The chamber was bathed in the amber glow of dying candles. Heavy drapes muffled the outside wind, and the air smelled faintly of myrrh and age. Freja sat near the hearth, her silver hair braided into a crown, her eyes glimmering with that ancient, unsettling calm that came only from women who had seen kingdoms rise and fall.
Aragon stood by the window, half-dressed, a loose shirt hanging from his shoulders. The storm outside mirrored the tension in the room — quiet but alive, rumbling with unspoken truths.
"You do realize," Freja began softly, her tone half amusement, half accusation, "that the court now calls you the Widow's Wolf?"
Aragon turned, one eyebrow arched. "I prefer that to the name they gave my father."
"Names," she chuckled, "mean little. But reputation... reputation outlives every crown." Her fingers traced the rim of her goblet. "Older women, Aragon? Married women? Wives of allies, mothers of knights — gods, even Lady Meliora, who could be your mother."
