Within the grand hall of Everfort Castle, candlelight shimmered more brightly than usual that night, casting a golden glow across the ancient stone walls. Laughter echoed through the air—warm, unrestrained—as if breathing life back into a place long accustomed to silence.
A modest yet heartfelt feast lay spread across the banquet table, steam curling softly from carefully prepared dishes. It had been quite some time since this hall had felt such warmth.
At the head of the table, Dorian sat in silence, his gaze sweeping over the men who had fought beside him—warriors who once met their enemies with eyes of steel, now sharing smiles and raising their cups in ease.
"Her Grace prepared a quiet dinner to welcome everyone home, my lord," Maera said gently.
Dorian offered only a faint smile and a slight nod. He knew—she had always been thoughtful like that.
"She's blended in with everyone rather quickly," the older woman continued after a brief pause. "You can see how much she's trying to learn... That's why I always say—choosing a wife with insight is no small matter."
Maera had given nearly her whole life to House Valemont. Over there years, she had met many kinds of people and had come to understand that kindness often grew from shared burdens and empathy.
But a true leader needed more than a kind heart. They needed a sharp mind—one that understood its place, and used that understanding to lead.
She paused, her gaze softening with quiet weight.
"I believe… she is becoming the lady of House Valemont, more than the princess of Castillon."
Dorian didn't respond. His fingers merely brushed the rim of his silver goblet.
He didn't need the reminder—he had always known just how intelligent and capable his wife truly was.
"As i told you before, she is my wife, Maera."
His voice was quiet, but firm—leaving no room for doubt.
Maera was momentarily surprised as she saw the proud expression on Dorian's face when he spoke of "his wife." It seemed even he hadn't fully realized it.
That princess had truly brought the warmth of sunlight to this place, Maera thought, smiling quietly to herself.
At that moment, the doors to the hall swung open.
Dorian rose to his feet at once the moment he saw the figure standing in the doorway. Without a trace of hesitation, he stepped forward—unbothered by the surprised glances that followed him.
His eyes saw no one else but the young woman standing there, her rosy-blonde hair catching the candlelight, violet eyes glowing with quiet grace.
She wore a pale yellow gown, soft as moonlight spilled across the night. Though simple in design, it carried a quiet elegance and grace.
Dorian made his way across the hall—unbothered by the stares around him.
To him, there was no one else. Only her. The girl with those amethyst eyes.
A rare smile tugged at his lips. Every flicker of hesitation on her face, every breath, was captured in his gaze—and for some reason, that pleased him even more.
Rosalind looked mildly surprised when she saw him walking toward her.
"Good evening, Rosi."
He reached for her hand and gently placed a kiss upon it. It was not dramatic—just something that felt like a quiet habit.
The hall fell still.
No one had told them to be silent, but they all turned to watch the two figures standing in the middle of the room.
Even the servant meant to announce Rosalind's arrival froze, forgetting what he came to do.
Behind Rowan Eisenhart stood three or four others.
"…Was that really Lord Dorian Valemont?"
"Yeah? Is that truly our commander? I think my eyes are playing tricks on me."someone else whispered.
Rowan sighed, unwilling to entertain their foolishness. Who were they to judge him? Idiots. He cast a sideways glance at the bunch.
The man with chestnut hair tied neatly at his back spoke, voice dry.
"That's Princess Rosalind Castillon. She's now the Lady of House Valemont—your cold-blooded commander's wife."
He looked at them with cool disdain. "So wipe that look off your faces and sit down."
"Fealan Morwen," the large man growled.
The man is call Fealan didn't bother replying. He simply chuckled, sipped his wine, and turned away.
Rowan rubbed his temple, resigned. Honestly, only Dorian Valemont could deal with men like these.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of a wooden cane echoed across the hall.
They turned at once.
Maera said nothing. She just simply cast them all a look—one sharp enough to silence a room—then fixed her eyes squarely on Rowan.
He had forgotten something crucial: while Dorian Valemont commanded fear with a glance, Maera Vexley did it with a raised eyebrow—and frankly, Rowan wasn't sure which.
"Ahem," Rowan cleared his throat. "Everyone, back to your seats now. The real guest of honor is just arriving."
Dorian turned his head slightly. "Announce it."
The servant at the door immediately understood, stepped forward, and raised his voice so it echoed clearly across the grand hall:
"Her Grace, Lady Rosalind of House Valemont, has arrived."
Before the words had fully faded, Dorian had already reached for her hand.
"Come," he said softly. "Let's go."
Once again, Rosalind found herself drawn in by his quiet certainty.She gently tightened her grip on his hand—just slightly, but enough for him to notice.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, a rare softness brushing his features.
Without hesitation, she walked beside him—toward the highest seat at the banquet table, under the stunned and admiring gaze of everyone present.
Somehow, he was always there—always ready to take her hand.
And she... for some reason, always trusted him—unconditionally.
Rosalind didn't believe that Dorian had any feelings for her, yet she couldn't stop herself from trusting him.
It was a strange contradiction.
Who was he, really?
The cold Duke of House Valemont.
The man with eyes sharp as a blade and a voice colder than snow.
The one who had laid out the terms of their marriage like pieces on a political chessboard.
And yet, he was also the one... who never let go of her hand under countless watching eyes.
Sometimes, Rosalind couldn't even define what this feeling between them truly was.
They had now reached Dorian's former seat at the table.
She nodded slightly when she saw Maera, and the older woman returned the gesture. Dorian raised his silver goblet with one hand—while his other still held tightly to hers.
All eyes in the hall followed him, filled with quiet reverence.
"Tonight is not a celebration of war, but of return.
For those who stood by my side in the bitter cold of the North—your courage has brought us home.
And this warmth you now feel... is not mine to claim.
This evening was prepared by my wife, Lady Rosalind of House Valemont.
For that, and for many things unspoken, I thank her."
As his words ended, every soldier in the hall rose to their feet, raising their goblets high and shouting in unison:
"For Lady Rosalind! For House Valemont!"
The thunderous chant sent shivers down the spine.
It wasn't just a cheer—it was loyalty. Raw, unwavering loyalty forged through winters and wars.
And in that moment, Rosalind realized, it was this very spirit—this unyielding fire—that had taken root in the hearts of the North. It was what gave them the strength to endure endless winters and face relentless battles without fear.
They were people worthy of admiration—and of respect.
Without a second thought, she lifted the silver goblet prepared for her and raised it high in response.
"Thank you, brave warriors of the North. I, Rosalind Valemont, am honored to welcome your return. I hope I may remain here—not only to share in your triumphs, but also to stand with you through your trials... Once again, welcome home... valiant warriors."
As soon as she finished, she downed the wine in her goblet to the sound of roaring cheers and awed whispers.
"The Commander truly found himself a remarkable wife," Fealan murmured, raising a brow. Amid the noise, perhaps only Rowan—standing right beside him—caught the remark.
"She's stronger than she looks," Rowan nodded thoughtfully.
"Perhaps that's why His Grace can't take his eyes off her."
Rowan didn't argue.
He had been by Dorian's side from the very beginning, through every frost and fire that had shaped the North.
If there were ever to be an exception in the Duke's guarded, frozen heart—it would be her.