Shadows stretched long beneath flickering sconces as the rain whispered against the windows, soft as secrets of the castle, where Maera was watching the maids busily carry lanterns to each column. She signaled to Elise, the young maid hurrying toward her.
"Ma'am, it's getting dark… If the rain continues much longer, I fear they won't be able to return before sunset," Elise said anxiously, her hands twisting nervously as she glanced at the windows.
Maera didn't turn around right away. She kept her gaze on the grand gate of the castle, where dusk was slowly swallowing each rain-darkened stone. At last, she responded, her voice as calm as warm tea after a chilly breeze.
"Elise, the lady is with the Duke. So trust me, there's no need to worry—they'll find their way back."
"I suppose I was overthinking…"
She fell silent for a moment. Then, she tilted her head slightly, a hint of concern still in her eyes. "Lady Maera…"
"Is there something else, Elise?"
Seeing something in her eyes, Maera responded before the girl could continue.
"What do you think about… suggesting they use the shared bedroom?" Elise asked.
Maera remained silent, and Elise grew a little nervous.
"After all, a newlywed couple using separate rooms… doesn't look very good." Her intention was not to meddle, but simply to spare them from unwelcome whispers.
"I understand your concern, Elise. I've spoken to the Duke myself. But he wishes to respect Her Grace's wishes… so everything will be arranged the moment she wants it."
Maera nodded slightly, confirming her words. Of course, she had already asked Dorian about it. But he had merely replied, with a calmness that lingered: "I don't want to force her to accept me, Maera."
There had been no urgency in his gaze—only the quiet resolve of someone who could wait a thousand years, if that's what it took.
Just then, the final candle in the hall was lit. The flickering flame shimmered against the rain-dampened stone floor, casting a quiet warmth of anticipation over the space.
The heavy wooden gates creaked open, spilling a sliver of cold, rain-dampened air into the warm castle hall.
Dorian and Rosalind stepped through, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. They paused briefly at the threshold, shedding droplets from their cloaks, before moving along the grand corridor lined with flickering sconces.
Servants whispered and bowed as the couple approached the candlelit dining hall, their presence commanding yet quietly intimate.
"Welcome home, Your Graces," Maera spoke, bowing slightly with a gentle smile.
Immediately, the other servants bowed as well. In that moment, amid the candlelight and the lingering mist, Maera looked at them with a mother's fond smile—always waiting for her children to return.
"Good evening, Maera. Looks like Elise is bothering you again."
Elise cleared her throat, clearly flustered but trying to maintain composure.
"I was just worried since it's getting dark, Your Grace."
Rosalind let out a soft laugh.
"Then I suppose I'll make it up to you by eating well. Had I stayed away much longer, I fear you might've all turned grey with worry."
Maera nodded, her tone as gentle as candlelight.
"Everything will be prepared at once, Your Grace."
"Thank you, Maera."
Turning to Dorian, Rosalind gave him a glance laced with light mischief.
"I'll see you at dinner then, Dorian."
"Of course, Rosi."
His smile flickered — a rare, quiet thing.
She returned it with a mile before leaving with Elise down the corridor.
"You might want to put that smile away before the servants see it, Your Grace,"
Maera said behind him, tapping her cane with slow, rhythmic knocks.
If any servant were to catch sight of the gentle smile on the face of the Duke — a man usually as cold as a snow-covered mountain — they might just faint from the shock.
Dorian didn't turn around. He stood tall, hands behind his back, his voice calm and unreadable.
"Isn't this what you've always wanted to see, Maera?"
He gave her shoulder a light pat and began to walk away.
"See you at dinner, Maera."
Maera watched his figure retreat into the tender glow of the hallway.
For a moment, a smile touched her lips — quiet, wistful, like the warmth one feels when watching a child return home through the rain.
The dining room was hushed, the long table softly illuminated by flickering candlelight. Two sets of exquisite silver and porcelain tableware were laid out with care.
Dorian stood waiting as Rosalind entered. She smiled softly when she caught his gaze fixed upon her.
He approached.
Gently, Dorian lifted her hand, pressing a light kiss to the back of her palm — a courteous gesture capable of making one's heart skip a beat.
"Good evening, Rosi."
"You always arrive before me, don't you?" Rosalind replied with a smile.
"As always, my lady."
He bowed his head slightly, then pulled out a chair for her.
Rosalind glanced at him briefly. She wasn't sure when exactly she had grown accustomed to such courteous gestures from this man.
Just then, the servants brought the dishes, quietly setting them on the table. The clinking of silverware against fine china was as gentle and hushed as a breath.
"You seem… to have grown used to life here," Dorian observed, watching her as she studied the pastries the kitchen had prepared.
"How to say… maybe I'm just good at adapting," Rosalind shrugged.
"My wife always finds ways to surprise me," he said with smile.
Rosalind's gaze drifted away for a moment.
"My father used to say the same."
"Really?"
"He said that when he first taught me swordsmanship." Rosalind smiled faintly, as if recalling a distant memory.
"It's clear King Baldric loves you and the queen dearly."
"That's true. He taught me many things."
Dorian saw the pride shining in her eyes as she spoke of her father.
Perhaps it was that very love that shaped the strong and resilient Rosi before him now.
"Sounds like he was a good teacher, unlike my own clumsy father."
In young Dorian's memory, his father had always seemed stern and imposing as a mountain peak, but in truth, he was just a big, clumsy brown bear before his goddess — Elysia Montclair.
His mother was beautiful, with silver hair that shimmered like the light from the staff of the moon goddess Selatheia. It made his father look foolishly enchanted, always smiling awkwardly as he brushed her pale locks.
Now Dorian understood why his father had always been that way.
Raising his glass, half in jest, he said "If you want, we could have a match."
She laughed, eyes sparkling. "Is that a challenge, or are you just humoring me?"
"Both," he said with a teasing grin. "I want to see you try. Maybe you'll surprise me."
"I'll keep that in mind, Your Grace. Just don't hold back when I win."
They burst into laughter, their eyes meeting warmly.
The clink of their glasses rang quiltely — a gentle, tender sound in the quiet room.
Maera watched them silently. A warmth she couldn't quite explain blossomed in her heart.
Perhaps, ever since those early mornings when she cradled him as a child, she had never imagined living long enough to witness this moment.
Maybe now, he would no longer be the lonely boy who wrapped his small arms around himself for comfort on thunderous nights of endless rain.
Just then, hurried footsteps and voices echoed urgently outside the door, catching Maera's attention.
The door opened and Rowan stepped in.
His expression was serious, his eyes filled with worry and complexity.
"Your Grace," he bowed slightly, then turned to Dorian. "My Duke, I have a report."
Receiving a nod from Dorian, Rowan quickly began.
"I just received word that a group from the Redmark tribe attacked a village west of the watchtower. Casualties are significant."
Rowan took a deep breath.
The atmosphere in the dining room immediately grew heavy, as if the flickering candlelight itself dimmed.
Rosalind placed a trembling hand on her chest, trying to steady her racing heart.
Dorian's jaw tightened imperceptibly; his sharp gaze bore into Rowan's like a blade forged in ice. Though his face showed no change, a silent storm brewed beneath his calm exterior.
Rowan continued.
"Somehow, they infiltrated past the outposts and got inside. When the soldiers arrived, they had completely vanished, Your Grace."
Dorian's face showed no change, but his fists clenched tighter. He turned to Rosalind with a cold voice:
"Seems I must leave again. I'm sorry to interrupt our dinner."
"Yes, Your Grace."
He rose and left with Rowan.
Watching his retreating figure, Rosalind was at a loss for words, only able to respond quietly as if to reassure him—or perhaps to comfort herself.
Her hands intertwined tightly, as if silently praying.
Suddenly, Dorian stopped at the doorway and turned back to face her.
They stood close enough that he could see the worry and fear shimmering in her violet eyes.
Dorian's heart tendered unexpectedly.
He pulled her into his arms, savoring the faint scent of herbs from her hair.
"I will return safely… so please wait for me, Rosi."
She said nothing, only buried her face into his chest and nodded gently, tightening her embrace.
The warmth of his arms was a fragile shield against the cold shadow of doubt that lingered in her eyes.
---
Meanwhile, inside Ravenshire Castle, darkness clung to every corner like a living thing. The cold stone walls seemed to drink in every scrap of warmth.
Footsteps echoed heavily on the chilled flagstones of the narrow, forbidding corridor. Two figures moved slowly through the gloom.
Outside, thunder rumbled, tearing the night sky with jagged white flashes that slashed through narrow windows, casting fleeting streaks of light on the floor.
They paused before a massive, intricately carved wooden door. The taller of the two rapped three sharp knocks that rang out like a warning.
When the door swung open, a thick cloud of pipe smoke billowed out, curling through the threshold like a dark omen.
"Your Grace," came the stable hand's low, anxious voice. "A visitor requests your audience."
The man in black hesitated in the doorway—his cloak's hood drawn low, hiding his face in shadow. Only his broad shoulders and steady posture betrayed his presence.
A deep, commanding voice called from within:
"Let him enter."
The door widened, and the stranger stepped across the threshold with measured confidence. The stable hand receded into the corridor and closed the door with an ominous thud, leaving only the two of them in the freezing chamber.
Inside, Lady Isolde lounged on a stone-settle, the faint glow of a single candle sputtering beside her. She brought a hand-turned wooden pipe to her lips, drew in a slow, deliberate breath, then exhaled a swirl of smoke that drifted above her head like a ghostly halo.
She tilted her head, lips curving with cold amusement.
"Well, well, well… Look who it is."
The stranger man remained silent, his eyes—cold and unreadable—assessing her in the dim light. Each heartbeat seemed to pound louder in the vaulted chamber.
Isolde's smile sharpened. "Grand Duke Magnus Castillon... what an honor."
A flash of lightning suddenly illuminated his face. He slowly pulled back his hood, revealing piercing eyes the color of amethyst — a mark of supreme and absolute power in Astravelle.
He took one step forward, voice quiet as thunder.
"Astravelle has forgotten its true bloodline long enough."
The air between them thickened with unspoken truths, as the storm outside roared on.