In the evening, the wind had quieted for once. Snow clung to the stones like breath held too long. Weylan sat on the narrow stairs of the old watchtower, elbows on his knees, staring at the plains beyond the wall. What little of the world wasn’t white had gone blue in the fading light.

He didn’t hear her at first.

“You’ll freeze sitting there.”

The Princess’ voice, quiet as falling ash, drew his gaze upward. She was leaning against the stone beside him, arms folded over a dark cloak, her hair still damp from melted snow. No crown. No armor. Just her—tired, upright, and staring at the horizon like it owed her answers.

“I’m warmer here than I was in the palace,” Weylan said, smiling faintly.

She didn’t return it. Just sat, a step above him, their shoulders close but not touching.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. It had weight. Like stones placed with care.

“I think about what he’d say,” Weylan finally murmured.

“Enric?” she asked.

He nodded. “He always made it sound like things would hold. Like we’d make it. I know he didn’t believe it half the time. But hearing it… helped.”

The princess looked away. “He was a soldier. Hope is armor.”

A breath passed between them.

“Do you ever feel like we’ve already lost?” Weylan asked.

She didn’t flinch. “That’s how you know it’s real. But we carry what’s left. That’s what matters.”

He wanted to say more—to offer something, anything, that might lift the weight from her shoulders, if only for a moment. But the words never formed. Just a question that buzzed behind his ribs: _Why do I care this much?_

The princess reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled something out. A loop of old leather, knotted tightly around a flat piece of riverstone, worn smooth, etched with a faint sunburst. It caught the starlight just enough to glint like memory.

“Enric gave this to me,” she said. “He meant to pass it on. I think it’s yours now.”

Weylan blinked. “I… shouldn’t—”

“He would’ve wanted it. Said you had the fire.” She pressed it into his palm before he could argue.

The stone was warm. Not from heat—but from years. From hands. From the life it had known.

He curled his fingers around it, held it like a promise.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it too much.

She gave a small nod, already turning to leave.

“Princess,” he said, and stood.

She paused in the stairwell’s shadow.

“I… I’ll be at the wall again in the morning.”

She didn’t answer. Just offered a glance—soft, unreadable—and disappeared into the tower above.

Weylan stood alone, clutching the pendant, heart thudding like it wanted to say something he wasn’t ready to understand.