Private Our Hearts Knew Before We Spoke

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

The Naboo Diplomatic Retreat was beautiful in the way only this world could be—pale stone warmed by golden light, archways like unfurling petals, fountains whispering along the edges of terraced gardens. It should have calmed her. It didn't. Seris' steps echoed too sharply across the polished floor, each one a reminder that she was walking willingly into a future she had not chosen. She paused beneath a high archway, shoulders rising with a slow breath as she smoothed the embroidered sleeves of her gown yet again. The small, ceremonial gift box in her hand felt heavier than its contents could justify.

Arranged marriages were not uncommon among the noble houses, but the rumors surrounding the Avaron heir had troubled her more than she cared to admit. Some said he was sickly, others whispered of scars or deformities, a recluse whose absence from public life hinted at something being concealed. Seris had spent too many nights trying to quiet the growing anxiety those whispers stirred. She wasn't a child anymore, but she wasn't hardened either; she knew duty, but she also feared the unknown shadow it cast.

She steadied her breath and repeated the silent mantra drilled into her since youth: You will be gracious. You will be composed. You will endure.
Her stomach still tightened with each repetition.

A soft footfall approached. The Naboo steward bowed with practiced elegance. "Lady Seris," he said, "the young lord awaits you in the west garden."

She followed him through fresco-lined halls that depicted rolling meadows and crystal lakes, though her mind absorbed none of it. Every step tightened the coil of her nerves. Her family, his family, the future of two houses—all of it rested on this moment, this meeting, this first impression. She was young, and though she carried herself with noble training, she felt the truth of her inexperience keenly.

The west garden unfolded before her in warm layers of color and sound: golden evening light stretched across stone pathways, a reflecting pool shimmered with the breeze, and climbing vines laden with flowers perfumed the air. It was peaceful, almost idyllic. Yet Seris felt her heartbeat quicken as she stepped farther into the garden, searching for the man who would become her husband.

She saw him near the water's edge, standing with his back to her. His posture was straight but not rigid, his shoulders broad beneath a well-tailored coat. He spoke quietly to a Naboo attendant—too quietly for her to hear—before the man bowed and excused himself, leaving the young lord alone.

Seris stopped several paces away, the breath catching in her throat.

He turned.

And in a single heartbeat, every rumor she had carried with her shattered.

He was not deformed. Not harsh-featured. Not cold or severe.

He was…human. Young. Earnest. His amber-brown eyes widened slightly as they met hers, surprise flickering there—or perhaps the same nerves she felt tightening her chest. There was no cruelty in him, no indifference, no hidden darkness—just a man who looked as uncertain and as hopeful as she was.

Her fear didn't vanish instantly, but it loosened its grip, retreating just enough for her to breathe. She dipped into a graceful bow, hoping he wouldn't see the faint tremor in her hands. When she rose, she allowed her gaze to meet his fully—steady, curious, cautious, and quietly brave.

"My lord…the honor is mine."

The words were soft but sincere, carrying all the careful composure her upbringing demanded and all the unspoken relief she hadn't expected to feel.

For the first time since arriving on Naboo, Seris felt the tense weight in her shoulders ease—not entirely, but enough. Enough to believe that perhaps the stories had been wrong. That perhaps there was something gentler waiting for her than the life she had braced herself to endure.

He hadn't spoken yet—but she already knew:

He was not what she feared. And that was enough to let hope take root.

Duncan Avaron

 

[Duncan Avaron]

Seris Travin-Avaron
​

Duncan Avaron had prepared himself for many possibilities.

He had rehearsed the ways he might hide the tremor in his left hand, the one that worsened under stress. He had braced for polite indifference, or veiled disappointment, or the brittle courtesy nobles used when obligation outweighed desire. He had even imagined the worst, that she might look at him with pity, or with fear, or with the quiet resignation of someone already certain this arrangement would be a burden.

He had not prepared for her.

When he turned and saw Seris standing at the edge of the golden-lit garden, he forgot, briefly, utterly....to breathe.

She was…radiant.

Not in the ostentatious way holodramas described beauty, but in the way the evening sunlight seemed to shift toward her, as if drawn by her presence. Graceful lines in her gown caught the glow; her posture held both nervousness and dignified control. And her eyes, he hadn't imagined eyes could be that striking, steady in their fear and still somehow courageous.

For a heartbeat he simply stared. His attendant's quiet retreat barely registered. His own carefully practiced introduction fled his mind entirely. All that remained was the sudden, aching awareness that she was even more than the rumors had allowed for, more elegant, more poised, more… real.

And she bowed to him.

The young lord felt heat rise to his face, something between awe and disbelief tightening in his chest. He stepped forward at once, too quickly, perhaps, and gave a respectful bow of his own, lower than tradition demanded. He did not trust his voice at first; when he finally spoke, it was soft but unshakably sincere.

"Lady Seris… the honor is truly mine."

He straightened slowly, his amber-brown eyes meeting hers without the shield of courtly distance. She had tried to hide the tremor in her hands; he pretended not to see it, only because he knew he carried one of his own.

"You've traveled far," he continued, a quiet warmth threading through his tone. "I hope Naboo has been kind to you so far. And if not… I will do everything in my power to ensure that changes."

The words slipped out more earnestly than he intended, but he didn't regret them. Something in her presence made him want to reassure her, to make this moment easier, to show her that she was not walking into a fate ruled by cold politics or whispered fears.

His gaze softened as he studied her face, unable to hide how stunned he still was.

"You are…" He stopped, breath catching at the edge of impropriety. A lord should not speak so plainly, not so soon.

But he was young, and struck through the heart by the sight of her, and honesty slipped free anyway.

"You are far more graceful than anything I imagined," he said quietly. "More beautiful, too."

A breeze carried the scent of the west garden blossoms between them, stirring the surface of the reflecting pool as if the world itself paused to listen.

Duncan offered her his hand, steady, open, an invitation rather than an expectation.

"If you will allow," he murmured, "I'd be honored to show you around. I would like… for our first steps together to be gentle ones."

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until he bowed.

Not a perfunctory inclination of the head…Not the shallow courtesy nobles so often exchanged…

But a bow deeper than custom demanded, offered with sincerity so unguarded that it caught her entirely off balance. The garden seemed to still around them—petals swaying slower, the fountain softening to a distant murmur—as if the world itself had paused to recalibrate her understanding of the man standing before her.

He was nothing like the specter she had feared these past weeks. Nothing like the whispers that had shadowed every thought since the arrangement was announced. Standing here, in the warm glow of Naboo's fading sun, Duncan Avaron looked…human. Kind. And young enough for the uncertainty in his eyes to mirror her own.

He spoke gently, each word setting her nerves at ease rather than heightening them. And when he stumbled over his praise—earnest, unpolished, sincere—warmth rushed to her cheeks before she could stop it.

She lowered her gaze for a moment, steadying herself, letting the glow of his sincerity settle inside the parts of her that had been tight with dread. When she lifted her eyes again, they were softer, clearer, touched by something she hadn't expected to feel tonight.

"You flatter me, my lord," she murmured, her voice gentle, still tinged with youthful hesitation but brave enough to hold his gaze. "More than I deserve on a first meeting…but not more than I appreciate."

Her fingers tightened around the ceremonial gift box—more to steady herself than anything—before she slowly extended her free hand toward his. Her palm hovered just above his for a heartbeat, the air between them warm with possibility.

"And you are not at all what I feared," she admitted quietly, honesty threading through her words before caution could stop her. "You've already been kinder than rumor allowed me to imagine. I…thank you for that."

Her hand finally settled into his—tentative at first, then firmer, as though acknowledging a promise neither of them had spoken aloud yet. Despite her best efforts to quell it, she felt the faint tremor in her fingers; she hoped he would not think it was because of him. Perhaps it was because of what he represented—a future she had braced herself to endure, now unfolding far gentler than she had dared hope.

"I would like that," she said softly when he offered to show her the grounds, her green eyes lifting to meet his with newfound steadiness. "For our first steps to be gentle ones."

A small, shy smile touched her lips—the first genuine one of the day.

"It would ease my heart to walk with you, Duncan."

She glanced briefly toward the garden's winding path, then back to him, her voice a quiet confession wrapped in courage. "I am…glad it is you."

Seris tightened her fingers around his for a brief moment, drawing courage from the warmth of his steadiness. Then, almost as if remembering herself, she shifted her hand away just long enough to hold out the small, silk-wrapped scroll she had carried since she left her family estate.

"Before we walk…" she said softly, her voice gentle but edged with the nervous flutter she could no longer hide, "I—there is something I wished to give you."

She offered it with both hands, as etiquette dictated, though her cheeks warmed with the vulnerability of the gesture. The parchment was simple, the calligraphy delicate, but clearly her own. A young woman's hand. A young woman's hope.

"It is a benediction," she explained quietly. "A tradition from my family. It asks for harmony… for gentleness in new beginnings."

Her eyes lifted to his — steady, earnest, unguarded.

"I wrote it myself." Her voice softened to nearly a whisper."I… hoped you might accept it."

Duncan Avaron

 

[Duncan Avaron]

Seris Travin-Avaron
​

Duncan had expected formality. He had expected duty. He had expected something stiff and practiced, the way these arranged introductions were supposed to unfold. He had not expected her, not the way she breathed life into the garden simply by standing in it, not the way her words struck something inside him he hadn't realized was waiting to be moved.

And he certainly hadn't expected the benediction.

For a moment, Duncan simply looked at the scroll she held out, silk-wrapped and trembling ever so slightly in her fingers. Not with weakness, but with the quiet bravery of someone offering a piece of herself. Something deeply personal. Something she had written by her own hand.

He felt his breath tighten in his chest.

No one had ever given him anything like this. Not a gesture of genuine goodwill. Not a tradition shared with trust. Not something crafted with hope rather than strategy. His throat worked around a soft exhale as he accepted the parchment with both hands, mirroring her etiquette, honoring her sincerity with the same careful reverence she had offered him.

"Seris…" He said her name gently, as though it were something he was afraid to mishandle. "You honor me more than you know."

He held the scroll for a moment longer, looking down at the precise, delicate wrapping, before lifting his eyes back to hers. The quiet earnestness she showed, this fragile courage, struck him with the strength of something he had not expected to feel.

"You wrote this," he said softly, almost in wonder. "For me."

Not for House Avaron. Not for their families. For him.

His fingers brushed the silk as if memorizing it. Then he looked at her fully, their gazes settling into something warm and grounding.

"I accept it," he said, voice steady but touched with emotion he didn't bother to hide. "Gladly. And I will keep it safe."

The promise slipped out before he could think to temper it. He did not want to temper it. He paused, not to hesitate, but to choose his next words with care.

"You said you are glad it is me." A soft breath escaped him, something like relief, something like disbelief finally eased. "I hope, truly, to be someone worthy of that gladness."

Then, slowly, so she could see every intention, so she would not startle, he stepped closer and offered his hand again, palm open and waiting.

This time, not as a formal escort. Not as a noble duty. But as a young man meeting a young woman who had just shared the first piece of her heart with him.

"And I am glad it is you," Duncan said quietly. "More than I can express without being terribly inelegant."

A faint, self-conscious smile curved his lips, boyish, genuine, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. "If you'll still walk with me… I would like to begin our first steps together with this gift at my heart."

He slid the parchment carefully into the inner pocket of his coat, close over his chest, where he meant those words.

Then he extended his arm for her, a gentle invitation rather than expectation, amber-brown eyes warm with something new and steadying.

"Tell me about you, everything?" He spoke with a sweet and gentle tone.

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris felt something soften deep in her chest when he placed the scroll against his heart. Not ceremonially. Not out of obligation. But with a sincerity so unpolished, so unguarded, that she had to steady her breath to keep from showing how profoundly it struck her. She had meant the benediction as a gesture of courtesy, perhaps as a fragile bridge between two strangers bound by duty—but seeing Duncan hold it as though it were something precious, something given rather than required, turned the moment into something far more intimate than she had prepared for.

His words, his wonder at the idea that she had written it for him specifically, drew her gaze up to meet his fully. When their eyes met, the tension she had carried for days loosened one quiet thread at a time. His earnestness did not frighten her. It steadied her.

When he extended his hand again—not as a lord fulfilling tradition, but as a young man offering himself in honesty—Seris let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her fingers trembled only once before she placed her hand into his, this time not out of obligation or etiquette, but because she genuinely wanted to.

"You are already worthy of it," she said softly, green eyes lifting to his with a warmth she could no longer hide. "You honored my gift more gently than I expected anyone to. That alone tells me more about your character than rumor ever could."

She stepped closer, allowing her arm to slip into the one he offered. The movement was smooth and graceful, but beneath it lay a vulnerability she did not try to bury. His nearness was comforting, not overwhelming. And that realization—that she felt safe, truly safe—made her heart tighten in quiet, surprised relief.

"I will walk with you," Seris added, her voice soft but certain. "Happily."

They began to move along the garden path, the air warm with fading sunlight, the scents of blossoming vines drifting gently around them. The reflecting pool rippled with light, mirroring the nerves and hope that seemed to hum faintly between them.

His question lingered in the air—an invitation deeper than polite curiosity, a request to know her, truly know her. She hesitated only to gather her composure, then turned her face toward him with a small, genuine smile.

"Everything?" she echoed, amusement softening the edges of her nerves. "That is quite a lot, my lord. But…" Her fingers curled a little more securely around his arm, as though the gesture itself anchored her. "…if you wish to know me, then you will. I want you to."

She looked ahead for a moment, letting the Naboo sunset paint her expression in shades of gentle gold. "I suppose I should begin with what matters most. I try to carry myself with grace, but…" The faintest pink brushed her cheeks. "…I am still young, and I am afraid more often than I admit."

She glanced up at him again, this time with an openness she rarely showed anyone. "But meeting you…eases that fear."

Her voice softened to a warm near-whisper. "So ask me anything, Duncan. I will answer." She walked beside him, calm for the first time since arriving on Naboo—and for the first time, truly hopeful for the life that waited beyond this evening.

Duncan Avaron

 

[Duncan Avaron]

Seris Travin-Avaron
​

Duncan had prepared himself to be steady, for her sake, for propriety's sake, for the sake of the entire future their two houses were quietly balancing on this single evening.

But Seris' answer You are already worthy of it nearly unraveled him.

Not in a way that weakened him, but in a way that reached straight past every guarded instinct he had cultivated since boyhood. He felt the words land in a place beneath armor he hadn't realized he was wearing. For a heartbeat, he forgot about lineage and alliances and expectations. He forgot every warning his advisors had murmured about duty and restraint. He remembered only that she was looking up at him, and trusting him.

Her hand in his arm was warm and light, but steady. Not tentative. Not the brittle poise of a woman bracing for disappointment. Her closeness felt…right. Natural in a way nothing arranged should have felt. As they walked, Duncan slowed their pace ever so slightly, giving her time to breathe, giving himself time to absorb the quiet weight and wonder of the moment. The path curved around a bank of flowering vines, their petals brushing soft color into the golden hour light, and he glanced down at her and really looked.

"You speak of fear," he murmured, voice low, meant only for her and the hush of the garden. "Yet you walked into this meeting with more courage than I think I could have managed in your place."

He hesitated, choosing honesty over eloquence. "And if you are young," he added gently, "Then so am I. I admit I am afraid, too. But not of you." His eyes warmed, deepening with sincerity. "I feared being a burden. Being someone you would have to endure rather than someone you could trust."

A soft breath escaped him. "But now… standing beside you… that fear feels smaller."

As they passed the reflecting pool, the water caught the fading sunlight and cast shimmering patterns over their joined silhouettes. He felt the tremor in her fingers earlier, and now, the steadier way she held onto him. It struck him with a quiet, protective certainty he had not expected to feel so soon.

She told him he might ask anything. He smiled, soft, real, touched with something like awe.

"Then I will begin with this," Duncan said, turning slightly so he could see her expression more clearly. "What brings you comfort, Seris? Not what duty demands of you, not what society praises. What you hold close. The things that soothe your heart when the world grows too loud."

His voice gentled further. "I want to understand those parts of you first." He let a beat pass, then added, hesitant, almost shy.

"And… if you'll allow me to be equally honest. I want to share the same with you. Whatever life we build, however it unfolds… I want it to be something we craft together, not something we merely accept."

His arm shifted slightly, drawing her just half a pace closer, not enough to presume, but enough to make clear the sincerity of the moment.

"You said meeting me eased your fear," he murmured. "Walking with you… eases mine."

And beneath the warm Naboo sky, Duncan Avaron looked at his future not with dread, but with quiet, blooming hope, because the woman beside him had become something far more than a duty in the span of a single, fragile, perfect meeting.

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris felt her breath catch—not sharply, not in fear, but in a soft, startled way that warmed her cheeks and steadied her heartbeat. She had expected this walk to feel like an obligation, something stiff and ceremonial, a polite exchange of pleasantries until decorum allowed her to retreat. But Duncan's honesty, his quiet vulnerability, offered without hesitation or calculation, wrapped around her like the fading Naboo sunlight. It eased her in ways she hadn't anticipated. It drew her in.

When he said her courage surpassed his, she lowered her gaze, not out of shyness alone, but because the sincerity in his voice unsettled her in the gentlest way. She had never been spoken to like this. Not as a symbol. Not as a political solution. But as a person, one whose feelings mattered.

As they walked beneath the flowering vines, she let her hand rest more fully in the crook of his arm, a silent admission of trust.

"If I walked with courage," she murmured, her voice soft but steady, "it is only because I feared disappointing you more than anything else."

She glanced up at him then, and the earnest warmth in his amber-brown eyes made her breath flutter again.

"But you are no burden, Duncan. Not in the slightest." Her tone deepened, enriched with sincerity. "You speak to me as if I am someone worth knowing…worth caring for. That alone eases more fears than I can name."

The path curved beside the reflecting pool, and she watched their silhouettes ripple across the water—two figures walking in tandem, drawn gently together by circumstance, yet held in place by something deeper, something quieter, something beginning.

His question lingered in the warm air between them. What brings you comfort?

For the first time since their meeting, Seris laughed—not loudly, but softly, a warm, breathy sound that carried the lightness of someone finally stepping out from beneath old shadows.

"Comfort…" she echoed, letting the word settle on her tongue before she spoke again. "Small things. Quiet places. Moments like this." Her fingers shifted against his arm, brushing lightly, almost unconsciously.

"I find comfort in walking gardens at dusk. In the feel of a warm breeze. In well-written words and in silence that does not judge." A pause—a deeper breath. "And in kindness. That is what I hold closest. A gentle heart calms mine more than anything."

She looked up at him, eyes bright with the candor of someone offering a precious truth.

"And you…You have been nothing if not gentle with me tonight." The vines rustled overhead as she drew half a step closer—not because etiquette demanded it, but because being near him soothed her.

"I would like to learn what comforts you as well," she said softly. "If we are to build a life together, let it be one shaped by trust…and by knowing one another's hearts."

Her gaze lingered on him, warm and steadying in the golden light.

"And walking with you eases my fear not because of obligation, but because I feel…safe." She let the last word breathe, unhurried and unashamed. "Safe with you, Duncan."

And as the Naboo dusk deepened around them, Seris realized she was no longer merely fulfilling duty—she was taking her very first step toward choosing him.

Duncan Avaron

 

[Duncan Avaron]

Seris Travin-Avaron
​

Duncan's steps slowed as she spoke. The way her voice folded between honesty and grace struck him more deeply than anything ornate or rehearsed ever could have. Safe. The word lingered in the quiet between them, so tender and unexpected that he almost didn't trust he'd heard it.

He turned his head slightly, taking in the soft curve of her expression, the calm that had replaced the tension he'd seen in her shoulders earlier. Something in him, something long guarded, gave way. The faintest smile touched his lips, unforced, born entirely from the warmth she had offered him.

"I'm grateful you feel that," he said at last, his tone low and roughened with emotion he hadn't meant to reveal. "That's all I could ever want, to be someone you feel safe beside."

For a few quiet steps, he said nothing more. The gentle hush of the garden filled the space where words might have been, a language all its own, the ripple of the reflecting pool, the hum of insects waking with twilight, the perfume of vines brushing against old stone.

Then, softly, he answered her question.

"What brings me comfort?" He tilted his gaze toward the horizon, where the last streaks of gold slipped into dusk. "Work, sometimes. I've always found peace in the forge, crafting something with my hands, shaping metal until it yields its purpose. My tutors said it was unbecoming for a noble, but I never stopped. I used to sneak off into the caves and mine with the other workers. Father caught me doing that a few times, well more than a few."

He let out a quiet breath that almost became a laugh. "And, books, though I read slowly. History, mostly. I like to understand what came before us. It reminds me that even duty can have meaning if you live it with heart."

His gaze lowered back to her, steady and open. "And lately, I think…moments like this might comfort me most. When things stop feeling arranged, and start feeling real."

Their path curved toward a marble archway laced with hanging lights, each one flickering to life as dusk deepened. The soft glow painted her features in gold and rose.

"I won't pretend to have all the answers about what lies ahead," Duncan said quietly. "But if we can build something honest from this, if we can choose kindness, even when everything else feels decided for us, then I believe we'll be all right."

He hesitated, then, almost shyly, reached to rest his hand lightly over hers where it rested in the crook of his arm.

"You said you feared disappointing me," he murmured. "But Seris… you could not. Not tonight. Not ever."

The air between them seemed to hum with unspoken promise, gentle, tentative, alive. As the Naboo night began to bloom around them, Duncan Avaron walked beside Seris not as a lord fulfilling obligation, but as a man quietly falling into something he had not expected to find: hope.

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris felt the warmth of his words settle over her like a soft cloak, easing tensions she had carried since the moment her family first spoke of this arrangement. Every confession he offered peeled away another layer of the fear she had come expecting to endure. Safe. Kindness. Real. These were not the sentiments of a man resigned to duty but those of someone willing to reach for something gentler, something theirs.

When he spoke of the forge, of slipping away to mine with laborers, of tutors chiding him for unbecoming pursuits, she found herself smiling—faintly at first, then with quiet affection she did not try to hide.

"That doesn't surprise me," she said softly, green eyes lifting to his as they walked beneath the blooming archway. "A man who treats a simple scroll like a treasure would never fear getting his hands dirty. It only makes you more honest. More real."

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, touched with wonder rather than amusement.

"I used to envy people like that," she admitted, her voice gentle, carrying the vulnerability of someone sharing a truth she rarely voiced. "Those who could do what brought them peace without worrying how it appeared. Nobility teaches us to be composed, immaculate, untouchable…but no one tells us how lonely that can become."

Her hand shifted in the crook of his arm, fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve in a gesture both shy and deliberate.

"So hearing you speak of the forge, of the caves, of books read slowly and carefully…" She swallowed softly, then looked back at him with quiet, earnest warmth. "…those things comfort me, too. Not because they are mine, but because they are yours."

The lights above flickered gently in the breeze, their glow reflecting like tiny stars on the path's surface. She walked with him beneath the marble arch, feeling the shift in the air—as though they were crossing an invisible threshold between obligation and something infinitely kinder.

When he touched her hand, soft and hesitant, her pulse lifted in a flutter she felt all the way to her throat. She turned her hand slightly, allowing her fingertips to curl against his knuckles in a quiet acceptance of the contact.

"You say I could never disappoint you," Seris murmured, her voice quieter now, shaped by something tender and fragile. "But Duncan…you must know the same is true for you. You are nothing like what I feared. Nothing like the cold rumors or the whispered expectations."

She drew a small breath, steadying her courage the way she had when she handed him the scroll.

"You said you feared being someone I would have to endure." Her gaze softened, deepened. "But walking beside you feels nothing like endurance. It feels…gentle. And unexpected. And good."

The night air carried the faint fragrance of water lilies from the pool, mingling with the soft glow of lanterns overhead. She slowed their steps, not to end the moment but to savor it, turning slightly so she could face him more fully.

"If this is the beginning," she said, hope threading through her tone with unmistakable clarity, "then it is already far kinder than I ever dared dream."

Her fingers brushed his hand again, this time with a touch more certainty. "And whatever our future becomes, Duncan…I want to shape it with you."

In the tender hush between them, with Naboo's evening blooming into starlight, Seris Avaron realized that the man beside her felt less like an arrangement and more like the start of something she could truly choose.

Duncan Avaron

 

[Duncan Avaron]

Seris Travin-Avaron
​

Duncan stopped, not abruptly, but in that slow, instinctive way a person does when something meaningful asks to be felt rather than passed by. Her words, her openness, the way her voice softened around truths she had never intended to share with a stranger…it struck him with the quiet force of something sacred.

He turned toward her fully beneath the lantern-lit archway, the warm glow painting her features in gentle gold.

"Seris…" Her name left him in a breath that was almost reverent.

He took her hand more fully now, not tight, not claiming, but with the steadiness of someone accepting a gift he intended to protect. Her fingers were soft against his, warm, trembling only in the way any young heart trembles when stepping into an unfamiliar but promising future.

"You say this is kinder than you dreamed," he said, voice quieter than the whisper of the pool nearby. "You are not alone in that thought."

His thumb brushed lightly along the back of her hand, slow, hesitant, as though asking permission even as he offered comfort. Her skin warmed under his touch, and the slight curve of her fingers against his answered more gently than words could. "When you speak of loneliness," Duncan continued, amber-brown eyes holding her green ones with earnest gravity, "I understand more than I wish I did. Nobility teaches us to be perfect silhouettes in the distance, admired, but never touched. Visible, but never truly known."

His expression softened, touched by something vulnerable. "And I have never wanted that. Not for myself. And..." he paused, the truth rising with quiet conviction, "...not for you." The vines rustled overhead, their lanterns swaying gently, scattering shifting constellations across the garden stones. Duncan stepped just half a pace closer, enough that their joined hands rested between them as naturally as breath.

"You say my small comforts ease yours because they are mine," he murmured, warmth threading through every syllable, "then let me tell you something that eases mine."

He drew in a slow breath. "Your courage, honesty and the way you look at me. Not as a title, rumor, but as a man."

He swallowed softly, feeling the gravity of the moment settle deep in his chest. "Those things comfort me more than the forge ever could."

Seris' eyes glimmered, and Duncan felt a tenderness rise in him that bordered on fierce, not possessive, but protective, protective in the way one shelters a flame so it doesn't go out. She said she wanted to shape their future with him. He stepped closer still, carefully, reverently, until there was no distance left that hadn't been chosen.

"Then we will shape it together," he whispered, the promise gentle and unshakeable. "Not as two houses bound by duty, but as two people learning one another's hearts."

He lifted her hand slightly, not to kiss it without permission, not to presume, but to hold it at his chest, over the pocket where he had placed her scroll.

"Your words rest here," he said softly. "And so does my hope."

For a long moment, they simply stood beneath the archway, two young souls who had expected duty and instead found possibility. "Walk with me a little longer, Seris?" he asked. "I would like to continue choosing this, choosing us…for as long as you'll let me."

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris did not pull her hand away. If anything, her fingers curved a little more firmly around his, not clinging, not demanding—simply present. When he held her hand to his chest, she felt the steady rhythm beneath, felt the truth of him there, and for a moment the world narrowed to lanternlight and breath and the quiet gravity between them.

Her green eyes shone, not with tears, but with something steadier. Something braver. "Duncan…" She said his name as though it belonged exactly where it was, as though it had always been meant to rest on her tongue like this. For a heartbeat, she said nothing more. She let his words settle. Let the promise take its shape.

When she did speak, her voice was soft—but unshaken. "I did not expect this," she admitted quietly. "Not tonight. Not from you. And not from myself." Her thumb brushed lightly across the inside of his wrist, a small, unconscious motion, grounding herself in the warmth of him. "I was prepared to be useful. Dutiful. Appropriate." A faint, almost wry breath escaped her. "I was not prepared to be seen."

She lifted her gaze entirely to his then, steady and open, no shields raised. "When you say you do not want distance—when you speak of being known rather than admired…" her voice softened further, "…you are offering something rarer than comfort. You are offering choice."

She stepped that final fraction closer—not closing space out of urgency, but because it felt right. Their joined hands rested easily between them, and she did not pull away from the closeness.

"I will not promise perfection," Seris said gently. "I am still learning who I am beyond expectation. Beyond lineage. Beyond what is required." Her fingers tightened just slightly. "But I can promise this." Her gaze did not waver. "If we walk this path together, I will do so honestly. With courage. And with my whole heart."

At his request, she did not hesitate. Her answer came not as a question, but as a quiet affirmation. "Yes," she whispered. "Walk with me, Duncan."

The lanterns swayed above them, light and shadow moving like breath, and Seris allowed herself—just for this moment—to lean into the possibility neither of them had expected, but both had chosen.

Duncan Avaron

 

[Duncan Avaron]

Seris Travin-Avaron
​

Duncan felt the answer settle into him, not like a rush, not like triumph, but like something finally finding its proper place.

Her hand did not retreat. Her fingers stayed, warm and present, and when she leaned that fraction closer it felt less like a step forward and more like alignment, two paths quietly deciding to run side by side.

He exhaled slowly, the tension he hadn't known he was still carrying loosening at last.

"Seris," he said again, softer now, the name shaped with care. It felt right in his mouth. Familiar in a way that startled him.

When she spoke of being seen, something in his expression shifted, not sorrow, not pity, but recognition. He knew that ache. Knew it intimately.

"I see you," he replied quietly, without flourish or exaggeration. "Not because I must. But because I want to."

His free hand lifted, slow, deliberate, pausing just short of her arm, giving her every chance to refuse. When she did not pull away, his fingers settled lightly against her sleeve, a grounding touch meant not to claim but to reassure.

"You don't have to be perfect," Duncan said, voice low and steady. "And you don't have to be finished becoming who you are. I'm not either." A faint smile touched his lips, honest and unguarded. "Perhaps that's the point."

She promised honesty. Courage. Her whole heart. The weight of that promise did not frighten him.

It anchored him.

"Then let me promise you something as well," he said, meeting her gaze fully. "I will never ask you to be smaller so I can feel larger. I will never treat you as an obligation to be managed." His voice deepened, conviction threading through it. "And when fear finds you, as it does all of us, I will not turn away."

The lanternlight caught in her eyes, and Duncan felt a quiet awe bloom in his chest, not the kind that put someone on a pedestal, but the kind that made you want to stand beside them.

Her yes had not been hurried. Her yes had been chosen.

He nodded once, a subtle acknowledgment of something mutual and real.

"Then we walk," he said simply.

They'd only gone a few more paces when Duncan realized how quiet he'd become. Not awkwardly quiet, just…careful. Like he was afraid that if he spoke too loudly, this fragile, beautiful calm between them might shatter.

Seris' arm rested easily in his, her presence warm at his side. The lanterns above swayed, casting soft halos across the stone path. Somewhere beyond the garden wall, night birds began their low, melodic calls. Duncan cleared his throat gently, a faint, sheepish smile tugging at his mouth.

"You asked for honesty," he murmured, glancing at her. His eyes flicked ahead, as if searching the path for courage the way some people searched the stars.

"So… I'll give you one."

He hesitated, then exhaled as though surrendering to the inevitability of embarrassment. "When I was nine," he began, "I decided I was going to be a great explorer." Duncan's smile deepened, wry, affectionate, as though he couldn't believe he was admitting this out loud.

"There's a set of old basalt caves on our estate," he continued. "Not far from the southern ridge. The adults always said they were unstable. Dangerous. Off-limits. Naturally, that translated in my mind to: 'the perfect place to prove I was brave.'"

He glanced down at her, eyes gleaming with mischief now.

"I stole a lantern from the kitchens, wrapped myself in my father's hunting cloak, far too large, I was practically drowning in it, and convinced one of the younger stable boys to come with me. I told him I was conducting a 'House Avaron expedition' and that he'd be rewarded with a promotion."

Duncan paused, the smile threatening to break into laughter.

"I did not… have the authority to promote anyone."

"We made it about twenty meters into the cave before the lantern sputtered. The flame didn't go out completely, but it got small. Flickering. And the shadows…" he shook his head, amused at his younger self. "I had a vivid imagination. I became absolutely convinced there was a krayt dragon living in there."

He lifted his brows slightly, as if confessing a crime. "And instead of turning around like a sensible person, I decided the best course of action was… to intimidate it."

He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice dramatically.

"I started shouting."

Not a brave, commanding shout, either. No. A high, shrill declaration of authority, nine-year-old me, wrapped in a cloak, trying to sound like a general.

'BEAST! I AM LORD DUNCAN AVARON AND YOU WILL SURRENDER THIS CAVE AT ONCE!'

Duncan's cheeks colored a shade darker, though his eyes were bright with laughter now.

"The stable boy, poor man, panicked. He dropped the lantern. It rolled down a slope, bounced off a rock, and landed in a puddle with the most pathetic hiss you've ever heard."


He mimed the tiny, dying sound with a soft tssst. "And suddenly we were in near-darkness. I grabbed his hand, very noble of me," Duncan said dryly, "and announced we would make a tactical retreat. Which is what I called it so I wouldn't have to say: I'm terrified and I want my mother."

He glanced at Seris, as if gauging whether she was still enjoying it.

"We ran," he continued, "straight out of the cave… straight into the mud bank outside."

He paused for effect.

"Face-first."

His voice softened with laughter.

"My father found us ten minutes later. Covered head to toe in mud. My cloak… ruined. The stable boy furious. And me standing there trying to look dignified while mud literally dripped off my nose."

Duncan looked at her now fully, warmly, and his smile was so open it made him seem younger still.

"My father didn't scold me," he admitted, surprisingly gentle. "He just stared for a moment… then said, 'Next time you intend to conquer a cave, Duncan, take a second lantern. And perhaps… a plan.'"

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and genuine.

"And then, because he absolutely did not want anyone to know the Avaron heir had just attempted to negotiate with an imaginary krayt dragon, he made the butler swear it would never be spoken of again."

Duncan's eyes flicked to Seris, amusement and fondness mingling there.

"I'm breaking a family oath just by telling you," he confessed softly.

His thumb brushed lightly against her hand at his arm, an affectionate, earnest gesture.

"But you asked for a glimpse of my life," he said, voice warm. "And that is one of the earliest examples of me being…confidently foolish."

He tilted his head, a soft, curious smile returning.

"Do you still think I'm 'composed and untouchable,' Lady Seris?"

 

[Seris Travin-Avaron]

Seris did not interrupt him once. She listened the way she did when something mattered—not merely with her ears, but with the quiet attention that let a person finish becoming brave enough to say the last word.

By the time he reached the part about the imaginary krayt dragon, her composure had already begun to crack. She tried, valiantly, to hold it together—lips pressed, breath carefully measured—but the image was too vivid, too earnest, too him. When he mimed the dying lantern and confessed to the "tactical retreat," a soft, unguarded laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

She covered it with her fingers for a moment, eyes bright, then looked up at him fully—warm, delighted, and unmistakably moved.

"I'm honored you shared that with me," she said, her voice still touched with laughter, sincere beneath it. "Truly. Family oaths and imaginary krayt dragons included." Her hand tightened gently at his arm as she spoke, a soft squeeze that lingered—not to steady him, but to answer him. "And for the record," she added, her tone affectionate and teasing in equal measure, "you are absolutely still composed."

She tilted her head slightly, green eyes glinting. "But untouchable?" A quiet smile curved her lips. "No. Not even a little."

She let the moment breathe, then drew a small, thoughtful breath of her own. "Since we are trading truths," Seris continued, softer now, "I suppose it is only fair I return the favor."

Her gaze drifted ahead along the lantern-lit path, as though she were reaching back through memory. "When I was about ten," she began, "I decided I would become… unforgettable."

She glanced up at him again, almost shyly. "My tutors had just told me—very gently—that I was 'too quiet' ever to command a room. That if I wished to be taken seriously, I would need to be…louder."

Her lips pressed together, clearly suppressing a smile. "So I stole my mother's ceremonial boots," she confessed. "They were far too large, of course, but I believed the sound alone would make me formidable."

Her fingers squeezed his arm again, as if bracing herself against her own embarrassment. "I waited until a minor court gathering—nothing important, I thought—and marched into the hall determined to announce myself."

She closed her eyes briefly. "What I failed to account for," she said ruefully, "was the polished marble floor… or the fact that oversized boots do not care about confidence."

She opened her eyes, laughter returning. "I took exactly three steps before one boot slid forward, the other stayed behind, and I performed what can only be described as a very ungraceful bow directly into the lap of a visiting ambassador."

Seris winced playfully. "I did become unforgettable," she admitted. "Just not in the way I had planned."

She looked back at Duncan then, eyes softening, the humor giving way to something warmer and more intimate. "My mother didn't scold me either," she said quietly. "She simply helped me up, kissed my hair, and told me that presence is not measured by noise…but by sincerity."

Her thumb brushed lightly where her hand rested against him, a gentle, grounding touch. "I think," Seris murmured, "we both learned our lessons the hard way."

She smiled at him—open, fond, unmistakably chosen. "So no," she finished softly, "I don't see you as untouchable. I see you as someone brave enough to shout at shadows…and kind enough to laugh about it later." Her hand squeezed his arm once more, warm and certain. "And I find that far more compelling than perfection."

Duncan Avaron