Morning light spilled through the window. Birdsong mingled with the faint scent of herbs, chasing away the last trace of mist.
Seated before the vanity, Rosalind let her hair fall freely down her back, still damp from a brief rinse with warm, fragrant herbs. Her gaze drifted to the mirror, distant and unfocused.
A faint smile blossomed upon her lips.
The door behind her creaked open.
Elise entered, carrying a tray of breakfast. Her countenance was as radiant as ever, though her steps faltered slightly as her eyes met the faraway look in her lady's reflection.
"I almost thought you'd run off without a word, Milady." Elise said, her voice laced with mock reproach. She set the tray upon the tea table by the window and began to pour the tea with practiced care.
"I'm sorry, Elise. At least I should have left you a note."
"You cannot imagine how my heart raced when I found your chamber empty this morn. And then the Duke was nowhere to be found, as well! None of the guards could say where you were. Lady Maera was close to ordering Lord Rowan to send out a search party for the both of you."
She turned back with narrowed eyes, a mischievous glint dancing within them. "And then... you returned hand in hand, as if stepping from some dream. The entire castle was thrown into quite a stir."
A delicate blush blossomed upon Rosalind's cheeks, shy and unspoken. She said nothing to deny it, only answered with a soft, silent smile, as if treasuring a secret warmth.
Elise gave a quiet chuckle as she bent to adjust the napkin, though her tone grew gentler, almost wistful.
"I have never seen you smile so... lightly. Like morning mist. It seems you've had a most splendid morning, Milady?"
Rosalind lowered her gaze to her open palm, as though still feeling the tender trace of warmth left behind by that shared dawn.
"Yeah, it... was warm" she murmured. A smile touched her lips again, unbidden.
Elise paused, watching her lady through the thin veil of the curtain stirred by the breeze.
Perhaps, for the first time, Rosalind Castillon was allowing herself to live not as a pawn nor a political symbol, but as a woman — one learning to believe in gentleness, and in the fragile beauty of tenderness.
"Then I am glad," Elise whispered. "If warmth has found Your Grace... then perhaps this land's long winter shall not seem so cold after all."
She added, with a mock sigh, "Only... if You plans another morning 'stroll', might we be granted a note next time? My heart is not what it once was, My dear lady."
Rosalind let out a soft laugh — light and unburdened, like frost melting beneath the sun. She rose, stepping to the window, her gaze cast over the garden, still glistening with dew.
"Next time... I shall leave a letter... So, don't worry, Elise." she said, voice lilting.
The chamber was awash in tender light.
And perhaps, this time, she might finally touch the happiness that had once seemed so distant, like a star just out of reach.
In the days that followed, something strange began to settle into their lives — a rhythm so gentle, even the harshest Northern wind seemed to soften.
Before the sun had even crested the mountains, Rosalind would step into the courtyard, as if by habit, just when the dew still clung to the petals.
At the stone steps leading toward the back of the castle, Dorian would always be there—as if waiting for her had become a habit he never questioned.
So they would walk through the snow-dusted garden, where the first birds of the season timidly perched on barren branches,
and finally to the still lakeside, waiting for the first light of dawn.
By afternoon, they would ride along the slopes, letting the cold wind nip at their cheeks, their laughter echoing with the rhythm of hooves striking the soft earth, between wheat fields beginning to sprout.
Sometimes at night, when the castle fell into silence, they would meet again in the library.
Dorian would sit in his familiar leather chair—sometimes flipping through a thick philosophy book, other times simply listening to her retell one of her favorite fairy tales.
Some nights, they wouldn't speak at all. Just sit together in silence that felt full, never awkward, never in need of being filled.
Without realizing it, they had slowly become a part of each other's routines.
---
"He's skipping training again, isn't he?" Rowan sighed.
"He's been unwell, or so I've heard," Keiran said uncertainly. "Should we check on him?"
Both Rowan and Bryden only exchanged silent looks.
Bryden who appeared from the training yard, wiping sweat off his brow. "Very unwell," he said with a crooked grin, patting Keiran's back. "But don't worry, he'll recover."
Rowan shot Bryden a sharp glance, but he just shrugged, amused.
"And what brings you here, little marquis?" Rowan narrowed his eyes that little marquis, who stood with arms crossed, clearly enjoying the scene.
"I'm free these days," Fealan replied with mock seriousness.
"But you're usually buried in paperwork. What changed?" Bryden asked.
Fealan smirked. "Now, I just drop off documents in His Grace's office and pick them up the next morning."
He had to admit, he was surprised by Rosalind. She handled tasks once buried in his desk with ease — proof she was no mere ornamental figure.
"If you're so free, why not enlist? My unit has a vacancy," Rowan offered calmly.
Fealan smirked again. "Thanks, but I'd rather not serve under you, Sir Rowan."
Dark clouds veiled the last sunlight as rain began to fall.
"Rain already?" Fealan tilted his head.
Rowan's steel-grey eyes caught the first drops. "Early this year."
Keiran smiled. "My parents said it will be a fruitful season."
Perhaps, this year, the granaries would finally be full — and winter less cruel.
The old wooden house swallowed the outside noise as rain fell steadily on the roof, with drops trickling through cracked tiles onto the mossy floor.
Rosalind held her cold hand tightly, quietly watching Dorian.
A shade of the grey sky lingered in his deep blue eyes.
Then, with the soft sound of the evening rain, he spoke slowly.
"My father once took me riding along a road like this. I was very small then, the saddle was too big, and he kept laughing because I wouldn't sit still." He paused, staring into the distance. "When I climbed on the horse, it threw me off onto the ground, but instead of comforting me, he just laughed as he looked at my muddy face. Looking back... he was a pretty clumsy teacher."
Rosalind tilted her head and looked at him. To her, Dorian was no longer the cold Duke of Valemont, but a lonely child still holding on to the last memories of a great father.
"My father often talked about him too," she whispered. "He said Cealan Valemont was one of the most honorable men he'd ever fought beside."
Her father spoke of him as a brave warrior, a proud knight. The man had given his life protecting what mattered most—His family and his beloved Everfrost.
A shadow crossed his features as he spoke, the memory weighing heavy on his heart.
"I once met your father," Dorian said quietly, his voice mixing with the growing rain. "When he came to Everfrost with my father during the war against the Redmark."
Rosalind looked at him, eyes wide. "How old were you then?"
"Over eight. I wasn't allowed outside the fortress but I sneaked up to the watchtower. I saw him—wearing silver armor, riding a black horse—leading the troops like a burning flame."
Dorian paused, remembering.
"He was nothing like the nobles I'd seen. Wherever he walked, the whole army went quiet. He even caught me hiding on the tower, and my father scolded me for it."
He chuckled softly. "If my mother hadn't stopped him, I might have been grounded... or worse."
But maybe the thing he never expected was those last moments with his family.
Dorian just remember that day...
The field was soaked in blood and smoke, and that little boy had yet to understand what 'victory' meant, when his father did not return.
But then Baldric Castillon came to him, tall and resolute, his armor still bearing the marks of battle.
"Your father is the greatest warrior in this empire, Dorian."
The words didn't comfort him at the time, not really. But they stayed.
"Remember that."
He did.
"The rain has stopped."
Dorian glanced up at the sky, where the dark clouds had scattered, unveiling a pale stretch of blue and the quiet dampness left in their wake.
"We should go back—before Maera truly sends a battalion to search for us."
He said it with a wry smile, then reached out to help her onto the horse.
Behind them, the old house faded slowly into the drifting mist, like a memory being left behind.