morning light would fall, and an arched doorway leading to his much-anticipated bath. Sif laid his few belongings on a carved chest, watching the silence settle around him like a soft cloak.
Moments later, jenna returned.
"The bath is ready, Master Sif," she announced, her tone respectful yet brisk.
Sif stepped into the adjoining chamber where a great stone basin brimmed with steaming water scented faintly of lavender and pine. It was the first true bath he had known in over six months—six months of frost-bitten limbs and unrelenting cold. As the hot water washed away the grime of travel and the chill of Devil's Pit, he felt an alien warmth seep into his bones, easing the tight coil of tension in his chest. He lingered under the flow until the heat pulled sweat and sorrow from his skin. At last, he emerged, clad in fresh linen, longing only for the vast bed—but duty called him before rest.
Gina arrived once more, lantern in hand. "Dinner is served in the great hall, Master Sif. Lady Vivian awaits your company."
He nodded and followed her down the corridors to the dining room, where a long table groaned under platters of roast venison crusted with pepper and juniper, bowls of winter greens dressed in oil and vinegar, and steaming tureens of honey-glazed carrots. Candles flickered in wrought-iron sconces, and at the head sat Lady Vivian, her posture impeccable in a gown of deep sapphire.
Sif took the seat immediately to her right—his place already laid with silver forks, a plated charger, and a napkin folded with precise discipline. He had studied table manners once, long ago, but now found himself at a loss.
Lady Vivian glanced at his unpracticed grip on the fork and the way he set his napkin on his lap. A faint, amused curl appeared at one corner of her mouth.
"You handle your cutlery as though it might bite," she observed softly.
He flushed, attempting a polite smile. "Forgive me, my lady. I fear I have forgotten much of noble etiquette."
She inclined her head. "Practice, then. Begin with the stew." She lifted a silver spoon. "It is venison broth, spiced with clove and cinnamon."
He followed her lead, lifting the spoon carefully and tasting. The rich warmth spread through him, anchoring his nerves.
"This is… excellent."
Lady Vivian's eyes glinted. "Of course. Ashford estate spares no expense in its kitchens. But soon I shall sell it all and move to the capital—"
He started, surprised by the abrupt confession.
"Your estate… you would sell it?"
She sighed, slicing a wedge of venison. "I must. This place holds too many memories of my late lord—and too many burdens. I have other lands to manage, responsibilities that call me to Imperis."
He hesitated, then ventured warmly, "Your estate is magnificent, my lady. It suits you."
She paused mid-bite, regarding him as one piques curiosity.
"You flatter me. Tell me, Sif the Fox—what of your own fortunes? I have heard of your four great victories: Berthol, Lismorth, Wyvern, and the High Plains. You led the charge against the Dominion and shattered their legions."
He lowered his gaze at the mention.
"My lady, I did only my part."
Her fork hovered. "Yet I was sorry to learn you were imprisoned for treason thereafter. Brighton and his followers still whisper slander against you—yet I do not believe them."
He felt a solemn relief at her words but said nothing.
She continued, voice softening. "I recall the first letter from Ronar—he wrote of finding a sixteen-year-old boy washed ashore near Blackreach. He took you in, my husband did, even though I protested—'We cannot suddenly become parents,' I said. But he cared for you as if you were his own son. In his final letter, he begged me to watch over you."
Tears pricked at Sif's eyes—he swallowed, nodding.
Lady Vivian set down her fork. "I refused adoption, and I have since regretted it. You were his honor, his legacy. For your sake—and his—I offer you more than hospitality. You have a place here as long as you need it."
Sif bowed his head, voice husky. "Your kindness humbles me, my lady. I… thank you."
She gave a small, gracious smile, then rose. "I must beg your pardon—I have papers to sign. Rest now and dine in the hall on my behalf if you wish further courses. Good night, Sif the Fox."
With that, she swept away, leaving Sif seated in the glow of the candles—sword laid at his side, heart filled with gratitude and a warmth that no bath could match
Sif remained seated at the long dining table long after Lady Vivian had departed. The candlelight flickered softly across the polished silverware, casting tall, dancing shadows on the walls. The food before him had lost its warmth, but he hadn't touched another bite.
His hands rested on the edge of the table, fingers curled slightly. The sword that had once belonged to Ronar now leaned gently against the wall behind him—out of sight, but never out of mind.
The room was quiet.
Not the heavy silence of prison cells or haunted forests, but the refined hush of noble halls where words were chosen carefully and memories lingered like dust in the corners.
He stared down at his plate, then exhaled slowly, rising from his seat.
Back in the corridor, a servant waited—young, silent, alert. Sif nodded once, and the boy led him back through the manor's winding halls. The smell of polished wood and burning cedar followed him.
When he reached his chamber again, the fire had been rekindled. The sheets had been turned down, and a small glass of dark liqueur sat on the bedside table.
He shed his coat and boots, folding them neatly despite their frayed state, and sat at the edge of the grand bed. The mattress sank softly beneath him—unfamiliar comfort pressing into his spine.
He sat for a long while, elbows on his knees, head bowed between his hands.
Vivian's words echoed back—about Ronar, about regret, about the letters filled with his name. He had not known that Ronar had tried to adopt him. He had suspected affection. But that?
And now he was sleeping under the roof of a woman who once said no to that thought—and now offered him refuge without asking for anything in return.
He lay back against the pillows. The ceiling above was painted in faded gold—stars, constellations, and dragons stretching toward corners long swallowed by shadow.
For the first time in months, he closed his eyes without flinching.
Sleep came, not gently—but it came.
And somewhere in the deep quiet of the Ashford estate, the old weight began to shift, ever so slightly