Location: Oslo Keep – Elira's Castle Estate
Time: Day 363 After Alec's Arrival
Scene One: Unintended Exposure
Alec had risen early. Not out of obligation — but instinct. He never slept long in unfamiliar places. His mind required spatial certainty before rest could become efficient.
So, just past dawn, he moved through the upper corridor of Oslo's estate alone.
No escort. No fanfare.
Just the quiet echo of his boots gliding over polished stone and worn mosaic inlays, the colors faded but still whispering old noble grandeur. Oslo's keep was unlike Armathane — it lacked the sprawling theatricality of the ducal palace. Here, design was purposeful. Rooms compact. Halls narrow but defensible. A structure built not to impress, but to endure.
He'd meant to check the south wing. Inspect the parapet vulnerabilities he'd cataloged yesterday from the inner courtyard.
Instead, he saw her.
Through a half-cracked door, framed by a long vertical beam of morning light.
Elira.
Not in her audience gown. Not layered in authority or armor. But in a thin linen shift — cream, sleeveless, and worn. The hem hung just below her knees. The material was light, fine-spun and translucent where the light struck strongest — clinging faintly to the curves beneath.
She stood at the window, stretching, unaware of the door. Unaware of him.
Alec stopped.
Something inside him halted like a lock catching on a gear.
This wasn't strategy. Or curiosity. Or data.
This was desire. Raw and human and startling.
Her arms lifted above her head. A slow inhale arched her back slightly, the linen tugging against the line of her breasts — high, full, unbound. Her auburn hair hung in loose, tangled waves over one shoulder, catching bits of gold from the rising sun.
Alec's pulse picked up.
Not fast. Just… focused.
He had never felt this before. Not in simulations. Not during mission pairings. Not even in the company of women during his early social acclimation. Those had been assessments. Controlled environments.
This was not control.
His body reacted without instruction — a sharpness beneath his ribs, a clench in his stomach, a dryness to his mouth.
She moved again — a tilt to one side, revealing the soft musculature of her waist, the tension in her thighs, the elegant slope of her collarbone.
He tried to catalog — to do what he was built to do.
Height: approximately 5'7".
Weight: 135–140 lbs, curvilinear muscle-to-fat ratio ideal.
Bust: Full, natural shape. Gravity-bound, likely 36D.
Waist: ~25 inches. Flat, taut core.
Hips: 40–41 inches, likely widened by childbirth.
Skin: Pale olive undertone. Freckled at clavicle.
Legs: Toned. No swelling. No signs of past trauma.
And still, none of that helped.
Because what seized him wasn't the data.
It was the reality.
The curve of her back. The weight of her body swaying gently as she moved. The way her presence filled the room without trying.
And in that moment — Alec realized something simple. Frightening.
He was aroused.
Not chemically. Not clinically. But wholly. Viscerally.
He had felt adrenaline before. Had triggered rage, fear, protective instinct.
But this was different.
This was yearning. Wordless. Physical. And real.
He stepped back from the doorway before she could turn. The soundless motion of a soldier trained in exit.
And still, he didn't understand why it felt like retreat.
Scene Two: Whispering Walls
By midday, the keep was alive.
And so were the whispers.
Alec didn't need to hear them. The servants' eyes were enough. The slight shifts in posture. The way laughter lingered when he passed, or silenced when he turned.
"He's staying in her wing…""They dined alone last night.""He walked the garden without escort.""They say he looked at her like a man who forgot he had a mind."
None of it was malicious. It was curious. Hopeful. Aroused, even.
Because Elira — the countess who ruled through resilience, who had never remarried, never even been seen at another man's side — had taken someone into her wing.
And not just anyone.
The outsider. The high-blooded flame of Midgard. The man who bent engineers, nobles, and priests alike without raising his voice.
Alec.
To the staff, that made him more than an envoy.
It made him dangerous.
Because he wasn't just visiting.
He might be choosing.
Scene Three: Meeting Annarella
The garden was overgrown — not with weeds, but a deliberate kind of wild. Herbs grew in raised stone beds, their fragrance drifting softly through the air: thyme, lemon balm, sage. Medicinal vines coiled along trellises and archways. Bees hovered lazily near the last of the spring blooms.
It was quiet here — alive, but gentle.
That's when he saw her.
A small shape burst around the hedge, all limbs and motion. She was chasing a rolling wooden hoop, her tiny legs pumping furiously, laughter bubbling from her mouth in uneven gasps.
She didn't see him.
The hoop curved.
She hit him.
It was like a squirrel crashing into a statue — she bounced off Alec's leg, landed square on her butt, and stared upward with wide eyes, her curls bouncing in delayed chaos around her head.
He stared back, momentarily frozen.
She blinked.
Then frowned.
"You're very tall," she announced, as though he might not know.
"You're very fast," Alec replied, one brow slightly raised.
That made her grin — a lopsided, open-mouthed beam missing one front tooth. "Mother said you're not a knight."
"She's right."
"But she said you build castles."
He tilted his head. "I build ideas," he corrected. "Then they become castles."
She squinted, considering that. "Do you build mothers too?"
Alec paused.
No answer formed immediately. Then he crouched, slow and careful, bringing himself to eye level with her.
"No," he said gently. "Mothers build themselves."
She stared at him, green eyes huge and very serious. "That's a clever answer," she said. "Mother says clever answers are dangerous if you forget to be kind."
Alec blinked.
That… sounded like Elira.
"What's your name, little one?"
"Annarella," she said proudly. "I'm four and two months. But I'm very advanced."
He fought the urge to smile. "I see."
She tilted her head. "What's your name?"
"Alec."
"That's short."
"It's efficient."
"Is that the same as boring?"
He almost choked on a laugh. "It can be. But I'm working on that."
She eyed him as if weighing something. Then reached out — with no hesitation — and touched the leather strap across his shoulder where a map scroll case hung.
"What's that?"
"Maps. Notes. Plans."
She nodded solemnly. "You carry your thoughts?"
"Yes."
"I carry my hoop." She looked back at it, now tipped against a planter. "But it doesn't always listen."
He looked at her again — at the freckle on her nose, the grass stain on her tunic, the absolute certainty with which she accepted the world. She was unlike anyone he'd met in this world so far — unfiltered, unscripted, unafraid.
She plucked a sprig of mint and handed it to him.
"It helps with belly aches," she whispered like a secret.
He took it, unsure why the gesture moved him more than a dozen formal oaths in council.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said.
She nodded again, satisfied.
"I like your boots," she added. "They're shiny."
"I like your honesty."
"What's honesty?"
"A good kind of truth."
"Oh." She looked around conspiratorially. "Mother says I'm full of too much truth sometimes. Especially at dinner."
Alec smiled — not small, not ironic. A real one. The first in days.
He hadn't touched a child since his arrival.
Hadn't realized how long it had been since he heard laughter without suspicion or performance.
And now he couldn't stop thinking of the word she'd asked:
Honesty.
He looked down at the mint still in his hand.
Maybe she'd given him more than she knew.
Scene Four: The Castle Itself
By evening, Alec had walked every corridor. Touched every bannister. Counted every stone out of place.
He catalogued internally:
Staff: 34 active. 9 unquestionably loyal. 6 uncertain. 2 likely spies.
Kitchen: understocked. Inefficient routing from cellars. Quartermaster's reports exaggerated.
Guard rotation: Thin. Many untrained. Elira's bodyguard was skilled, but overburdened.
Architecture: Structurally sound. Two weak points in the western parapet. Repairable.
Governance: Decentralized. Elira carried too much herself. Clerk network outdated.
His conclusion was clear:
"Elira rules this castle by force of will. Not structure. That cannot last."
Not if the county was to recover. Not if enemies like Dain circled in the dark.
Scene Five: The Closed Door
Night again.
Alec passed her chamber, slower this time. The hallway was quiet. No lanterns, just the faint blue haze of a storm-laced moon.
The door was shut.
He stopped.
His hand hovered a moment over the wood — not to open it, but… to feel the air there. The intimacy that lived behind it now. He knew what he'd seen that morning wasn't for him. Wasn't planned.
But now?
He wanted it again.
Not just her image.
But the feeling. The rush. The closeness.
And Alec Alenia — the genius, the strategist, the man who had never faltered under pressure — stood in front of that door and realized:
He wanted her.
Not as an ally.
Not as a mind.
As a woman.
And he didn't yet know what to do with that.
So he turned. Slowly. Silently.
And left the want behind the door.
For now.