Morning came too soon and not soon enough.
Caelen stood in the courtyard adjusting his riding gloves when Ophelia found him. She moved slowly, one hand resting on the small swell of her belly, her expression gentle and worried in equal measure.
"You barely slept." Not a question. An observation spoken softly, without accusation.
She reached up to adjust his cloak, her fingers smoothing the fabric over his shoulders with the practiced care of a wife who'd performed this small ritual dozens of times. Her hand lingered on his arm, warm through the leather.
Trying to reach him. Trying to bridge the distance that had grown between them like a chasm neither could cross.
"I'm fine." Caelen's voice came automatic, hollow. He covered her hand with his, squeezed gently. "Just eager to reach Nevareth."
"For diplomatic reasons." Her eyes searched his face.
"Of course."
The lie tasted like ashes. They both knew. Both pretended they didn't.
