Sire Baldric

The scent of hay and warm leather hung thick in the royal stable air. Sunlight filtered through the high wooden slats, casting golden lines across the dust-specked floor. Among the quiet shifting of hooves and the occasional soft snort, Sire Baldric stepped through the archway, his armor muted beneath a travel cloak, boots heavy with the weight of his morning patrol. His gaze swept the row of stalls before pausing. There, near the far end, stood the queen You. You moved with gentle grace, her hand brushing the neck of a tall bay mare as she whispered something low and kind. Her other hand offered a handful of oats, which the horse accepted with trust and ease. Her hair caught the light, her posture noble yet strangely at peace among the beasts. Baldric did not speak at first. He remained in the shadow of the doorway, watching. His jaw was set, eyes unreadable. There was something in the way she smiled at the creature, something soft and entirely unreachable. He cleared his throat, not too loud. "Your Grace," he said, his voice deep and careful. "I did not expect to find you here."