The door of the antechamber shuddered on its hinges, the sound a sharp crack against the oppressive silence left behind in the cathedral. Giselle stood with her back to the heavy oak, her chest heaving beneath the suffocating weight of silver-stitched silk and whalebone stays. The scent of incense and candle-smoke still clung to her, but here, in this small, stone-walled room, the air was cold and smelled of dust and dried rushes.
Lysander halted a pace behind her, the ceremonial plates of his House Vamerios armor whispering a soft, metallic protest. "Giselle—"
"How dare he!" she spat, whirling to face him. Her veil had been torn in the confusion, and strands of dark hair cling to her damp cheeks. "How dare he send another man to stand in his place! I am not some prize to be traded between houses!"
Lysander's jaw tightens. He removes one gauntlet, then the other, his movements deliberate, as if he needs something to do with his hands. "You heard the messenger. Orlon was attacked. The pass to Greyhaven is unguarded, the border unstable. He had no choice."
"Choice!" she cries, pacing the narrow space between the table and the wall. "Do you understand what a laughing stock I've become! Do you think I- No! House Vamerios will ever recover from this?!" Her voice cracks on the last word, a raw edge of hysteria that makes Lysander flinch. He sets the gauntlets down on a small wooden table, the sound unnaturally loud in the confined space.
"He sent his most trusted commander," Lysander says, his voice low and strained. "Darion Greyhaven is not some common soldier. He is the Duke's shadow, his right hand. His presence here is a declaration of intent, not an insult."
Giselle stops her pacing, her hands clenched at her sides. "Intent? To bind me to a man I have never met through a proxy I cannot even look in the eye? He stood there like a statue, Lysander."
Lysander shook his head, "You heard the man, You will soon meet Orlon. Father has already set plans for your travel to his -" Lysander's voice falters, his gaze fixed on his sister's distressed face. "To his castle. To Greyhaven. You'll be leaving within the week."
Giselle's breath catches, her hands flying to her throat as if to ward off the suffocating reality of his words. "A week? We can't just... I can't just be thrown into this like some common courtesan, Lysander. I'm supposed to be the Duchess of Greyhaven, not some hastily married woman whisked away to a stranger's bed."
She turns away, her shoulders shaking with suppressed emotion.
"I-I can't do this!" She rips her veil from her head the pins tearing out locks,
"Giselle!" Lysander steps toward her, his gauntleted hand extended as if to catch her if she falls. "Giselle, listen to me—"
"You listen to me!" she snaps, whirling back to face him. Tears glisten in her gaze, but fury burns through them. "You speak of duty and honor as though they bind you, but you've never had to sacrifice yourself like this. You've never had to be given away like some prize for House Vamerios."
Lysander's hand freezes mid-motion. He exhales sharply through his nose. "You think I like this Giselle?"
His voice drops to a low, rough murmur. "Watching you stand there, pale as a ghost, while that man spoke your vows for another... It felt like a blade twisting in my gut." He gestures with his bare hand toward the door, toward the echoing cathedral. "But father is right about one thing. Greyhaven's armies are the only thing that can secure our borders now. The alliance is already sealed. You are already his wife."
The word 'wife' hangs in the cold air between them, a final, irrevocable truth. Giselle stares at him, the last flicker of defiance guttering out, leaving only cold ash in its wake. She slumped against the cold stone wall, the rough-hewn blocks scraping against the delicate silk of her gown. "His wife," she repeated, the words tasting of dust and despair. "A week."
******
Giselle stood in front of the carriage, plastered with a fake smile as she said her farewells to the staff that have attended her throughout her twenty-nine years at House Vemerios. The carriage, a black lacquered monstrosity with the Greyhaven crest a hawk clutching a mountain peak gleamed dully in the overcast afternoon light. Giselle's fingers trembled as she accepted a small, hastily wrapped bundle of dried lavender from Elara, the maid's eyes red-rimmed.
"For your new chambers, my lady," Elara whispered, her voice thick. "To keep the moths away." Giselle pressed the bundle to her nose, the familiar scent a fleeting anchor to a life being severed.
Behind her, Lysander stood rigidly beside their father, both men silent sentinels of this transaction's completion. She joked with Elara one final time, "To keep away moths—and perhaps, the ghosts of brides past," Giselle murmured, her attempt at lightness falling flat.
She tucked the lavender into the hidden pocket of her traveling cloak. Her gaze drifted past Elara's bowed head to the stern figures of her brother and father. Lord Alaric's expression was carved from the same granite as the estate's foundations; Lysander's face, however, was a battlefield of its own the rigid line of his jaw, the shadowed hollows beneath his eyes, the way his hand kept flexing near the hilt of his sword, as if expecting an enemy to charge from the mist.
She approached them next, "Father. Brother....." Lord Alaric inclines his head, the motion so slight it might have been a twitch rather than acknowledgment.
His eyes remain fixed on some point beyond the carriage, his expression unreadable. "The driver awaits, daughter." His voice is as the stone walls that have sheltered her since birth unyielding, unfeeling.
Lysander moves forward first, his gauntleted hand extending toward her. "Allow me to assist you, sister."
The words sound rehearsed, hollow. His fingers curl around her elbow with careful control, neither too tight nor too loose—precise, like every other aspect of his military bearing.
As he helps her step up into the carriage's dim interior, his hand tightens for a fleeting second, a single pulse of pressure against her arm. His eyes meet hers, and in that fraction of a heartbeat, she sees not the stoic soldier but the brother who used to sneak her sugared plums from the kitchen. Then it's gone, his face a mask once more. "The North Road is well-patrolled," he says, his voice low. "Greyhaven's men are already stationed along its length. You will be safe."
Giselle sinks onto the velvet-upholstered bench. She watches as the carriage door slowly shuts, her heart hammers fiercely would this really be how she departs from her brother?
She shoves her foot in between the door stopping the motion, "Lysander!" Her voice was a raw scrape against the quiet of the courtyard, cutting through the patter of rain. The carriage driver froze, the door held open by her boot.
Lysander turned back, his expression tightening. "Giselle—"
"Five years," she said, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "You were gone five years, and now you send me away within a week. That's all the time we are given?" The rain misted her face, mingling with the heat of unshed tears.
Lord Alaric made a sharp, disapproving sound, but Lysander held up a hand, a gesture of command that silenced even their father. He steps closer, the rain darkening the wool of his cloak, and for a heartbeat, the warrior fades into the brother she once knew. "Giselle," he says, quieter now, "it was never meant to be this way."
She pulls her foot free, the carriage door swinging wide again. "I know, just please...be happy.....a-and for God's sake Lysander take care of yourself. Don't do anything reckless. Write to me." His hand finds hers through the open door, a fleeting warmth in the chill damp air. "I will," he vows, his voice thick with an emotion he cannot name. "Every week. I swear it on our mother's memory."
Then, with a final, lingering look that says more than any words could, he steps back and signals the driver. The door closes with a definitive thud, sealing her into the plush, silent interior. Through the rain-streaked glass, she watches Lysander's form grow smaller, a solitary figure standing vigil until the carriage rounds the bend and her home vanishes from sight. She clenches her eyes shut, fighting the tears but a silent sob squeaks from her mouth. She cries fiercely for several long minutes, until her throat ached and her eyes were raw. The carriage swayed and jolted over the cobblestones, carrying her away from everything she had ever known. When she finally opened her eyes, the world outside the window was a blur of grey rain and passing countryside, a landscape growing wilder and less familiar with each turn of the wheels.
She remembered the lavender then, crushed and fragrant in her pocket. Pulling out the small bundle, she pressed it to her nose, inhaling the sharp, sweet scent. It smelled of sun-drenched gardens and Elara's quiet kindness, a ghost of home tucked against her palm.
The journey stretched into hours. Lord Darion rode in the front along with a few men, she glanced out the window from what she understood House Greyhaven was at the edge of the northern shores, it rested on a great cliff encased by the raging sea. The carriage jolts over a particularly deep rut, jostling her against the velvet-lined wall. Through the rain-streaked glass, she sees Lord Darion astride a massive grey stallion, his posture rigid and unyielding even in the downpour. Water streams from the brim of his hat and soaks into the dark wool of his cloak, but he does not seem to notice the discomfort. His men ride in a tight, watchful formation around the carriage, their eyes constantly scanning the mist-shrouded hills and skeletal trees that line the road.
As dusk begins to bleed into the bruised purple of evening, the landscape shifts. The gentle, cultivated fields of her homeland give way to rugged, wind-scoured moors.
Her lids feel heavy, the carriage stops slowly she sits up pulling the small curtain open. The rain has softened to a fine, persistent mist, veiling the world in silver. Ahead, the road ends at a pair of immense iron gates, rusted and streaked with damp. Beyond them, a fortress of dark stone rises from the cliff's edge, its silhouette a jagged cut against the leaden sky. The sea is a constant, furious roar below, a sound that seems to vibrate through the very bones of the carriage.
One of Lord Darion's men dismounts to work the heavy lock on the gates, the screech of metal echoing unnervingly in the twilight quiet. As the gates swing inward, Lord Darion turns his stallion, riding back along the side of the carriage. "Welcome to Greyhaven," he says, his voice muffled by the rain and the distance. His eyes, shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, fix on her through the window. "We'll reach the manor within the hour. The Duke awaits your arrival."
The carriage lurches forward again, passing through the gates as they groan shut behind it. The road here is stonier, more treacherous, the wheels grinding against wet gravel and scattered pebbles. As they climb higher, the fortress grows more imposing its walls thick and ancient, stained with moss and lichen, with narrow windows like empty eye sockets. Giselle's dark eyes widen at the size it was easily the largest fortress she had ever laid eyes upon, dwarfing even her family's ancestral seat. Torches flickered to life along the crenellated battlements as they approached, their orange glow a feeble attempt to push back the encroaching dark and the sea-mist. The air grew colder, sharper, carrying the salt-tang of the ocean and the damp chill of stone long exposed to the elements.
The carriage rolled into a vast, cobbled courtyard, the sound of the horses' hooves echoing off the high walls. Liveried servants emerged from shadowed archways, holding lanterns aloft. Their faces were pale, their expressions carefully blank as they lined up in the rain.
She suddenly felt her stomach twist a new fear settled in her breast would she be able to manage the manor?
The carriage door was opened by a footman in Greyhaven livery, his expression as unreadable as the stone walls surrounding them. Giselle clutched the bundle of lavender tighter, its familiar scent a fragile anchor in this alien place. She took a steadying breath that did little to calm the frantic flutter beneath her corset, and accepted the footman's hand to descend.
Her boots met the wet cobbles with a soft tap. The sea-wind immediately snatched at her skirts and veil, whipping them about her legs with a damp, insistent touch. She looked up, and up again, at the sheer, looming facade of Greyhaven Keep. She craned her neck further than she ever thought possible, "So this is what blood money can buy." mumbling under her breath she smiled at the footman.
The smile felt brittle on her lips, a thin veneer over a well of cold dread. The footman did not react, merely bowed his head and withdrew his hand, stepping back into the line of silent, watchful servants.
Lord Darion dismounted, handing the reins of his stallion to a waiting groom. He approached her, his boots striking the wet stone with a decisive rhythm. Up close, he was even more imposing tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that seemed carved from the same grim granite as his fortress. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, swept over her with an assessing glance that missed nothing the white-knuckled grip on her lavender, the slight tremble she could not suppress, the way her gaze kept darting toward the roaring sea below the cliffs.
"Welcome to Greyhaven, my lady," he said, his voice a low rumble that carried over the wind. It was not warm, but it held a formal courtesy. "The Duke awaits you in the great hall." He offered his arm, a gesture that was both protocol and a command.
Giselle's fingers hesitated for a heartbeat before she rested them lightly on the dark wool of his sleeve. She smiled, "I can barely contain my excitement." A lie.
The wind tugged at the veil as she placed her fingers on his arm, the fabric of his coat thick and sturdy beneath her touch. His sleeve was damp with sea spray, but he did not seem to notice. He led her toward the towering entrance of the keep, past rows of silent servants who stood with their hands folded and their gazes carefully averted.
The great doors loomed before her, their iron-bound wood blackened with age and weather. They opened with ominous slowness, revealing a cavernous hall beyond. Grey stone walls rose upward to a vaulted ceiling where ancient banners hung motionless in the still air. She nearly lagged behind Lord Darion, unable to contain her shock at the grandeur she forced her jaw shut. The hall was immense, a vast, cold space that swallowed sound and light. Great stone pillars, each wider than theiselle was tall, marched down its length, supporting a ceiling lost in shadow high above. Narrow windows, slitted like archers' embrasures, admitted thin, watery shafts of light that did little to dispel the gloom. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone, old smoke, and something else—a briny, mineral tang from the sea far below.
At the far end of the hall, upon a dais, a man sat in a high-backed chair of dark, carved wood. He did not rise as they approached. Giselle strained her eyes to gaze upon the man's face, his eyes were glued to the ground. He was swathed in layers of dark wool and fur, his frame swallowed by the chair's bulk. Even then she could see it the sheer size of him. Her pulse quickened as they approached, his hair was a golden blond a stark contrast to the darkness around him. It settled in loose curls around his eyes. His face was turned slightly away, as if listening to some distant sound only he could hear. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft, rhythmic tap of Lord Darion's boots and the whisper of Giselle's damp skirts against the flagstones.
As they neared the dais, the man in the chair slowly lifted his head.
Giselle's breath caught.
His eyes were the color of a stormy sky, a pale, piercing grey that seemed to see through the dim hall and directly into her. They held no warmth, only a weary, glacial assessment. The lines at their corners spoke of age, but his features were still sharp, noble, and unforgiving. Her mouth went dry, she wasn't expecting this The Duke of Greyhaven looked at her, and she looked back, and in that silent exchange, the vast hall seemed to shrink to the space between them. He was not the withered, ancient lord she had pictured on the journey, a monster to be endured. He was a man in his prime, his power etched into the stark planes of his face and the broad set of his shoulders beneath the heavy furs. And he was beautiful, in a way that was as austere and intimidating as his fortress.
"Your Grace," Lord Darion said, his voice echoing softly in the stillness. He released Giselle's arm and took a respectful step back, leaving her standing alone before the dais. The Duke did not immediately respond. His gaze moved over her in a slow, deliberate assessment that made her skin prickle. His fingers tapped once, twice against the armrest of his chair before he finally spoke.
"Giselle Vamerios," he said, the words a low rumble that seemed to roll through the hall like distant thunder. It was not a question. He already knew her name, of course. But the way he said it softly, almost musingly made it sound like he was tasting it, like he was considering what it meant to have her standing before him.
She curtsied, the rustling of her skirts sounding unnaturally loud in the vast silence. She held the motion, her head bowed, waiting for his permission to rise. It did not come. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. She could feel the weight of Lord Darion's presence behind her, the stillness of the servants lining the walls. Her knees began to tremble from the strain.
"You may rise."
The command was quiet, yet it carried. She straightened slowly, her eyes lifting to meet his once more. Up close, the winter-grey of his irises held flecks of a darker slate, and the weariness in them was not the fatigue of age, but of something deeper, something carved by solitude and stone.
"Leave us." Lord Darion bowed, the motion precise and practiced, before turning on his heel. His boots struck the flagstones in a steady rhythm that echoed faintly as he retreated. The heavy doors swung shut with a soft, muffled thud, sealing the hall in silence once more. Giselle stood alone before the Duke, the vast emptiness of the great hall pressing in around her.
The Duke rose slowly, the movement deliberate, as if every muscle remembered the burden of armor long discarded. He was taller than she had realized, his shoulders broad beneath the layers of fur and wool. She tried to look away as he approached but she couldn't His presence was like the coming of a storm, the air heavy with something unspoken, something that made her breath come quicker. The Duke stopped just before her, close enough that she could see the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
"I trust the journey was well?" She felt her brain malfunction, "T-The journey, y-yes it was-" She stuttered, the words sticking in her throat like burrs.
He was so close she could smell the faint, clean scent of cold stone and pine that clung to him. It was not the cloying perfumes of her father's courtiers. This was the scent of the land itself—austere and wild.
He waited, his expression unchanging, but his eyes were watchful, studying her discomfiture as if it were a text he was learning to read. The silence was a presence between them.
"I am glad to hear it," he said finally, his voice still that low, resonant rumble. and yet she could not decide if he meant it.
There was no warmth in the words, only a formal acknowledgment. He took another step, circling her slowly, not with the predatory intent she feared, but with the detached curiosity of a man surveying a new acquisition. His shadow fell across her, long and distorted in the watery light from the high windows.
"The terms of the contract are clear," he said, his voice now coming from just behind her right shoulder. She stiffened, her hands clenching in the folds of her gown. "You are here to secure the alliance between Greyhaven and your father's house. To bear an heir. To become Duchess of the Northern Reach."
"Y-Yes. I am aware of my duties." She met his gaze. Snap out of it. Her voice was thin, a threadbare sound in the vastness of the hall. She forced her chin up, meeting those storm-grey eyes. Snap out of it.
The command was internal, a spark of defiance against the cold dread that had settled in her bones. She was Giselle Vamerios, not some trembling girl. She had been raised for this, however bitterly.
He considered her answer, a single brow lifting almost imperceptibly. "Awareness is one thing. Acceptance is another." He completed his circle, standing before her once more. "This is not a court of southern comforts and whispered intrigues. The stone here is unforgiving. The winters are long."
His gaze swept over her, from the delicate embroidery at her throat to the slight tremble in her hands that she fought to still. "You will find no solace in idle chatter here. The people of Greyhaven speak when they have something to say. They endure because they must. You will learn to do the same."
Giselle swallowed. The chill of the hall seeped through the soles of her slippers, up through the layers of silk and linen. "I understand."
"Do you?" He turned slightly, gesturing toward the high, narrow windows where the late night sky bled a dull pewter across the flagstones. "Look there. That is the only view you will have for months when the snows come."
Giselle followed his gaze, "My lord please do not concern with me, I will manage."
"Good. Then I won't." The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant sigh of the wind against the battlements. His response was not a dismissal, but a cessation. He had withdrawn the offer of concern as cleanly as a blade from a sheath.
He moved to the hearth, where a low fire struggled against the damp. He did not warm his hands, but stood staring into the embers, his profile sharp against the flickering light. "The servants will show you to your chambers," he said, his voice returning to its earlier, impersonal cadence. "You will dine alone tonight. Tomorrow, you will be presented to the household at the morning meal. After that, your duties as mistress of this keep will begin in earnest."
From this angle Giselle could see the width of his back, she squeezed her hands a little tighter, His golden hair was damp and full, he was easily the tallest man she had ever seen. "Do you have any questions?"
The question hangs between them like smoke from the struggling fire. Giselle's throat tightens, her nails digging crescents into her palms where she has clenched them. Questions—there are dozens, a hundred things she should ask about this strange, silent fortress and the man who rules it with such remote authority. But something in his bearing, that rigid stillness as he stares into the embers, makes her hesitate.
"Only one," she says finally, her voice steadier than she feels. "Will I ever have the chance to speak with you again after tonight? Or will we be strangers who share a roof?"
His head turns slightly, just enough for her to see the corner of his profile catch the firelight. A humorless smile touches his lips, though it does not reach his eyes. "We will speak when it is necessary. When matters of the household require it. When an heir requires it." He turns fully to face her then, the firelight carving shadows beneath his cheekbones. "This is not a southern romance, Lady Giselle. It is a contract, sealed in stone and blood. Do not expect pretty words or idle company from me."
******
Giselle felt dazed as she followed behind the servant, she heard the woman speaking but the words weren't reaching her. The cold stone of the corridors was a jarring shift from the warmth of her southern home. Each step she took was met with the soft echo of her own footfalls, the only sound in the vast, empty halls of Greyhaven. The servant leading her was a woman of middle years, her grey-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun, her face impassive as she navigated the winding passages with practiced ease. She stopped before an imposing oak door, carved with intricate patterns of vines and thorns.
"This is your chamber, my lady," the servant said, her voice crisp and professional. She pushed the door open, revealing a room bathed in the soft glow of a single candle.
Giselle's dark eyes took it in, it was dark and imposing but it somehow looked comforting. She took a step in removing her outer layers of clothing. Behind her the servants were unloading her trunks A fire had already been laid in the hearth, and the bed was turned down, sheets cool and crisp against the chill. The room was large, with heavy wooden furniture and thick rugs scattered across the stone floor. The windows were narrow, high up in the walls, letting in the dull light of the setting sun.
"The servants will bring your bath," the woman said, stepping back into the hall. "You will find clothes in the wardrobe, suitable for the climate here. Dinner will be brought shortly after your bath." She made a small, formal curtsy. "If you need anything, pull the bell cord by the hearth." Giselle offered her a small smile, "Thank you, your name was?"
The woman paused, her face revealing a fleeting surprise at Giselle's attempt at courtesy. "Clara," she said after a brief hesitation. "I am your lady's maid."
Giselle nodded, feeling suddenly small in the cavernous room. "Clara. That's a lovely name."
Clara's expression softened slightly. "You are kind, my lady. Though I would not expect such courtesy from a Duke's new bride."
Giselle turned toward the fire, extending her hands toward the flames. "Perhaps I am not the kind of duchess you expect either." She spoke quietly, almost to herself.
Clara moved to the wardrobe and began unpacking Giselle's belongings. Giselle paced the room studying the walls and the heavy tapestries depicting the history of Greyhaven. The cold seeped through her clothes, a stark contrast to the warm spring days she'd left behind in the south. Clara worked silently, folding Giselle's clothes with precise movements, hanging them in the wardrobe with care.
"You have served here long?" Giselle asked, more to fill the silence than from any real curiosity.
Clara paused, hands stilling over a silk dress. "Nearly twenty years, my lady." She didn't look up as she spoke. "First as a scullery maid, then to Lady Elodie's personal maid. Since she passed..."
The words trailed off. Giselle quickly changed the subject, "Before you go can I request a parchment and quill? I would like to write to my brother." Clara's hands pause over the last of Giselle's gowns, her fingers tightening slightly on the silk fabric. The moment hangs between them, heavy with unspoken rules. When she finally speaks, her words come carefully measured.
"My lady, correspondence with the south must be approved by the Duke's steward. All letters leaving Greyhaven require his seal."
She sets the dress aside and moves to the writing desk, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Opening a drawer, she produces a single sheet of parchment and a well-worn quill, placing them deliberately in front of Giselle.
"But I can arrange for these to be delivered to the steward's office if you wish to write." Giselle's brows furrowed in confusion, "Approved? I've never heard of such a thing is there a reason why?"
Clara's expression remained neutral, but tension was evident in the way she stood. "The Duke's household operates differently from what you're used to, my lady. Greyhaven is far from the bustling courts of the south. Here, information is... carefully controlled." She smoothed the wrinkles from a linen chemise, her movements precise.
"His Grace believes in maintaining a certain... decorum. All correspondence, especially with outsiders, is reviewed. It's been the way of things since I first came to serve here." She paused, then added softly, "You'll find many such customs here, my lady. The north is not like your home. It is old, and tradition runs deep in its veins."
Giselle bit back a sigh, this place truly felt like a prison but she couldn't let her disdain show on her face. The realization settled over her like the chill from the stones. Her letters, her only lifeline to Lysander, to the sun-drenched courtyards and the scent of lemon trees, would first pass under the scrutiny of a stranger's eyes. The parchment before her seemed less an invitation and more a test.
"I see," Giselle said, the words tasting of ash. She traced a finger along the quill's feather, its vanes soft and grey like a dove's wing. "Tradition. How… efficient."
Clara gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging a lesson learned. "Shall I leave you to write, my lady? I can return later to collect it."
Eager for some quiet Giselle nodded quickly, "Yes, that will be all for now Clara. I shall await for my bath and dinner. Thank you."
Clara curtsied and withdrew, closing the heavy oak door behind her with a final, echoing thud. Giselle stood alone in the chamber, the fire crackling as the sea wind howled outside the narrow windows. She sank into the high-backed chair at the writing desk, staring at the blank parchment before her.
The inkwell had been refilled recently—she could smell the acrid scent. She took up the quill, dipping it carefully. What to say? Her thoughts were a jumble of impressions: the Duke's cold eyes, the sterile beauty of the great hall, Clara's warning about surveillance.
Dear Lysander,
I write to you from my new prison. No. Scratch that. Keep it polite, for now at least.
Giselle stared at the ink pooling on the page. She swirled the quill, watching the black lines twist and blur. Her hand trembled slightly, not from cold this time, but from the weight of what she was about to write—or not write. The fire crackled behind her, a low hiss of burning wood and the occasional pop of a knot breaking apart.
She started again, pressing the nib more firmly into the parchment this time.
Dear Lysander,
The journey was long, and the northern winds bite deeper than I expected. Greyhaven stands as a fortress against the sea, and though the hall is vast and the tapestries rich, it feels vastly different from the south.
Her jaw tightened. She dipped the quill again, the ink a dark, glistening bead on the tip.
I have met His Grace, the Duke. He is… a man of few words, and those words are practical. He spoke of duty, of the harshness of life here. There is a great deal of silence in these halls. It is a different kind of quiet than the peace of our gardens.
She paused, her gaze drifting to the narrow window where the moon had risen high into the night sky. She didn't know what more to say only that her new life would start when dawn broke.