Killan had faced cavalry charges with less calculation than he now applied to something as simple as standing beside his own wife.
The thought irritated him.
It should not have required strategy. It should not have required restraint measured to the inch, to the breath, to the exact placement of his boots on marble floors and packed training yards alike. And yet, since the war's end - and more acutely since Aya's power had awakened fully - he had become acutely aware of every step he took in her direction.
Or away from it.
The training yard below the eastern tower rang with the clean, rhythmic clash of steel. Soldiers sparred in pairs, frost-laced breath rising in the cool morning air, their movements sharp but disciplined. Recovery drills, not war. The difference mattered.
Killan watched from the stone balcony, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
