Aya had always believed that war clarified people.
It stripped away pretense, burned through polite restraint, left only instinct and truth standing in the aftermath. She had seen cowards turn brave, generals turn hesitant, loyal men fracture when fear outgrew their convictions.
Peace, she was discovering, did something far more subtle.
Peace hid truths behind manners.
And so Aya watched.
She watched the way Killan spoke to her with perfect composure, never faltering, never cold, never careless. He consulted her first in council, deferred to her authority in Northern matters without hesitation, and stood beside her during every public appearance with the steadiness expected of a king allied - married - to a queen of equal power.
It would have been easier if he had been distant in voice.
Instead, it was only his body that kept its careful distance.
That was the first truth she allowed herself to name: he was not afraid of her.
