Chapter One – The Duchess and the Stranger
The grand hall of Blackthorn Keep had not changed in five years. The chandeliers still dripped crystal tears, the tapestries still whispered tales of glory, and the cold stone still echoed louder than any voice dared to. Yet today, the walls strained to contain the silence between them.
Lady Evelyne Thorne stood at the foot of the staircase, her gown a graceful fall of slate-blue silk, the family crest clasped at her shoulder. Her chin was high, but her hands were clenched—white-knuckled—behind her back. It was the only tell.
The heavy doors groaned open.
He entered.
Duke Alaric Thorne strode through the threshold like a force of nature—his uniform lined in gold, dark cloak billowing behind him, sword at his hip. The sun framed his silhouette, but it did little to soften the man beneath. War had stripped him of youth and left behind a statue carved in regret and command.
Evelyne's breath caught. It wasn't just the scar slashing across his cheek or the deeper set of his eyes. It was the way he didn't look at her—didn't even pause.
"Announce the duke," barked one of the guards.
"I think we all know who he is," Evelyne said coolly, stepping forward.
Finally, he looked at her.
"Your Grace," he said with the courtesy of a stranger.
She inclined her head. "Welcome home."
The words burned her throat. This wasn't home for him, not really. Not since the day they wed beneath gray skies and colder vows. Not since he left the very next morning for war.
And not when he returned with her.
Lady Seraphina entered the hall with a glide of practiced elegance, her red gown scandalously fitted, lips curled in something too close to triumph.
Evelyne saw the flicker of court watchers on the balconies, the tight-lipped servants lining the walls, the way Seraphina's fingers brushed Alaric's arm—proprietary, like a woman who had long claimed what Evelyne never truly possessed.
Her heart ached, but her spine stayed straight.
"Will you be staying long at the keep?" Evelyne asked, voice measured.
Alaric studied her, as if he were still piecing together who she was. "Indefinitely," he said. "The king has granted me leave to recover."
From what? she wanted to ask. The wound on your cheek? Or the woman you've brought here?
Seraphina smiled. "The duke has graciously allowed me to remain as well. There is so much to be done, after all—war has left many alliances…fragile."
"Indeed," Evelyne murmured, her gaze sharp.
There was so much to be said. About her sleepless nights waiting for word. About the letters unanswered. About how the man before her wore her house colors but not her loyalty.
But now was not the time.
Instead, she turned to the steward. "Prepare the east wing for our guests."
"Our?" Seraphina echoed.
Evelyne's smile was thin. "Surely you didn't think you'd be housed in the duke's chambers?"
Alaric said nothing.
Seraphina flushed.
And Evelyne, for the first time in five years, felt something close to power stir beneath her grief.