The Duke's breathing shifts—a subtle change in rhythm that makes Giselle freeze. His eyelids flutter, then open to reveal storm-grey eyes, unfocused at first but sharpening as they lock onto hers. The fever still clouds them, but there is unmistakable awareness now. His gaze travels over her face, taking in the flush that hasn't faded from her cheeks, the slight parting of her lips.
"You're still here," he murmurs, his voice rough from disuse and the raw edge of pain. He attempts to shift, then winces, his fingers curling into the armrest of the chair.
The movement pulls at his freshly bound wound, causing him to suck in a sharp breath through his teeth. "I-I was just leaving. They will be up with the broth and tea soon." Giselle's words sound thin even to her own ears.
She smooths her palms against her skirts, the fabric cool beneath her fingers, and takes a half-step back. The Duke watches the movement, his eyes tracking her like a hawk might track a bird. There is something disorienting about being the subject of that scrutiny being looked at as though she is not a servant or a vessel of duty, but something far more intricate.
He exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to her throat, where her pulse jumps visibly. "You have a tell," he says, his voice low. "When you lie, you touch your collar. You did not, just now."
Heat floods her face. Giselle's hands falter in their restless motion, her fingers catching on the fine fabric of her collar as the Duke's words land with unnerving precision. She does not touch it, but the urge is there, a phantom movement that betrays her own awareness of the habit. The fire crackles between them, casting flickering shadows across the Duke's face, emphasizing the sharp angles of his features and the stormy intensity of his gaze.
"You're observant," she says, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. She does not look away, though part of her wonders if she should.
The Duke's lips twitch in what might be the ghost of a smile amusement, perhaps, or something else entirely. Unable to bear the heat from the room, or from her core she detaches, "Rest well." Giselle turns away, needing to break the unbearable intensity of his gaze, but his words stop her before she can retreat.
"Wait." A single word, but it carries weight. She turns back, finding the Duke struggling to sit straighter. His jaw tightens as he braces himself, his hands pressing against the armrests as he pushes upright. The bandages strain but hold. Giselle observes the effort it takes him, the sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his breath hitches as he settles into a more dignified posture.
"I owe you thanks," he says, his words hoarse. "For the... treatment."
"Don't bother, it is my duty.....as your wife." Before he could respond she left the room, shutting the door softly behind her standing dumbfounded in the hall.
*******
The Duke sits motionless, his gaze fixed on the door long after Giselle has departed. Her words echo in his mind - "as your wife." The title feels foreign, almost absurd, yet there is an undeniable truth to it. He runs a hand over his jaw, feeling the rough stubble there, a reminder of how long it's been since he last stood before a mirror, since he last cared about his appearance.
His fingers brush against the bandage at his side, a dull ache pulsing beneath. He winces slightly, but the pain is distant, drowned out by the memory of Giselle's hands on him, her touch both gentle and firm as she tended his wound.
How long had it been since he has touched a woman let alone be touched by one?
The Duke stares into the flames, the question coiling in the quiet of his mind. He cannot recall the last time a courtesan in the capital, perhaps, during the last interminable court season, a transaction of boredom and fleeting warmth. But that had been nothing like this. Those hands had been practiced, impersonal. Giselle's touch had been different. It had carried the sharp scent of wine, the sting of the cleansing cloth, and beneath it, a current of something else a determination that refused to be cowed by his rank or his temper. It had been… real.
A log shifted in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks that danced and died against the soot-blackened stone. He let his mind wander to the memory of her face just a few minutes ago when he had the strength to open his eyes. When she wasn't aware that he was looking she had the most serene expression on her face, her face flushed and her full lips parted as she tended to him. Her dark hair had escaped its usual tidy arrangement, curling in damp tendrils at her temples from the heat of the fire and the intensity of her work. In that unguarded moment, she had looked less like the carefully composed noblewoman presented to him in the great hall and more like someone entirely her own a woman of substance and unexpected steel. The Duke found himself wondering what thoughts moved behind those dark eyes when she believed herself unobserved.
He shifted against the cushions, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through his side. It was a clean pain now, not the foul, fevered throb of infection. She had done that. With her steady hands and that damned wine. He even caught a glimpse of her supple breasts, his hands twitched as he forced the image away, "You moron, there is only woman who you can lust over."
Elodie.
The Duke exhales sharply, his breath stirring the flames as he reaches for the goblet of water left beside his chair. His fingers close around it, the cool metal a welcome respite against his palm. He drinks deeply, feeling the liquid soothe his parched throat. The taste reminds him of Giselle's mouth, the way she had pressed her lips together when he winced during her treatment, as if she could absorb his pain through sheer force of will.
A draft stirs the candles, casting elongated shadows across the chamber walls. He sets the goblet down carefully, his thoughts turning to Elodie her laughter like silver bells, the way her fingers had traced his battle scars when he returned from war.
He couldn't think of Elodie too long though it had been a few years since her passing his love for her burned stronger than ever....right?
The Duke's fingers tighten around the goblet, his knuckles turning white as memories of Elodie flood his mind. He remembers the way she used to tease him, calling him her "stormy lord" for the brooding intensity of his gaze. How she would sit with him by the fire, her head resting on his shoulder as they talked late into the night. The ghost of her laughter echoes in his ears, a haunting melody that both comforts and cuts like a blade.
Yet, as he sits there in the flickering firelight, a new presence invades his thoughts. The scent of bergamot and clean linen Giselle's scent, not Elodie's lavender and rose lingers in the air near his bandages. He can still feel the precise, firm pressure of her hands as she wound the linen tight around his ribs, her brow furrowed in concentration. It had been a practical touch, a healer's touch, yet it had carried an electric awareness that now vibrates beneath his skin. Elodie's touches had been tender, possessive, born of love and familiarity. Giselle's touch was something else a deliberate crossing into his space, an act of duty that felt, against all reason, like a claim.
He mustn't allow himself he thought, Elodie is the only woman who has claim to my heart.
*******
A few days had passed and Giselle had not heard nor seen the Duke she sat in the carriage across Thornwell and Clara as they headed into town, today would be the first day she met the families of the men that had passed. Thornwell rode beside the carriage, his grey cloak snapping in the wind. Rain fell in a steady silver curtain, streaking the window glass. Giselle's gloved fingers tightened around her skirts as she watched the town draw closer the wooden houses leaning together like old friends, the marketplace already alive with voices and the smell of baking bread and wet wool. She felt the Duke's absence acutely. He should be here.
Clara, seated across from her, noticed her discomfort and squeezed Giselle's hand. "He asked me to accompany you today," she murmured. "Said you'd need the support."
The words did little to ease Giselle's anxiety. "I've never had to do this before," She sighed watching the town grow closer, "I will do the best I can Clara." Her voice is quiet, almost lost beneath the rhythmic drumming of rain on the carriage roof. Clara gives her hand another reassuring squeeze before letting go, her expression one of practiced calm.
The carriage rolls to a halt in the muddy square, and Thornwell is there immediately, opening the door and offering a steadying hand. Giselle takes it, her boots sinking into the churned earth. The air is thick with the scent of rain, woodsmoke, and the faint, metallic tang of grief.
A small crowd has gathered, their faces pale and solemn beneath hoods and shawls. There were a total of three losses, Giselle listened well upon Thornwell's earlier brief. She did her best to offer everyone smiles, the first house they were to visit was a small cottage near the square. As Thornwell knocked, Giselle squared her shoulders, smoothing her gloves. The door opened to reveal a woman with dark circles under her eyes, a baby slung to her hip. She curtsied stiffly, her lips pressed thin.
"My husband... the Duke... sends his deepest condolences," Giselle began, speaking more steadily than she felt. "We are here to see what Greyhaven might do to ease your burden."
The woman's face twitched with grief and pride. "My husband was a good man," she said, stepping back to let them enter. "He died well." The baby fussed, and she rocked it gently. "My name is Miren."
"Miren," Giselle repeated, "May we come in? - Clara will please help this lady with her babe." Miren hesitates, her hand tightening protectively around the baby's small shoulders. The infant's tiny fist grips a frayed edge of her dress, the only sound the soft snuffling against her mother's chest. The cottage interior is sparse but clean—earthen floor swept bare, a single candle casting shadows against rough-hewn walls. A wooden cradle sits beside the hearth, empty save for a neatly folded blanket.
"You may enter," Miren finally says, stepping aside. The movement reveals a faded scar running from her left temple to her jawline, poorly concealed beneath her hair. Clara moves quickly to her side, hands gentle as she helps settle the fussing child into the cradle. Giselle steps into the cottage, the damp woodsmoke and herbal scent of the hearth filling her lungs. The space is modest but cared for, with a small table set near the window and a pallet draped in simple linen by the hearth. Miren stands beside the cradle, her fingers tracing the curve of her baby's cheek with a soft, distant gaze. Clara remains at her side, a steady presence as she rubs the woman's shoulder in quiet support.
The baby settles, its tiny fists curling and uncurling as it drifts toward sleep. Miren turns to Giselle, her face a mask of grief and resignation. Tears spring from the woman's eyes and Giselle feels her heart race she is perplexed by the situation. Without thinking she embraces the woman gently Miren's body stiffens for a heartbeat before melting against Giselle, her shoulders heaving with the effort of holding back sobs. The herbal scent clinging to her dress dried thyme and wild rosemary mixes with the sharper tang of salt and exhaustion. Thornwell shifts his weight near the doorway, his expression carefully neutral, while Clara continues her quiet ministrations by the cradle.
"My husband... he had only seen our daughter once," Miren whispers against your shoulder, her voice cracking like thin ice. "Just once, when she was three days old. He said she was perfect." Her fingers dig into the fabric of your sleeve, the pressure of her nails almost painful.
Her fingers dig into the fabric of your sleeve, the pressure of her nails almost painful. Giselle was truly at a loss for words the only words on her lips are were condalonces, Giselle's throat constricted as she struggled to find more than condolences, her arms still wrapped around Miren's shaking form. The woman's grief was a palpable thing, pressing against her like the damp wool of the Duke's cloak had done that rainy night. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, the words feeling hollow and inadequate. "I can't imagine... how you must feel."
Miren's grip on her sleeve loosened slightly, but she didn't pull away. "He was proud of her," she murmured, her breath warm against Giselle's neck. "Said she had his eyes. That's all I have left now her face and his eyes." Giselle glanced at the baby she had a pair of deep blue eyes, "She is beautiful....please, have a seat I would like to know about your husband if you have the strength to muster it." The words felt insufficient, like scattering petals on a grave, but Miren nodded, her movements slow and weary. She pulled away from Giselle's embrace, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and gestured toward the rough-hewn table. They sat, the wood groaning under their weight. Clara moved quietly to the hearth, stirring the small pot hanging over the embers before pouring a thin, fragrant tea into two chipped cups. She placed one before Miren and another before Giselle.
"His name was Arlen," Miren began, her voice a threadbare whisper. She stared into the steam rising from her cup, as if the vapor might shape his memory. Giselle listened quietly as Miren recounted their story together, they were a young couple just shy of twenty- two years of age. Though Miren appeared distraught she managed to jest with Giselle, the two woman spoke for what seemed like hours. Giselle learned that Arlen had been a carpenter's apprentice, with hands calloused from wood and a laugh that could fill a tavern. He'd carved the cradle their daughter slept in now, the wood smooth under Clara's careful touch. Miren's eyes, though shadowed, flickered with a fragile light as she described how he'd sing off-key while he worked, how he'd bring her wildflowers tucked into his belt. "He wanted to build us a proper house," she said, tracing a knot in the tabletop. "One with a window facing east, so the sunrise would wake us."
Outside, the rain had softened to a mist, veiling the square in grey silk. The fire pops softly in the hearth, sending a spiral of sparks up the chimney. Miren's fingers trace another pattern on the table, her movements absent, lost in memory. The baby stirs in her cradle, tiny hands curling around a wooden toy shaped like a dove Arlen's last gift before he left for the northern campaign.
"He carved that too," Miren says, noticing your gaze. "Said it was to bring her peace while he was away." Her voice catches on the last word, but she forces herself to continue. "He was never much of a writer, but he sent one letter from the front."
After a long conversation the tension had broke, "Please know, Miren we will do everything so that you aren't lacking, I will see to it myself." Giselle's voice is steady, though her hands still tremble slightly around the chipped cup. The promise hangs between them, fragile but sincere. Miren nods again, this time with something like resolve. She looks at the cradle where her daughter sleeps, then back to Giselle. "I know," she says. "I believe you."
Clara moves from the hearth to the table, her skirts brushing softly against the wooden floor. "We can bring more firewood this week," she says to Miren, her tone gentle but practical. "And I'll speak with the quartermaster about provisions. You'll have no shortage of coal or grain."
The firelight catches the moisture gathering at the corners of Miren's eyes as she watches Clara. "You're kind," she murmurs, her voice hushed like a prayer. The cottage creaks around them—a soft groan of aged timber settling in the damp. Outside, the rain has returned, not as heavy as before but persistent, a constant reminder of the grey world beyond this small sanctuary.
Thornwell shifts in the doorway, his leather gloves creaking as he flexes his fingers. "The Duke's men will see to the repairs," he says, his voice carefully measured. "This roof won't hold another winter. We'll have a new one on before the first snow."
After they finished a list of needs for Miren the three of them parted the small cottage, Giselle's shoulders heaved once the door shut, "That poor woman."
The rain had not let up, but the storm had gentled, the drops now falling in a steady rhythm rather than a deluge. The square was nearly empty, the puddles reflecting the dim light of lanterns hanging outside the tavern across the way. Clara pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her breath making small clouds in the chill air. "She's stronger than she looks," she said quietly, watching Giselle's profile as they walked. "But the nights will be hardest."
Thornwell grunted in agreement, his boots splashing through a deeper puddle. "We'll send word to the garrison. Double patrols past her house." He glanced at Giselle.
Giselle nodded, "Who is next." Thornwell's storm-gray eyes scanned the square, his gaze settling on a hunched figure near the tavern. "There," he said, nodding toward the old man. "Elder Thom. His son died in the same campaign as Arlen. He's been drinking himself into oblivion since the news arrived."
The three of them made their way through the puddles, the rain plastering their cloaks to their bodies. As they approached, Elder Thom lifted his gaze from the tankard clutched in his gnarled hands. His rheumy eyes widened slightly, recognition dawning through the haze of grief and ale.
"Lady Giselle," he rasped, pushing himself up straighter. She smiled, "Elder Thom a pleasure, can we have a conversation perhaps inside?"
The tavern's warm glow spills onto the wet cobblestones as Giselle steps inside, her cloak dripping onto the floorboards. Elder Thom follows, his gait unsteady but determined, while Clara and Thornwell remain near the door, rain streaming from their hoods. The tavern is quiet this afternoon just a few patrons nursing their drinks at the bar and a pair of dice players in the corner. Pine resin and old ale permeate the air, mingling with the crackle of the hearth fire.
Thom settles heavily onto a stool, pushing aside an empty mug. His lined face twitches as he watches Giselle take a seat opposite him, the flickering candlelight deepening the hollows beneath his eyes. He draws a ragged breath, the scent of damp wool and sorrow clinging to him. "My boy... he was a good lad," Thom begins, his voice rough as gravel. "Never wanted the soldier's life, but the Duke called and he answered." His knotted fingers trace the grain of the wooden table, following a deep groove as if it were a map of his grief. "They say he fell holding the northern pass. Took three raiders with him." A bitter pride tightens his features. "But what good is glory to a father who must bury his son?"
Giselle's eyes studied the man's face while he took a swig, "Will you tell me more about him?"
Similar to Miren they spoke for a while, although Elder Thom was harsher on his recount he cracked jokes that landed short but he still made himself laugh. Giselle listened earnestly as she listen about his son, "Drew was always getting into trouble," Elder Thom said, a thin smile crossing his lined face as he took another pull from his tankard. "Got himself thrown in the stocks three times before his thirteenth summer. Stole fruit from the market, played pranks on the priest..."
He paused, his fingers tightening around the mug. "But he had a good heart. Helped old woman Fletcher carry her water jugs. Found a kitten once brought it home, swore he'd care for it, then when I said he couldn't keep it, he walked the whole way back to the marketplace in the rain to return it."
Giselle leaned forward slightly, her hands folding on the table. "Is there anything, I on behalf of the Duke can do for you? We will provide you with anything you need."
Elder Thom stared into his tankard, the ale dark and unmoving. For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching taut between them. Then he exhaled through his nose, a shudder passing through his broad shoulders.
"I want them to pay for what they did," he finally said, his voice low and hoarse. His fingers tightened around the mug until Giselle thought it might crack. "Not just my boy. All of them. The northern raiders." His gaze met hers, red-rimmed and glassy with grief and drink. "I know it's not my place to ask, but if the Duke has men enough, I'd like to see their heads brought back."
Giselle's eyes blinked rapidly she looked at Thornwell as if pleading for him to help and step in. Thornwell's expression remains impassive, but a subtle tightening around his mouth betrays his own unease. He gives a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, a silent warning to Giselle not to make promises the Duke cannot keep.
Clara, sensing the tension, shifts on the bench beside Elder Thom. Her voice is gentle but firm. "Revenge is a bitter draft, Thom. It won't bring your son back. It won't fill the empty chair at your table."
Elder Thom scoffs, a raw, ugly sound. "It'll fill my heart, girl. That's enough for me." He drains the last of his ale and slams the tankard down on the scarred wood.
Giselle jumps in surprise her eyes growing wider as he glares at her Giselle's breath caught at the violence in his gesture, the slam echoing in the quiet tavern. His glare was a physical weight, full of a father's shattered love turned to venom. She saw Drew in that glare the boy who walked a kitten back in the rain. She swallowed, her own throat tight.
"The Duke grieves with you for every man lost," she began, choosing her words with care, her voice soft but clear in the hushed space. "His duty is to protect the living, to ensure no more fathers mourn. I cannot promise you heads on pikes. But I can promise you that he will not forget. He will answer this, in his way, in his time."
Elder Thom let out a breath that was half laugh, half snarl. "In his way, in his time," he repeated, mockery edging his tone. "That's what the priest says when he doesn't have a good answer." His eyes flicked to Thornwell, then back to Giselle. "You think words make a difference now? You think I want comfort when my boy's blood is on their hands?"
Clara reached for the tankard, her fingers brushing the rim before drawing back. "We don't think that, Elder Thom. But we also know that if the Duke sends men north out of grief, they'll die for it. And then who will be left to protect your daughter?"
"Daughter?" Giselle asks quickly, "Elder Thom you have a daughter?"
Elder Thom's gaze, which had been fixed on Giselle with such ferocity, suddenly wavered. The anger bled from his face, leaving behind a raw, exposed weariness. He looked down at his own calloused hands, splayed on the table. "Aye," he muttered, the word thick. "My girl, Mara. Thirteen summers."
He did not elaborate, but the silence that followed was more telling than any story. In that silence, Giselle saw it—the empty chair was not the only one. There was a girl, somewhere in this village, who had lost her brother and now watched her father drown his grief in ale. Unable to bare the conversation any longer Giselle promptly added, "We will send provisions, funds, and more." Giselle's words were a hurried bandage over a wound too deep to stanch. She could not bear to look at Elder Thom's face any longer—the way grief had twisted into rage, then collapsed into a hollow exhaustion. She turned her gaze instead to the scarred wood of the table, to the damp ring left by his tankard.
Thornwell stirred beside her, his voice a low, steady counterpoint. "I will see to it that your woodpile is full before the next snowfall."
Thornwell's words seemed to pacify the man, he stood up bowing before clumsily exiting the tavern. The door slammed shut and Giselle sighed once more, "That was...."...difficult," she finished, her voice barely a whisper. The air in the tavern felt heavy, thick with the lingering scent of spilled ale and sorrow. She watched the door where Elder Thom had vanished, imagining him walking home to a daughter whose eyes would mirror his own pain.
Clara placed a gentle hand on Giselle's arm. "You did what you could. You offered what the Duke can give. It is more than most would."
"But it feels like so little," Giselle replied, her gaze dropping to her own hands, clasped tightly in her lap. "Words and promises cannot fill the space where a son should be."" She sighed, "We should get going it is nearly evening, we have one more correct?" The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long, amber shafts through the grimy tavern windows. Dust motes danced in the slanted light, but they could not brighten the gloom that had settled over their table. Clara nodded in answer to Giselle's question.
"One more," Clara confirmed, her voice soft. "Alina. She lost her husband, Faron. They had no children, but she keeps the forge. Or… she tries to."
The forge. Giselle recalled passing it on their way into the village a low, stone building with a cold, dark maw where the fire should have been glowing. A woman's work, in a world that seldom allowed it.
Giselle rose, her skirts brushing against the rough-hewn bench. "Then we should not keep her waiting." She moved toward the door, Thornwell a half-step behind her, his presence both a shield and a reminder of the duty that bound them all.
Outside, the air was sharp with the coming evening, the rain having ceased but leaving the world washed and chilled. The village square lay quiet, the mud sucking softly at their boots. They walked in silence toward the smithy, the only sound the distant cry of a gull and the mournful creak of a sign swinging above the chandlery.
The forge stood as Giselle remembered silent and dark. The heavy oak door stood ajar, revealing only shadows within. Giselle hesitated on the threshold, the scent of cold ash and old iron hanging in the air like a shroud. Clara stepped forward first, her gentle knock echoing hollowly.
"Alina? It's Clara. We've come to pay our respects."
A moment passed. Then came the scrape of a stool, and a figure emerged from the gloom. Alina was a woman carved from the same hard stone as her forge. She was tall, her frame strong beneath a simple, soot-stained tunic and leather apron. She glared at them, "I don't need them."
Giselle's chest tightened this was going to another difficult one. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry, as if she had burned away all her tears in the forge's fire long ago. One hand gripped a heavy hammer, its head resting against the packed earth floor as if it were a crutch.
"Your respects won't heat my hearth or mend my tools," Alina said, her voice rough from smoke and disuse. "Faron is gone. Your words won't bring his hands back to this anvil."
Giselle took a careful step forward, the cold of the smithy seeping through the soles of her boots. "We know that. But the Duke has not forgotten his sacrifice. He wishes to offer—"
"What?"Alina cuts her off, the word sharp as a shard of flint. "Gold? A pension? A pat on the head for the poor widow?" She scoffs, a dry, bitter sound. "Faron didn't die for coin. He died for a line on a map that means nothing to the worms eating his flesh." Her knuckles are white around the hammer's haft. "He died because your Duke sent him north."
Giselle had no rebuttal she glanced at the room, before letting her eyes settle on the woman. The smithy was cold, the air thick with the memory of heat. The anvils stood silent, their surfaces dulled by dust. Giselle could see the faint red glow of the banked coals through a crack in the hearth, but even that looked as if it were about to die. She swallowed, her throat tight. "The Duke wishes to help," she said, though her voice sounded small even to her own ears.
Alina turned away, her boots scraping against the packed earth. She reached for a cloth and began wiping down a chisel, her movements precise, almost ceremonial. "Help," she repeated, the word hollow. "You think you can help me?"
"I can try," Giselle took a step forward, "Will you-" "No." The word was final, a hammer blow on cold iron. Alina did not look up from her work. "You can't give me back his laugh in the morning. You can't give me back the weight of him beside me in the dark." She set the chisel down with a soft click. "So take your trying and your Duke's wishes back to your stone halls. They have no place here."
Giselle felt the rejection like a physical chill. Clara shifted, her expression pained, but Thornwell remained still, a solemn sentinel at her shoulder. She had promised Elder Thom practical support, but here, in this temple of loss, words of coin or provisions felt like an insult. "Please-"
"Enough, why are you trying so hard. Are you that desperate to replace Lady Elodie's memory?" Alina's words struck Giselle like a slap.
She recoiled, the cold of the smithy suddenly sharp against her skin. Her breath caught, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint hiss of dying embers in the forge. Clara's hand came to rest lightly on her arm, a silent plea for composure.
Giselle's voice was barely a whisper, strained with the effort of holding back a tide of emotion. "I am not here to replace anyone. I am here because it is my duty, and because…" She faltered, her gaze drifting over the tools, the anvil, the shadows that clung to every corner like mourners.
"Shouldn't you be ashamed?" Alina continued, "Your own husband didn't come to your own wedding, if that isn't a testament to the fact that you don't belong here, I don't know what is."
Giselle stood frozen, the words finding their mark with cruel precision. The air in the smithy seemed to thicken, heavy with ash and accusation. She could feel Thornwell's stillness sharpen into a protective tension, and Clara's fingers tightened on her sleeve.
"That is not—" Giselle began, but her voice broke. The memory of the cathedral, the hushed scandal, the hollow triumph of Lysander's intervention, rose like a spectre between them. She had thought that pain was private, a secret bruise upon her dignity. Now, in this cold forge, it was laid bare as a public flaw.
Thornwell's voice cut through the smithy, sharp and low. "Mind your tongue, Alina. You speak of matters you do not understand."
Alina's hands froze on the workbench. Her head lifted slowly, the firelight catching the soot streaked lines of her face. "And you would defend her?" she asked, though there was no real challenge in it, only weariness. "You, who served her husband. Who watched him—" She stopped, her jaw tightening. The unfinished thought hung heavy between them.
Giselle swallowed against the tightness in her throat. "Thornwell," she said quietly, and he fell silent, though his shoulders remained rigid.
Giselle did not press any longer, "Should you need any help....please send for us and I will personally see to it." Giselle's words hung in the air, delicate and fragile.
Alina stared at her for a long moment, her work-worn hands gripping the edge of the workbench. "I will not send for you," she said finally, her voice hollow. "I do not need your help, nor your Duke's." Her eyes drifted to Clara and Thornwell. "Nor his."
She turned back to her work, her movements slow and methodical. "But," she added, the word slipping out like a reluctant concession, "you may leave the door open. If you wish." The forge's glow painted her face in sharp relief, highlighting the fine lines of exhaustion and grief etched into her features.
The trio silently turned and left, they remained quiet but Giselle's mind was racing she had never expected this to all occur in just the short weeks she had been here. This was the first time she heard Elodie's name, the first time shame had filled her heart. The forge's heavy door swung shut behind them with a dull, final thud, sealing away the heat and the hurt. The evening air outside was a sharp relief, cold and clean, scented with damp earth and woodsmoke from distant hearths. Giselle drew a deep, shuddering breath, as if surfacing from deep water. Clara walked a step ahead, her shoulders hunched against the chill, while Thornwell fell into place beside Giselle, his usual vigilance softened by something akin to concern.
They moved through the quiet village lane, their boots crunching on the frozen mud. Torchlight flickered behind shuttered windows, casting long, trembling shadows across their path. The walk back to the carriage was quiet when Giselle suddenly stilled, "Elodie.....was her name?" Her voice is barely a whisper, carried away on the evening breeze. Clara stops walking, her back to them, but Thornwell turns his head, his expression unreadable in the deepening twilight.
"Yes," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "That was her name." He does not elaborate, does not offer the comfort of a story or a memory. The single word hangs between them, a key to a locked door Giselle is not certain she wishes to open. The name itself feels like a tangible thing, a cold, smooth stone dropped into the pool of her thoughts, sending ripples through everything she thought she understood. "My lady, please do not concern yourself-" Giselle interrupts before he can finish. "No, Thornwell. I think I must." Her voice is steadier now, though the cold still bites at her cheeks. "If she was..." She hesitates, searching for words that won't sound presumptuous. "If she was important to the Duke, then I should know. I think I deserve that much, don't you?"
Clara turns, her hood slipping back slightly. "Lady Giselle," she says, her tone gentle but wary, "perhaps this isn't the time. We're all tired, and—"
"Clara is right," Thornwell says, but there's no force behind it, only the habitual urge to protect. Giselle only nodded, another time she thought. When the carriage finally came into view she had felt the exhaustion finally catch up to her. Giselle climbed into the carriage, her limbs heavy with fatigue. The interior was dimly lit by a single lantern, casting long shadows across the worn leather seats. Clara followed, settling silently beside her, while Thornwell took his place on his stead.
As the wheels crunched over the frozen road, Giselle leaned her head back against the cushioned seat. The lantern light flickered across her features, highlighting the deep lines of exhaustion etched around her eyes. She closed them for a moment, letting the steady motion of the carriage lull her weary mind. Yet sleep eluded her, her thoughts consumed by the names that now echoed in her memory - Elodie, Drew, Faron.