The morning sun was already high when Fran arrived at the edge of the old bathhouse, escorted by the village reeve and a handful of council members. A light breeze stirred the leaves above, carrying with it the scent of linden blossoms and freshly-mixed mortar.

  “Not bad,” she murmured, stepping under the wooden archway. The stone walls had been cleaned and patched, the floors relaid with polished tile. Though the ceiling still bore the scars of collapse, scaffolding now cradled it like a promise.

  The reeve — a wiry man named Torven, with a weather-beaten face and the energy of a herding dog — walked just ahead of her. “We’ve kept the original layout, Your Grace,” he explained, pride glowing in his voice. “Three main pools, two warm, one cold. Private alcoves at the back, and we’re fixing the furnace this week. The young stonemason—Merrik, you saw him yesterday—he swears we’ll have steam by Midsummer.”

  Fran let her fingers trail along the edge of one basin, feeling the smoothness of new stone. “And the drains?”

  “Rebuilt. Flow straight into the new sewer lines. All gravity-fed, no arcane nonsense. We learned our lesson with the bakery.”

  She gave a soft hum of approval. Bathhouses weren’t just indulgences — they were meeting places, places of health, of comfort. Candlekeep had taught her that. She could almost hear Sorelle’s voice: If people feel clean, they act clean.

  Torven gestured toward the exit. “If you’ll follow me, Your Grace… we’ve something else to show.”

  They emerged into a patch of sunlight, where a narrow path twisted up toward the crumbling eastern tower. Once part of an outpost in the old imperial border chain, the structure had fallen into disuse after the war — some said since the Empire’s collapse. Its stones were pockmarked and weathered, ivy climbing greedily up its sides.

  “It’s nothing yet,” Torven admitted, “but it could be. A proper seat for the village council. Offices, records, even a hall for hearings.”

  “You want to make it your town hall,” Fran said flatly, squinting up at the crooked silhouette.

  “Well,” said one of the elders, scratching his beard, “we hope to become a town soon.”

  “A real one,” added a younger woman behind him, “not just a name on a map with muddy roads and a yearly sheep fair.”

  Fran’s lips quirked. “And what do you need from me?”

  They led her to a shaded table outside the bathhouse, where an ink pot, quill, and a stiff roll of parchment already waited.

  Torven handed her a thick document, tied with red cord. “The renovation’s already drafted, with terms approved by the masons’ guild. All we’re missing is your seal. With it, we’ll be able to claim the final tranche of the ducal grant — and qualify for the… er…” He paused, frowning at the charter. “‘Municipal designation clause,’ I believe.”

  Fran untied the cord and unrolled the parchment.

  She stared.

  Then frowned.

  The document was… thorough. Pages of definitions, territorial classifications, fiscal guarantees, bonding schedules. There were references to precedent charters from the reign of King Armenth III, clauses about “autonomous civic infrastructure,” and at least one section titled: On the Provisional Rights of Self-Determined Municipal Bodies in Frontier Districts.

  But there was a line — halfway down the second page — that gave her pause.

  “…and shall enjoy the customary privileges and exemptions pertaining to self-governing urban entities formerly recognized under Chapter VII of the Eastern Crown Concord.”

  Fran blinked.

  Then blinked again.

  “It’s… long,” she said slowly.

  “Aye, we thought the same,” Torven said, nodding. “But the legal scribe who drew it up said it’s all standard. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Did Duke Alric read these himself?”

  “Oh, no,” said another council member. “But his steward used to. Dull fellow. Loved his paperwork.”

  Fran tapped her finger against the edge of the parchment. “And in return for this… designation?”

  Torven straightened. “A portion of village tax remittance will be redirected toward the Duchy for ten years. Ten percent over forecasted revenue if the tower is completed within three years — and only five percent if the new businesses open within two.”

  “Which businesses?”

  “There’s a merchant from Vanneth hoping to open a proper weaver’s shop. Another family wants to build a hostel. And the old stableman’s son is apprenticed to a brewer in Candlekeep. He wants to bring back the recipe.”

  “And if you don’t meet the timeline?”

  “We forfeit the tax discount. Full rate resumes.”

  Fran looked at the bathhouse behind her. It gleamed in the sun. The people who had brought her here were proud, hopeful — not greedy, not cunning. Just villagers who wanted something better. She thought of Candlekeep, of all the little things that had made it a real place, not just a name. Books. Warmth. Routine. A council room to argue in.

  Still, something tugged at her.

  She turned the page back to the clause again.

  “…customary privileges and exemptions…”

  It itched. That one line. Too smooth. Too generous.

  But Torven looked like he might cry.

  And something in her — something tired of suspicion, of the constant parsing of motives — wanted to believe in the simple truth of what she saw: proud people building something better.

  So she ignored the itch.

  And signed.

  “Very well,” she said. “Let’s give your tower a chance.”

  Torven’s eyes lit up. One of the older women clapped her hands. Someone cheered — quietly, but genuinely.

  Fran dipped the quill in ink. “You’ll hold up your end?”

  Torven bowed. “On my name.”

  She signed. Stamped. And the breeze lifted the edge of the parchment like it meant to carry it away.

  A part of her wanted to ask again what that clause meant.

  A bigger part was just glad to help people who had asked for her, not feared her.

  She stood, offered a small, tired smile, and said, “Now go build your tower.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Behind her, the bathhouse door creaked in the wind. Far in the distance, a pair of swallows circled the broken crown of the tower that no longer belonged to an empire.

  But possibly — soon — to something else.

  And the charter, now signed and sealed, waited quietly on the table. As did its consequences.

  The scent of crushed herbs and dried orange peel drifted through the open windows of Emaen’s shop, sweetening the sharp bitterness of the tea in Gale’s cup. He sipped slowly, seated on a three-legged stool that wobbled every third breath, and pretended not to be staring out the window like a lovesick schoolboy.

  “She’s at it again,” Emaen muttered, glancing over his shoulder as she crushed something green and unfortunate-looking into a mortar. “Touring the bathhouse like it’s the royal armory. Poor Reeve Torven looks ready to faint from gratitude.”

  “He’s lucky she hasn’t questioned his plumbing,” Gale said, swirling his tea. “Or asked about the airflow beneath the changing rooms. She gets very specific about these things.”

  “Ah, yes. Nothing says noble blood like a passion for water ducts and tile grout.”

  They both watched as Fran emerged from the bathhouse, trailed by a gaggle of villagers. Every one of them bowed their heads, murmuring “Your Grace” as if she’d been born with a crown between her brows.

  Emaen snorted. “Two weeks ago they thought she was the housemaid.”

  “Two weeks ago you thought she was the housemaid.”

  “I never said maid. I said governess. Maybe companion. Something respectable, but with practical shoes.”

  Gale raised an eyebrow.

  Emaen smirked and handed him a small biscuit from a tin shaped like a frog. “Still. You have to admit, she does look like she belongs now.”

  “She always belonged.” His voice was soft.

  Outside, Fran paused in front of the crumbling east tower, gesturing toward it with measured curiosity. Torven looked like he might cry from relief as he answered. Gale could almost hear her tone from here: sharp, practical, respectful — with just enough warmth to keep people loyal, and just enough steel to keep them cautious.

  “She’s going to say yes, you know,” Emaen said, setting the pestle aside.

  Gale didn’t answer.

  She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re not going to ask me for anything? Nerves blend? Or something for after?”

  He gave her a look. “Absolutely not.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ve got a new willowroot-pine infusion. A friend swears by it. Excellent for endurance, or so I hear.”

  “I’ll manage. Somehow.”

  “You always say that right before nearly dying or fainting.”

  Gale sighed, pressing the warm cup to his temple. “What if I mess it up?”

  “Then she’ll mock you, roll her eyes, and say yes anyway.”

  “That’s very specific.”

  “I may not know her well, but I know you. And you’ve got that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The one you had the day you tried to impress the glassmaker’s daughter with a floating lute concerto and knocked over two chandeliers.”

  “That was a delicate improvisation.”

  “That was a fire hazard.”

  He smiled despite himself. “She’s always been the one to set the pace. Every time.”

  Emaen arched a brow. “Let me guess — she kissed you first. Dragged you into bed. Gave you a nickname and nearly murdered you during pillow talk.”

  Gale gave her a long look. “You’re not far off.”

  “Gods.” She grinned. “You’re doomed. I hope she keeps you — you’d be feral without her.”

  He chuckled, then sighed. “She scares me.”

  “That’s normal. All the good ones are terrifying.”

  “No, I mean… she doesn’t scare me like that. It’s not that she’s harsh, or unpredictable, or cold — she’s none of those things. But I don’t want to do anything wrong. Not with her. Not ever.”

  Emaen studied him for a moment, then leaned in and flicked a bit of lint from his collar.

  “You’ve already done everything wrong,” she said lightly. “And she still walks beside you. That’s how I know it’s going to work.”

  He blinked, then laughed. “That’s the least romantic way anyone’s ever described a proposal.”

  “It’s tea hour. My feet are swollen. You get wisdom, not romance.”

  Outside, a light breeze stirred the paper on the table by the bathhouse. Fran leaned over it — quill in hand, seal already waiting. From this distance, Gale caught only a glimpse of the gesture, half-obscured by a passing villager. A moment later, she stepped away, brushing her hands absently against her skirts.

  Gale stood, brushed off his coat, and straightened his collar. “Well. Time to make dinner.”

  “Don’t burn the carrots. And no onions in the roast — you said she hates them, remember?”

  “I know.”

  “She’ll say yes, Gale.”

  He smiled. “I hope so.”

  As he stepped out into the sun-dappled street, Fran looked up, spotted him, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Busy morning?” he asked as they began walking side by side.

  “Villagers. Towers. Centuries of architectural neglect.”

  “Sounds thrilling.”

  “About as thrilling as tea with Emaen, I imagine.”

  “She was remarkably kind to me, actually.”

  “She must want something.”

  “She said I’d be fine.”

  Fran glanced at him. “You’re fidgeting.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe I’m just happy.”

  “You’re definitely fidgeting.”

  He offered his arm with exaggerated grace. “Shall we return to our crumbling estate, Your Grace?”

  “Lead the way, commoner.”

  They walked back toward Veltryn House under the midday sun, trailed by gossip, soft laughter, and one very smug potion-maker watching from her window.

  By the time Fran emerged from her bath, the house smelled of roasted herbs, spiced pears, and some dangerously caramelised thing that made her toes curl just catching the scent. Somewhere, faintly, a harp was playing. Not loudly — just enough to fill the corners of the house with elegance and intent.

  Intent was always a dangerous thing when Gale was involved.

  She dressed slowly, half-expecting the illusion to collapse with a crash or a shout or a curse. But it didn’t. No thud of falling shelves, no waft of singed cloth, no sound of a cat knocking over a wine bottle. Only the soft clink of cutlery being adjusted one too many times, and the muffled rhythm of pacing feet in the dining room.

  When she stepped in, she stopped short.

  Candles flickered on the sideboard, tall and pale with twisted stems. The table had been set with silverware she didn’t even remember owning. The wine had already been poured — chilled, of course — and at the centre of it all, one man stood very still, trying to pretend he hadn’t just looked into his pocket for the seventh time.

  Gale turned. Smiled. Straightened his already straight collar.

  She blinked once. Slowly.

  “You combed your hair,” she said.

  He looked slightly offended. “Occasionally, I do attempt hygiene.”

  “You also lit candles, charmed music, and bribed the cats to stay away. What did it cost you? A soul? Half your bookshelf?”

  “I may have offered Rudy a slice of duck. Nymph was easier. She only asked for tribute in sardines.”

  Fran looked around again. The lighting was warm, almost golden. The smell from the kitchen was indecently good. The harp tune shifted gently in the background, relaxing, nonchalant — and underneath it all, she could feel his nervousness radiating like heat.

  Still, she played along.

  She let him kiss her — lightly, like he didn’t quite trust his hands. Let him call her Dove, once, maybe twice, without retaliation. On the third time, she arched a brow and murmured, “Portashaft,” just to watch him flinch.

  He pulled out her chair with the air of someone preparing to defuse a bomb. She sat.

  He served her like the world’s clumsiest waiter — nearly dropped a plate, muttered apologies, poured the wine with trembling fingers but didn't spill a drop. And each course, impossibly, tasted better than the last. Roast duck with honey glaze. Herb potatoes with cheese crisped just right. Braised carrots he definitely hadn’t burned. Somewhere in all that chaos, he had achieved culinary perfection.

  And he wasn’t touching his food at all.

  By the time they reached the final course — delicate little pear tarts with sugared nuts and what suspiciously looked like a dusting of gold flake — he was visibly sweating. His eyes darted to hers and away. He cleared his throat, then failed to speak. Once, she thought he tried to swallow a sentence and nearly choked on the wine instead.

  Fran, for her part, said nothing.

  She knew. Of course she knew. She’d known before dinner. Before the candles. Before the harp. He had been trying to say something for weeks, and each time, the words curled back into his throat like nervous birds in a storm.

  Now, she watched him with a small, steady smile.

  He stood, slowly, like his legs might betray him.

  “I, ah…” he began, then stopped. “It’s funny, actually. I had a whole thing prepared. Not a speech, exactly. More of a… gentle introduction. A thematic lead-in.”

  Fran raised one eyebrow.

  Gale smiled tightly. “Terrible idea, really. Absolutely awful. But I—well, I wanted to start by saying that, from the moment I met you—no, that’s not right—”

  He reached into his pocket.

  And then, the world cracked.

  Hooves thundered up the drive like a cavalry charge. The harp spell stuttered — once, then collapsed into silence. A gust of wind slammed the shutters. Something crashed in the kitchen.

  Then: three sharp, urgent knocks at the door. Not polite. Not patient.

  Gale flinched. His hand stayed frozen inside his coat. His mouth opened, then closed — like a man who’d just been pushed from a ledge he’d finally worked up the nerve to step onto.

  Fran didn’t move at first.

  Her gaze drifted to the door. Then to him. And something behind her eyes — something soft, open, ready — folded up like a map before rain.

  She stood — a little too quickly. Smoothed her skirts like armor. The air between them felt scorched.

  “Fran…” he tried.

  She didn’t answer at first. Her jaw tightened, just slightly. Her hand brushed the table as she turned.

  Then, low — more breath than words — she said: “Of all nights.”

  Then she walked toward the door.

  Gale followed her, slower. Unsteady. The space in his chest where hope had bloomed moments ago now felt vacant.

  Together, they walked toward the front hall. Toward the knock. Toward the break in the evening they’d almost made whole.

  Behind them, the candles still flickered. The table was still set. Two desserts sat untouched, their sugared tops beginning to cool.

  And in his pocket, the ring waited — unseen, unoffered, interrupted. Not lost. Not yet. But no longer tonight.